Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  The following Monday as she poured Teddy a glass of orange juice before he left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings that ran all that deep.

  Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his backpack. “I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow.”

  Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to pour for herself. “Are you sure?”

  “That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll only blow it. And, Mom, if you get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't pay any attention.”

  The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes for a moment, willing her mind away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy was trying to tell her. “What kind of letter?”

  Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. “You might get a letter saying I'm not working up to my potential—”

  “Teddy!”

  “—but don't worry about it. My social studies project is due next week, and I've got something so awesome planned that Miss Pearson's going to give me about a million A-pluses and beg me to stay in the class. Gerry said—”

  “Oh, Teddy. We have to talk about this.”

  He grabbed his backpack. “I've got to go or I'll be late.”

  Before she could stop him, he had raced out of the kitchen and she heard the slam of the front door. She wanted to climb back into bed and pull the covers over her head so she could think, but she had a meeting scheduled in an hour. She couldn't do anything about Teddy at the moment, but if she hurried she would have time for a quick stop at the studio where “China Colt” was being shot to make certain Teddy had understood Holly Grace's message correctly. Was Dallie really playing in the Classic? Had her words actually touched him?

  Holly Grace had already filmed the first scene of the day when Francesca got there. In addition to a carefully positioned rip on the front of her dress that revealed the top of her left breast, she had a fake bruise on her forehead. “Rough day?” Francesca said, coming toward her.

  Holly Grace looked up from the script she was studying. “I got attacked by this demented hooker who turns out to be a transvestite psychopath. They're doing this great Bonnie and Clyde slow-motion shot at the end where I plug this guy with two bullets right through his silicone implants.”

  Francesca barely heard her. “Holly Grace, is it true that Dallie's playing in the Classic?”

  “He told me he was, and I'm not too happy with you right now.” She tossed her script down on the chair. “Dallie didn't give me any details, but I gather that you handed him his walking papers.”

  “You might say that,” Francesca replied cautiously.

  A look of disapproval crossed Holly Grace's face. “Your timing stinks, you know that? Would it have been too much for you to wait until after the Classic before you did your number on him? If you'd set your mind to it, I don't think you could have found a better way to screw him up.”

  Francesca began to explain, but then, with a sense of shock, she realized that she understood Dallie better than Holly Grace did. The idea was so startling, so new to her, that she could barely take it in. She made a few noncommittal comments, knowing that if she tried to explain herself, Holly Grace would never understand. Then she made a production out of looking at her watch and rushing off.

  As she left the studio, her thoughts were in a turmoil. Holly Grace was Dallie's best friend, his first love, his soul mate, but the two of them were so much alike that they had become blind to each other's faults. Whenever Dalile lost a tournament, Holly Grace made excuses for him, sympathized with him, and in general treated him like a child. As well as Holly Grace knew him, she didn't understand how his fear of failure was screwing up his golf. And if she didn't understand that, she would never understand how that same fear was ruining his life.

  Chapter

  32

  Since it was first played in 1935, the United States Classic had grown in prestige until it was now considered the “fifth major”—right along with the Masters, the British Open, the PGA, and the U.S. Open. The course where the Classic was held had become legendary, a place to be mentioned in the same breath as Augusta, Cypress Point, and Merion. Golfers called it the Old Testament and for good reason. The course was one of the most beautiful in the South, lush with pines and ancient magnolias. Beards of Spanish moss draped the oaks that served as a backdrop to the small, perfectly manicured greens, and oyster-white sand, soft as powder, filled the bunkers. When the day was still and the sun warm, the fairways glistened with light so pure it seemed heavenly. But the natural beauty of the course was part of its treachery. While it warmed the heart, it could also lull the senses, so that the bedazzled player didn't realize until a fraction of a second too late that the Old Testament forgave no sins.

  Golfers snarled at it and cursed it and swore they would never play it again, but the best of them always came back, because those heroic eighteen holes provided something that life itself could never deliver. They provided perfect justice. The good shot was always rewarded, the bad met with swift, terrible punishment. Those eighteen holes provided no second chance, no time for jury-rigging, no opportunity to plea-bargain. The Old Testament vanquished the weak, while on the strong it bestowed glory and honor forever. Or at least until the next day.

  Dallie hated the Classic. Before he'd given up drinking and his game had improved, he hadn't always qualified for it. The last few years, however, he'd played well enough to find himself on the roster. Most of the time he wished he'd stayed home. The Old Testament was a golf course that demanded perfection, and Dallie damned well knew he was too imperfect to live up to that kind of expectation. He told himself that the Classic was a tournament like any other, but when this course defeated him, it seemed to shrink his very soul.

  Every part of him wished that Francesca had chosen another tournament when she'd issued her challenge. Not that he was taking her seriously. No way. As far as he was concerned, she had kissed him good-bye when she'd thrown that little tantrum. Still, someone else was in the announcers' booth when Dallie teed up at the first hole, taking a few seconds to shoot a grin at a pretty little blonde who was smiling at him from the front row of the gallery. He'd told the network honchos they were going to have to wait a little bit longer for him and handed back their contract unsigned. He just hadn't been able to sit this one out. Not this year. Not after what Francesca had said to him.

  The grip on his driver felt good in his hand as he addressed the ball, solid and comforting. He felt loose. He felt fine. And he was damned well going to show Francesca that she didn't know what she was talking about. He hit a big booming drive that shot out into the sky—rocket-driven, a NASA special. The gallery applauded. The ball sped through space on its way to eternity. And then, at the very last instant before it descended, it drifted ever so slightly... just enough so that it missed the edge of the fairway and landed in a clump of magnolias.

  Francesca bypassed her secretary and dialed her contact in the sports department directly, making her fourth call to him that afternoon. “How's he doing now?” she asked when the male voice answered.

  “Sorry, Francesca, but he lost another shot on the seventeenth hole, which puts him at three over par. It's only the first round, so—assuming he survives the cut—he has three more rounds to go, but this isn't the best way to start a tournament.” She pressed her eyes shut as he continued. “Of course, this isn't his kind of tournament anyway, you know that. The Classic is high pressure, high voltage. I remember when Jack Nicklaus owned the place.” She barely listened as he went on, reminiscing about his favorite game. “Nicklaus is the only golfer in history who could regularly bring the Ol
d Testament to its knees. Year after year, all through the seventies and even into the early eighties, he'd come into the Classic and blow everybody away, walking those fairways like he owned them, making those tiny little greens beg for mercy with those superhuman putts of his....”

  By the end of the day, Dallie was four over par. Francesca felt heartsick. Why had she done this to him? Why had she issued such a ridiculous challenge? At home that night, she tried to read, but nothing held her attention. She started to clean out the hall closet, but she couldn't concentrate. At ten o'clock that night, she began phoning the airlines trying to find a late flight. Then she gently awakened Teddy and told him the two of them were taking a trip.

  Holly Grace banged on the door of Francesca's motel room early the next morning. Teddy had just gotten up, but since dawn Francesca had been pacing the perimeters of the shabby little room that was the best accommodation she could find in a town bursting at the seams with golfers and their fans. She nearly threw herself into Holly Grace's arms. “Thank God you're here! I was afraid something had happened.”

  Holly Grace deposited her suitcase just inside the door and sagged wearily into the nearest chair. “I don't know why I let you talk me into this. We didn't finish shooting until nearly midnight, and I had to take a six A.M. flight. I barely got an hour's sleep on the plane coming down here.”

  “I'm sorry, Holly Grace. I know this is an absolutely miserable thing to do to you. If I didn't think it was so important, I'd never have asked.” She hoisted Holly Grace's suitcase to the foot of the bed and opened the latches. “While you're taking a shower, I'll get some fresh clothes out and Teddy can pick up some breakfast for you at the coffee shop. I know it's dreadful of me to rush you like this, but Dallie tees off in an hour. I've got the passes ready. Just make sure he sees both of you right away.”

  “I don't understand why you can't take Teddy to watch him play,” Holly Grace complained. “It's ridiculous to drag me all the way down here just to escort your son to a golf tournament.”

  Francesca pulled Holly Grace to her feet and then pushed her toward the bathroom. “I need some blind faith from you right now. Please!”

  Forty-five minutes later, Francesca stood well back from the door as she let Holly Grace and Teddy out, making certain none of the people milling around in the parking lot could see her clearly enough to recognize her. She knew how fast news traveled, and unless it became absolutely necessary, she had no intention of letting Dallie know she was anywhere near. As soon as the two of them had disappeared, she rushed to the television so she could be ready and waiting for the tournament coverage to begin.

  Seve Ballesteros was leading the tournament after the first round, so Dallie wasn't in the best of moods as he came off the practice green. Dallie used to like Seve, until Francesca had started making cracks about how good looking he was. Now just the sight of that dark-haired Spaniard made him feel out of sorts. He looked over toward the leader board and confirmed what he already knew, that Jack Nicklaus had ended up at five strokes over par the day before, shooting a round even worse than Dallie's own. Dallie felt a mean-spirited satisfaction. Nicklaus was getting old; the years were finally doing what human beings couldn't— putting an end to the incomparable reign of the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio.

  Skeet walked ahead of Dallie to the first tee. “There's a little surprise for you over there,” he said, gesturing toward his left. Dallie followed the direction of his gaze and then grinned as he spotted Holly Grace standing just behind the ropes. He began to walk over to her, only to freeze in mid-stride as he recognized Teddy standing at her side.

  Anger rushed through him. How could one small woman be so vindictive? He knew Francesca had sent Teddy and he knew why. She had sent the boy to taunt him, to remind him of every nasty word she had hurled at him. Normally he would have liked having Teddy watch him play, but not at the Classic—not at a tournament where he had never done well. It occurred to him that Francesca wanted Teddy to see him get beaten, and the thought made him so furious he could barely contain himself. Something of his feelings must have shown because Teddy looked down at his feet and then back up again with that mulishly stubborn expression that Dallie had grown to recognize all too well.

  Dallie reminded himself that it wasn't Teddy's fault, but it still took all of his self-control to walk over and greet them. His fans in the gallery immediately began asking him questions and calling out encouragement. He joked with them a little bit, glad of the distraction because he didn't know what to say to Teddy. I'm sorry I screwed everything up for us—that's what he should say. I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you, to tell you what you mean to me, to tell you how proud I was when you protected your mama that day in Wynette.

  Skeet was holding out his driver as Dallie turned away from the gallery. “This is the first time ol' Teddy's going to see you play, isn't it?” Skeet said, handing him the club. “Be a shame if he didn't see your best game.”

  Dallie shot him a black look, and then walked over to tee up. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt as tight as steel bands. Normally he joked with the crowd before he hit, but today he couldn't manage it. The club felt foreign in his hand. He looked over at Teddy and saw the tight little frown in his forehead, a frown of total concentration. Dallie forced himself to focus his attention on what he had to do—on what he could do. He took a deep breath, eye on the ball, knees slightly bent, drew back the club and then whipped it through, using all the strength of his powerful left side. Airborne.

  The crowd applauded. The ball fired out over the lush green fairway, a white dot speeding against a cloudless sky. It began to descend, heading directly toward the clump of magnolias that had done Dallie in the day before. And then, at the end, the ball faded to the right so that it landed on the fairway in perfect position. Dallie heard a wild Texas cheer from behind him and turned to grin at Holly Grace. Skeet gave him a thumbs-up, and even Teddy had a half-smile on his face.

  That night, Dallie went to bed knowing he'd finally brought the Old Testament to its knees. While the tournament leaders had fallen victim to a strong wind, Dallie had shot three under par, enough to make up for the disaster of the first day and push him way up on the leader board, enough to show his son just a little bit about how the old game of golf was played. Seve was still in there, along with Fuzzy Zoeller and Greg Norman. Watson and Crenshaw were out. Nicklaus had shot another mediocre round, but the Golden Bear never gave up easily, and he had scored just well enough to survive the cut.

  As Dallie tried to fall asleep that night, he told himself to concentrate on Seve and the others, not to worry about Nicklaus. Jack was eight over par, too far behind to be in contention and too old to pull off any of his miraculous last-minute charges. But as Dallie punched his pillow into shape, he heard the Bear's voice whispering to him as if he were standing right there in the room. Don't ever count me out, Beaudine. I'm not like you. I never quit.

  Dallie couldn't seem to hold his concentration on the third day. Despite the presence of Holly Grace and Teddy, his play was mediocre and he ended at three over par. It was enough to put him in a three-way tie for second place, but he was two shots out of the lead.

  By the end of the third day's play, Francesca's head ached from watching the small motel television screen so intently. On CBS, Pat Summerall began to summarize the day's action.

  “Dallie Beaudine has never played well under pressure, and it seemed to me he looked tight out there.”

  “The noise from the crowd obviously bothered him,” Ken Venturi observed. “You've got to remember that Jack Nicklaus was playing in the group right behind Dallie, and when Jack is hot, like he was today, the gallery goes wild. Every time those cheers went up, you'd better believe the other players could hear, and they all knew Jack had made another spectacular shot. That can't help but shake up the tournament leaders.”

  “It'll be interesting to see if Dallie can change his pattern of final-round defeats and come back tomorrow,” Sum
merall said. “He's a big hitter, he has one of the best swings on the tour, and he's always been popular with the fans. You know they'd like nothing better than to see him finally pull one out.”

  “But the real story here today is Jack Nicklaus,” Ken Venturi concluded. “At 47 years of age, the Golden Bear from Columbus, Ohio, has shot an unbelievable sixty-seven—five under par—putting him in a three-way tie for second place, right along with Seve Ballesteros and Dallas Beaudine....”

  Francesca flipped off the set. She should have been happy that Dallie was one of the tournament leaders, but the final round was always his weakest. From what had happened in today's round, she had to conclude that Teddy's presence alone wouldn't be enough to spur him on. She knew stronger measures were called for, and she bit down on her bottom lip, refusing to let herself consider how easily the only strong measure she had been able to think of could backfire.

  “Just stay away from me,” Holly Grace said the next morning as Francesca hurried after her and Teddy across the country club lawn toward the crowd that surrounded the first tee.

  “I know what I'm doing,” Francesca called out. “At least I think I do.”

  Holly Grace spun around as Francesca caught up with her. “When Dallie sees you, it's going to ruin his concentration for good. You couldn't have come up with a better way to blow this final round for him.”

  “He'll blow it for himself if I'm not there,” Francesca insisted. “Look, you've coddled him for years and it hasn't worked. Do it my way for a change.”

  Holly Grace whipped off her sunglasses and glared at Francesca. “Coddled him! I never coddled him in my life.”

  “Yes, you have. You coddle him all the time.” Francesca grabbed Holly Grace's arm and began pushing her toward the first tee. “Just do what I asked you. I know a lot more about golf than I used to, but I still don't understand the subtleties. You've got to stick right by me and translate every shot he makes.”