The Perfectly Good Lie

by Rose Gonsoulin

  “Carla! Buck!”

  Art stood in the open doorway of the condo. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Buck shouted.

  Carla let go of his arm and moved away.

  Art ventured out to the sidewalk.

  “There are rattlesnakes out here,” Buck yelled.

  Art hopped back into the doorway.

  “Don’t tell him that,” Carla said quietly. “You’ll end up as the boy who cried wolf.”

  The moment was lost.

  “When do you tee off tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Ten-twenty-six.”

  “When you’re warming up at the range, think about being pulled through your stroke. Intentionally let the club head complete a full rotation. Slow down and imagine sweeping the club head around, letting it touch your left heel. Focus on the finish. It’ll help to stay grounded.”

  “Why did you quit?” he asked.

  “Quit what?”

  “Playing in competition?”

  “I didn’t officially quit. Half the year the LPGA is overseas. It was wearing me out. After my sister died…” She turned away from him. “It’s getting cold.”

  She rubbed her arms and began walking away from him.

  He followed her and once inside, he said, “Art, unplug all your stuff.”

  “You can kiss Carla if you want to,” Art told him.

  “What the …,” Buck said, his eyes purposefully averting Carla’s.

  “Get over there and unhook all your shit.” Buck pointed the 1-iron at the black box on the floor.

  Art had ruined the mood, or maybe it was the bright lights in the condo. Whatever it was, the casualness had left him, and Buck started having second thoughts about telling Carla the story of Leon’s 1-iron.

  And he couldn’t believe he said the other thing.

  Love. What did he know about it? Nothing. And he had no time for it even if he did.

  Buck bolted out the front door with a curt, “Goodnight.” He stewed in the van while Art stowed the Xbox in the overhead carrier.

  Were Art and his silly ideas about love rubbing off on Buck?

  In the zone

  Saturday morning Art was sluggish and it threw Buck off balance. A fog of distractions settled over him when the third round began.

  On the No. 5 Buck chunked a wedge shot, but saved par with a twenty-foot downhill putt. When he went in the drink on the twelfth, his drop shot was drop-dead gorgeous, rolling straight at the pin. On fourteen, he landed in one of those bus-sized pot bunkers and his stroke out was a thing of beauty. The round was both arduous and invigorating, his best and his worst. He signed his scorecard, surprised he’d managed to stay two under for the day. Then he took Art straight to the van.

  “Do you want to call Hannah tonight?” Buck sat behind the wheel.

  “No,” Art mumbled, his head resting against the window.

  “What’s wrong?” Buck asked.

  “I’m tired,” Art said.

  By the time they were on the interstate, Art was in a stupor and stayed that way during the long drive to the hotel.

  When they arrived, Buck collected the golf bag and clubs himself, letting Art slumber walk into the hotel.

  The kid went straight to bed even though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon.

  Buck looked at his phone. There was a text from Josh.

  CALL ME

  Buck went into the bathroom to avoid waking Art.

  “StraightLine has doubled the sign-on bonus. The CEO followed you today. He said you’re a street fighter.” Josh’s voice rushed through the phone. “Let’s ink this deal, baby!”

  It was a jolt—Buck both wanted it and didn’t want it. A jumble of thoughts ricocheted around inside his head. StraightLine was a second-tier product, there was the LeeAnn factor, and most of all he sensed he’d no longer be his own man if he took the deal.

  But hell, he had to start somewhere. StraightLine was good enough for now. If their ball didn’t play well, or he got a better offer, he’d dump them and move on. How hard could that be?

  He’d cleared the cut so he was in the money for the tournament. He could afford to take a risk playing a new ball tomorrow.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Buck said.

  “I’ll send you the link to the contract,” Josh said. “Any questions, call me.”

  Having a sponsor made Buck’s career seem all the more real and tangible, as though there’d be no backsliding now.

  The hotel room felt tight as a box. He needed a bigger space to process his new worldview.

  Buck grabbed the keys and his golf bag, and left. Once outside, in the open air, he felt as though a cog had dropped into place, setting wheels in motion. He was finally in the flow.

  Buck didn’t want to run into anyone remotely related to the tour. He drove to the west side of Tucson, where a local tribe had a casino and golf course. He grabbed the 1-iron and bought a bucket of balls, filled with the simple desire to connect with the ball without thinking about anything.

  There was no reason to talk to anyone, either. He didn’t feel the need to announce that he’d cleared the hurdle—made the cut, come off the ledge, and now he had a sponsorship that would give him the breathing room to find his groove.

  Anyway, there wasn’t anyone to call. Ruthie was gone, and Denny, well, Denny should have been here with him. He thought about Carla. But she didn’t think much of StraightLine or LeeAnn. And Carla had already been there, done that—only bigger, better, faster.

  No, it was a weird feeling, and it wouldn’t do any good to try to explain. Better to savor the moment alone. He was on the verge of a shift, and with every stroke he felt the pulse, like an undertow tugging at the chains tying him to the past. In those silent swings with the 1-iron, each ball felt as though Buck was closer to fulfilling his life’s dream—to prove himself, to be secure, to soar above all the nothingness of his background.

  After the range, he went to the bar in the casino and ordered a beer and dinner.

  Silly as it seemed, he couldn’t resist a small toast to himself. He raised the cool glass a few inches off the bar, tipping it silently, to the new and improved StraightLine ball and to the new and improved Buck Buchanan.

  #

  When Buck entered the hotel room, he expected to find Art asleep or up playing a video game. Instead, the place reeked of vomit. Buck flipped on the hallway light.

  Art was lying across his bed completely naked. His crotch, torso, and upper thighs were covered in red splotches.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Out of instinct, Buck touched his fingers to Art’s forehead. His skin felt hot and sweaty.

  “I don’t feel good.”

  Buck picked up the phone and rang the front desk.

  “Is there a walk-in clinic near here?

  “There’s twenty-four-hour place on Orange Grove,” the voice on the line said. “We’ve had guest go there. It’s supposed to be pretty fast.”

  Buck helped Art into sweat pants and a t-shirt and then moved him outside to the van. Buck opened the side door and Art collapsed on the mattress.

  Of all the things that Buck had anticipated, Art getting sick wasn’t one of them.

  It took almost an hour to drive to the clinic. If Art were still like this tomorrow, there would be no way he could carry Buck’s bag for eighteen holes.

  Fuck.

  The clinic was crowded. After Buck filled out the paperwork and handed over a credit card, he went to sit next to Art.

  It was obvious the kid was uncomfortable and every few moments Art shifted in his seat. He leaned against Buck’s shoulder and fell into a restless sleep. Almost an hour passed with Buck watching the clock and trying not to move while Art used his shoulder as a pillow. Eventually, a nurse called out Art’s name.

  Buck stayed in the waiting room, hoping for the best—a twenty-four hour stomach bug or something quick and simple like that.

  Not long after, the nurse came out and said Art w
anted Buck in the examination room.

  Art was sitting up on the exam table.

  The doctor said, “We thought it was a UTI, but he tested normal. Mostly likely it’s Trichomoniasis.

  “Trick-o-what?” Buck said.

  “It’s an STD. He’s had an allergic reaction,” the doctor answered.

  Buck glared at Art. “You didn’t wear the rubber?

  “You only gave me one,” Art whimpered.

  “We’ll get the test back in a week.” The doctor wrote out a prescription as he spoke. “The good news is we don’t have to report Trichomoniasis. But you should let your sexual partner know.”

  Art’s face crumbled, and he started to cry.

  “Here’s an antihistamine. That will help with the itching and swelling. It’ll make you drowsy, so don’t drive.” The doctor ripped the sheet from the pad and started a second script. “Here’s an antibiotic for any infections.”

  The doctor handed them to Art, but Buck grabbed the papers.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

  They left with the advice for Art to stay in bed for a day or two.

  Buck found an all-night pharmacy, and drove further into town. They waited for another twenty minutes for the medicine. Art slept on the mattress and Buck worried about finding a caddie for the final round.

  He could call Raymond, the local caddie who carried his bag in the Pro-am. But where did he put Raymond’s card? If he wasn’t available, Buck could search online. Worst case, he could show up early tomorrow and hang out at the caddie shack, see who might be available.

  He could call Josh for help. But that felt wrong.

  He was stalling because he knew whom he wanted.

  Carla answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Buck. I’m sorry to call so late.” He looked at his watch, almost eleven o’clock. “Art’s sick. Do you know anyone who could carry my bag tomorrow?”

  “What’s wrong with Art?” she asked.

  “It’s a virus.” Buck didn’t have the guts to tell her it was an STD.

  “I’m supposed to be a scorer, but I’m sure they can find a replacement.”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean you. Not exactly. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you back.”

  She hung up.

  The strangest feeling came over Buck. It felt as though he’d planned this all along or maybe that he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. Because to make it to the final round with Carla by his side was both a gift he’d never imagined and one he felt certain he had earned. The uneasiness from the night before vanished completely and although he felt bad for Art, at this moment, it seemed his life couldn’t get any better.

  dogleg right

  Early the next morning, Buck left Art in bed asleep. He made sure the meds, a full liter of Dr. Pepper, and a bucket of ice were within Art’s reach. Then he drove straight to the course. He’d slept intermittently—part anticipation, part stress held over from the crisis with Art.

  There was not even the slightest breeze to rustle the flags when he started his warm-up at the range. Sustained by caffeine, adrenaline, and the excitement of seeing Carla, Buck hit practice balls at the range with his 7-iron.

  When he turned to switch clubs, he saw Carla in the crowd on the sidewalk. She broke away, and came towards him. The knot in his stomach eased, making him aware of how torqued up his muscles had been. The tension drained from his body and an eerie intuition, a calm but vague certainty took its place. He had to stifle the impulse to hug her.

  “Thanks again,” he said.

  “How’s Art doing?”

  “He’ll be fine in a day or two.” Buck sounded so casual that he worried she’d think he’d made it all up. Suddenly he felt guilty, as though he’d intentionally made Art sick. The feeling passed, but not before it dropped him down a notch.

  “Spent time on the green?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  He would have agreed with anything she said right then. It was a weird mixture of shyness and relief and admiration. For the first time, he felt as though someone had his back, someone he could rely on, someone who knew him, saw him for who he was and still believed in him, someone who gave him a reason to win.

  When she moved to lift his bag, he helped her adjust the strap. The transfer of weight felt weird too, like he should be carrying his clubs instead of her.

  “Is it too heavy?” he asked.

  The bag looked enormous on Carla, less than a foot off the ground. He wished now that he didn’t have a pro-sized bag.

  “I could find another bag,” he said.

  “Really, it’s manageable.” She shifted the strap. “Are you expecting a lot of dirt today?” She pointed at the half dozen rags hanging off the clip rings attached to the bag.

  “Art has a thing about them.” Buck moved to help her. “We can get rid of the extras.”

  Carla took the extra towels and stuffed them in the compartment for shoes. Then she started counting his clubs.

  “Did you mean to bring your 1-iron? You have too many clubs.”

  “Shit. I forgot I put it in there last night.”

  As Buck pulled the 1-iron, out of the corner of his eye, he saw LeeAnn approaching. She had that devilish, upside grin on her face and she carried a small bag. The smile changed to a sneer when LeeAnn noticed Carla.

  “I brought you these.” LeeAnn removed a carton of StraightLine balls from the plastic bag.

  Before Buck could say anything, Carla looked at him. “I thought you were playing Hickenlooper.”

  “We’re sponsoring him now.” LeeAnn took out a shirt and cap from the bag and offered them to Buck.

  Carla frowned at him.

  “I’m not changing shirts,” Buck said, although he removed his cap and took the one from LeeAnn.

  When LeeAnn held out the carton of balls, Buck said, “I already have a full carton.”

  Right after he said the words, he wished he’d not mentioned the other carton; it was an unwelcome reminder, especially in front of Carla.

  LeeAnn glared at Buck. “Can’t say I didn’t offer.” She seemed about to leave when Josh joined them.

  “The early bird gets the worm,” Josh said to LeeAnn before he turned to Buck and then caught sight of Carla. “Where’s your regular guy?”

  “He couldn’t make it,” Buck said.

  Josh stared at Carla. “You’re on his bag, huh?” He raised his eyebrows and then turned to Buck. “How you feel today?”

  “Hey, can you take this for me?” Buck started to hand the 1-iron to Josh.

  “I’ll do it.” LeeAnn reached for the club but very quickly, Carla placed her hand on it.

  She looked at Buck. “Why not putt with it?”

  “Seriously?”

  “It worked for you Friday night.”

  It was a daring move, outrageous, possibly stupid, but a spark of inspiration passed between them, and the vague certainty he’d felt earlier became a bold adventure, a challenge to show the world and himself what he could do with Leon’s 1-iron. Insanity or courage, he didn’t know what had changed, but the competition disappeared and the tournament was no longer the end game; he was simply playing with the ball today.

  Carla turned and pulled the offset putter from Buck’s bag. He swapped clubs with her. She slid the 1-iron into the bag and Buck tried to hand the putter to Josh. But LeeAnn was too fast, she snatched it out of Buck’s hands.

  “You need some time on the green,” Carla said. “Come on.”

  Buck followed her, swept along by a powerful current, full of confidence and a renewed sense of purpose.

  After they were away from Josh and LeeAnn, Carla asked, “What made you sign on with StraightLine?”

  “I need the money.”

  She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was disappointed. It made him uneasy again, as though her approval took precedence
over everything.

  They walked in silence. When they reached the practice green, Buck removed his notebook from his back pocket. Carla gave him the 1-iron and took the notebook from him.

  He dropped in three of the StraightLine balls from six inches or less.

  Carla held the notebook up. “Did you do this?”

  “No.” Buck looked at her. “Art did. He’s good.”

  “The detail on the greens is impressive. I’m feeling the pressure now,” she said as she flipped a page.

  That got him. The tension over LeeAnn and StraightLine passed and now there was a taut connection between them again.

  She smiled at him, happy and carefree. He putted a while longer, and then after signing in, they waited at the starting hole.

  It didn’t take long for the devil to rear its head. On the No. 2—a par-5 stretching 574 yards—the wind pushed Buck’s second stroke into a deep crab bunker seventy yards in front of the green. When he arrived at the bunker, he could see that his ball had slammed into a wall of sand and plowed to a stop at the bottom. The rim of the sand trap was shaped like a tsunami wave and his ball was buried directly beneath it.

  It was a difficult lie, a terrible lie, the worst, one that would make the most confident player’s knees quiver and his hands shake. Buck’s ball had to fly straight up to clear the wall of sand and avoid the catcher’s mitt of overhanging turf waiting for it.

  If ever there was a need to finesse a lob shot, this was it. It required a light, nimble touch. If Buck hit thin, the ball would overshoot the green. Hit fat, it could pop up, but not enough to clear the wall, falling back into the sand. Worst of all, the ball might end up further back from where it started.

  He could take his medicine and pitch the ball to the side into the fairway, but he’d gain no yardage. It wasn’t much different from taking a penalty stroke, but it was his safest choice.

  Leaving the bag behind, Carla came down into the bunker with him. They stood a few yards behind the ball.

  “You think I should go for it?” Buck asked her.

  “Are you comfortable with your sand wedge?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Saying it made him believe it.