The Perfectly Good Lie

by Rose Gonsoulin

  She reached for his arm, but he pushed her away.

  “You set me up. Why? Because you wanted to turn me into your pet poodle? Fuck. You are poison, lady.”

  He slammed the door, not worrying if she was completely out of the way. He was stupid-sick with rage. He clenched the steering wheel. Never before had he understood the desire to strike a woman.

  But deep down he knew it had been his mistake. He’d made the choice to sleep with a psycho skank like LeeAnn.

  You lie with dogs, you pick up fleas.

  #

  Buck texted Carla before he left for the condo. When he arrived, the garage doors were open. He waited for a minute and then started for the front door.

  Then Carla came out of the garage carrying a plastic garbage bag.

  “Carla.” Buck hurried to her, but she pulled her shoulders in when he tried to touch her. “It was an accident,” he said.

  “Only you could be disqualified because you accidentally screwed the wrong woman.”

  “Is it that obvious?” He never said he fucked LeeAnn.

  “Yes.” She walked quickly towards the large garbage container, sidestepping Buck when he moved in front of her.

  He ran ahead and opened the gate for her saying, “It didn’t mean anything. I swear.”

  She tossed the bag into the large container, still ignoring him.

  “It was one time. I had no intention of seeing her again.”

  Carla stopped abruptly. “You signed with StraightLine.”

  “I know but that was just business.”

  “Yeah, right. Like sleeping with her was just business.” She started for the condo.

  But he was faster, getting in front of her again. He put his hands on her arms and she stopped, but avoided looking at him.

  “Carla, please.”

  She glanced up, tears forming in her eyes. “You got played by her.”

  “I know, I know. It was a bonehead move, but she used that box of balls to get me into her room.”

  “And you fell for it.” Now the tears were gone and there was only a fierce glare in her eyes.

  “That was all before I knew there was a possibility of… us.”

  She didn’t answer, just shook her head and turned away from him.

  He chased after her. “I don’t want to lose what we had today. We’re a great team. Didn’t you feel it too?”

  “What I feel right now is a train wreck coming at me.” She kept marching towards the condo. When she approached the open garage, she stopped and faced him. “LeeAnn’s not your only problem. You picked a despicable group of people to associate with. I almost threw up when I heard that Mike character say they’d keep it a secret, hide it for you. And you were going to do it, weren’t you?”

  “It was all coming at me so fast.” Buck grabbed her hands. “Please, Carla, let me make it up to you. I’ll help with a hundred clinics. I’ll wash your car. Carry your bag.”

  She jerked her hands free. “Big deal. You’d make Art do it for you,” she said. “I’m so stupid. I actually admired you for taking care of your brother. But now I see that you’re just using him, like you use everybody.”

  He felt the sweat dripping down his back. “That’s not true, not anymore.”

  “You know, when I first met you, I wanted to help you to be successful. But there’s no amount of coaching that can give you what you need.”

  He waited for her to finish.

  “You know what that is, don’t you?” she asked.

  “What? Tell me?”

  “A moral compass. That’s what you need.”

  “That’s cold.” Buck stepped back.

  “It’s true,” she said. “It’s why you’ll sabotage yourself again.”

  He had his hands on his hips now and was looking down at his feet.

  “You’re so proud of your roaming lifestyle,” she said. “The highway is your home.”

  He took a deep breath and looked up at her.

  “You’ve set yourself up for failure,” she said. “It’s remarkable you’ve made it this far. But it’s all for nothing. The sad part is you’re not just ruining your life, you’re dragging Art down with you.”

  “Art didn’t have a life to ruin.”

  “That’s just like you. Minimize everyone else’s life but your own.”

  “At least I know what I want.” Buck spat out the words and started pacing in a tight circle. “You can’t make up your mind. You quit the tour because it’s inconvenient, but you let Roger Lambert keep his hooks in you. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because Roger snapped his fingers and you came running down to Tucson.”

  She braced her legs, standing rigid. “You’re wrong. I came for you.”

  All the wind came out of him and he breathed her name with a sigh, “Carla.” He took a step towards her.

  She pushed her arms out. “No. Just go away and do your thing. I don’t want to be the little bump in the road that slows you down.”

  She quickly retreated into the garage. When the doors began to lower, Buck stood for a long time, wondering what to do next.

  He went to the front door and rang the doorbell. Nothing.

  Fine. He stomped to the van. The tires burned rubber when he screeched away. The sweat poured into his eyes and he pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He tried typing another text to Carla, but his hands shook so hard by the time he managed to punch in a few words, nothing came out right. A hundred times he tried to explain away his mistake, but it all looked bogus spelled out in black and white.

  Finally, he sent a simple text.

  please forgive me

  He stared through the windshield, waiting.

  The open desert was a colorless frame, a blank slate that could never be filled. Miles of sand and dilapidated scrub, the saguaros old, worn-out, and pockmarked. He sat alone, desperate for a reply.

  How did he end up here, idling on the side of the road with nothing to show for all the hard work he’d put into his dreams?

  A terrible shame swept over him. As a teenager, Buck had been certain that by this time he’d be a successful pro, cruising from one big money tournament to the next, entitled to his fair share of the PGA gravy train. He’d mapped out his entire life, from golf scholarship to graduation and straight to the tour—it was supposed to be as simple as that.

  And now this. How could he recover? Could he do it without Carla?

  He didn’t have another five years to fuck around.

  Ding.

  His heart jumped to his throat and he looked down at the screen.

  It was a text from Denny.

  what the fk?

  He picked up the phone, his thumb on the talk button—and stopped.

  What was he going to say? That he had worse luck than Lucifer? That he was a pathetic loser?

  He threw the phone into the passenger seat.

  Night had settled in by the time he was back on the road. He locked his elbows as he gripped both hands on the steering wheel. When he reached the freeway, Roy Orbison’s Only The Lonely came on the radio.

  While Roy crooned about the loneliness, Buck tried to sing along, but the words ripped through his chest. He bled openly in a world reduced to the glow of the dashboard and the short span of the headlights. He blinked to clear his vision.

  He switched the radio off, letting the silence surround him. His fingers curled around the wheel, pressing hard, as if it was the lifeline that would keep the devil from catching him as he headed into a black night.

  He reached the hotel and when he entered the room, Art was sitting up in bed watching cartoons on television.

  Buck didn’t mention anything about the tournament. Art didn’t ask.

  Art said he was hungry, so Buck had burgers and fries delivered to the room. Another soggy meal in a cheap hotel.

  There was a six-pack in the mini-fridge, but Buck left it untouched.

  He sat in a chair and glared at the moving images on the screen. He was in shutdown mod
e and no thoughts could navigate the agony inside his head. He’d come so close, so close, and he’d let it all slip through his fingers.

  He pulled out his phone. There were texts from Josh and LeeAnn. None from the only person he wanted: Carla.

  He’d nearly taken the trophy; he could do it again.

  But could he?

  Stop it. It was weak to think this way, weak and stupid. He didn’t need her, didn’t need Denny either. He and Art would stick together, stick to the plan. They’d leave for Florida tomorrow, enter the qualifying round at the Doral. He’d break through. He’d find a way to make it happen. Otherwise, what else could he do?

  Exhaustion caught up with him and he stretched across the bed. All he wanted was for this day to be over. He fell into a fitful sleep, full of visions of trying to climb hard, cold, stone steps leading up to a monument. Other people were there, but he was the only one on his hands and knees, feeling gravity pushing him down as he struggled to claw his way to the top, desperate to make it, but never feeling any progress, only the weight of the universe on his back.

  the snowman cometh

  Buck slept, but there was no rest. Early Monday, he rolled over in bed and grabbed his phone.

  No word from Carla. He called her and it went straight to voicemail.

  The resolve from the night before had vanished, replaced by a dreadful uncertainty. There were messages waiting from Josh, Mike, and LeeAnn. Calls from phone IDs he didn’t recognize. He should have been pushing to get on the road, but inertia reigned. He couldn’t think straight; he only wanted to talk to Carla.

  Art was awake, his head on the pillow, facing Buck. “What are we doing today?”

  “We have to be out of the room by eleven.”

  “Are we going to Florida?”

  Buck sat up and rubbed his face. He glanced at Art.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “I know what it is,” Art said. “I can’t see Hannah again because she made me sick.”

  “There are better girls out there for you anyway.” Buck let out a loud sigh. “We didn’t make any money this week.“

  Art propped himself up on one elbow. “But you promised we’d get paid this week.”

  “My round was disqualified yesterday. The ball I played wasn’t certified.”

  “I told you golf is stupid!” There was actually a grin on Art’s face.

  “Can’t argue that. Not today.” Buck looked at his hands and breathed in deeply. “I lost my tour card, too. So we don’t have any exemptions, not this week or next week or the week after that. It’s either back to the qualifying rounds, the mini-grind, or find something else to do.”

  Buck stared at the ceiling. “The credit card bill is due next week. It’s going to use up most of what I have left in the bank. There’s some money coming in from StraightLine, but it won’t be much after the taxes and commission.”

  “You can use my money.”

  Buck shook his head. “No. Leon meant that money for you.”

  Art sat up and slid his legs over the edge of the bed. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m fresh out of ideas.”

  “Let’s get breakfast. It’s free!”

  The buffet was a tourist hustle of generic cereal, stale donuts, turgid eggs, greasy bacon, and bruised fruit. Art loaded up on the eggs and bacon while Buck ate cereal with a banana.

  His phone beeped. A text from Josh.

  Call me

  Buck pressed Carla’s name instead. It didn’t even ring this time. She was blocking his calls now.

  He dropped the phone on the table and hung his head in his hands.

  Why was he even trying? Anything between them was doomed.

  Let it go, dude.

  Buck released the air from his lungs and looked across at Art.

  The kid had cut his toast into quarters and was carefully parceling out the eggs and bacon on each piece.

  “So what do you think we should do?” Buck asked.

  “What are my choices?”

  “The plan was to follow the tour to Florida. But now we’d have to enter the qualifying round. Then we’d have to make the cut and hope we come out with enough cash to make it all worth it.”

  “I don’t like that idea.” Art looked at Buck earnestly when he asked, “What are my other choices?“

  “Well, we could focus on the Texas tournaments. Get an apartment somewhere, but you’d have to get a job to help with the bills.”

  “That old man said you could work for him,” Art said.

  “Johnny Crocker? Yeah, we could go to San Antonio. It’s not a bad place to land.”

  In truth it felt like doomsday, as if returning with his tail between his legs.

  Art took a bite and chewed for a moment. “Are they going to say your ball was no good next time?”

  “No. That was a fluke.” Buck said it, but Carla’s words came back to him. Had he set himself up for failure? Was he self-sabotaging because of some deep-seated flaw he couldn’t understand, much less change about himself?

  “Isn’t there a tournament in Phoenix we could play?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Art put his fork down. “I wish we could stay with Carla again.”

  “That’s not going to happen. She’s pissed at me.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing,” Buck said. “She’s mad about the disqualification.“

  “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “In a way it was.” Buck leaned his elbows on the table.

  “How?”

  “Well, remember that LeeAnn lady?”

  “The one that stinks?”

  Buck paused. “See, I did with her what you did with Hannah.”

  “Did she make you sick?”

  “No, but she gave me the wrong box of balls.”

  “Then it was her fault.” Art raised his chin, his throat quivering. “Why did you get punished and not her?”

  “Because I shouldn’t have been with her. I should have known better.” Buck caught Art’s eyes. “I’ve messed up my life something good and I’m afraid if you keep hanging around with me, I’ll probably fuck up yours too.” He hung his head in his hands.

  Buck heard Art’s chair move and then felt Art’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t cry, Buck,” Art said. “If you want, I have something that might make you feel better.”

  Buck blinked hard and smiled at Art, trying to sound lighthearted when he asked, “One of your video games or something?”

  “No. It’s from Momma.” Art tugged at Buck’s sleeve. “It’s in the van.”

  Neither of them was dressed for the cold morning air.

  An eighteen-wheeler idled in the front of the parking lot. The noise from the interstate deadened everything until the eighteen-wheeler popped into gear with a bluster of air. With a squeal from the brakes, the rig began to roll away.

  Art climbed to the top of the van and opened the luggage carrier on the roof. Buck stood by with his hands in his pockets, arms pulled in tight against the gritty wind.

  “Hurry up. It’s freezing,” he said.

  Art clambered down with a large white envelope. He showed it to Buck.

  Lawrence Johnson Buchanan was written in Ruthie’s neat cursive handwriting across the front.

  It was a stab in the heart. Buck stared up at Art. “How long have you had this?”

  “Momma told me where it was when we were waiting for the ambulance.”

  “Did she have one for you?”

  Art nodded.

  “Why didn’t you give it to me sooner?”

  “You were throwing everything away.”

  Now Buck was burning up. “Go back to the room,” he told Art and then unlocked the van. He climbed behind the wheel. His breath came out in visible puffs. He tossed the envelope into the passenger seat.

  His hands were trembling from the cold, but his head was on fire. He crossed his arms and sho
ved his fingers under his armpits and then took a deep breath into his chest, letting out long streams of condensation.

  He didn’t want to open old wounds, especially not to pour salt in them. He started the engine, rubbing his hands together while he waited for the heat. It wasn’t long before he had to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  He lifted the envelope, ripped off the top, and dumped the contents onto the passenger seat.

  Buck’s life spilled out in report cards, valentines, Mother’s Day cards, all made in day care or elementary school. There were a few school photos from the early years, when Leon was still around and they had money. A faded newspaper photo of Buck holding the trophy for a citywide junior amateur tournament. He’d turned fourteen that summer. His mother hadn’t made a big deal of it at the time, but she’d saved the clipping out of the neighborhood weekly. There were others, from bigger newspapers, but it stopped after he left Baylor.

  His birth certificate was there too. Unknown in the father box. Not a surprise.

  Among the cards was a smaller blue envelope decorated with yellow daisies. It was sealed. Buck’s name was handwritten on the front.

  He slid his finger under the flap. The sharp edge of the paper nicked his skin. It stung and a thin line of blood appeared. He sucked on it to staunch the bleeding.

  He pulled out a note from Ruthie, written on blue skies and yellow daisies.

  #

  Dear Buck,

  From the day you were born, you were all boy. A roly-poly, chubby chunk of energy. I didn’t have any brothers, so you were an alien species to me. Where you got all that get-up-and-go, I don’t know, but it didn’t come from me. I wish I could tell you more about your father. The truth is I hardly knew a thing about him or where he was from.

  I met him in New Braunfels at Wurtzfest. My friend Molly invited me and another girl for the weekend. I knew Molly was kind of slutty, but I’d been in school and then started working right away. I wanted some fun.

  Molly had the sense to be on birth control. As a good Christian girl, I was unprepared.

  New Braunfels was filled with boys from the bases in San Antonio. I met one who said he was a pilot. Red hair and a smile that could talk a girl into the backseat of a car.