by Terry Fallis
“And just where do you think you’re going, hotshot?”
I turned to see Wendy, her left hand now resting on my shoulder. Wendy was on the women’s golf team, so we’d bumped into one another on the practice putting green, at team meetings, and on the bus to tournaments. I wasn’t much of a drinker and clearly neither was she—she was swaying ever so slightly, but enough to confirm that the very large plastic beer cup cradled in her right hand was likely not her first of the night.
“Oh, Wendy, hi,” I stammered. “Um, I actually have a paper due tomorrow so I’m cutting out a little early to finish it up.”
“Walk me home?” she asked. “I’m on your way. I think I need to get out of here, too.”
She put her beer down on a table and led me by the hand through the door, down the stairs, and out into the darkness. I wanted to pull my hand away from hers, but then I didn’t. It felt nice. Now that she was walking, it was even easier to tell she was a little tipsy, though you’d never know from her talking. She just seemed wholly unfamiliar with that old the shortest distance between two points is a straight line thing.
“You are an odd one, Adam Coryell,” she said.
“Really? Why do you say that?”
“Well, first, you’re all Canadian and everything, and that’s kind of cool. I don’t know many Canadians. Second, you’re some kind of golfing machine, which makes you different from the other guys on the team. And third, it’s like golf isn’t the most important thing in your life. And that’s sure different from the rest of us, too. And you keep to yourself. Why?”
She was leaning against me now, holding my upper arm.
“Hmmmm. Well, I guess I’m kind of shy, and I’m still learning what it means to be a competitive golfer. You’ve played for most of your life. But I’m still relatively new to the game.”
“But I like you anyway,” she said, pulling herself closer.
We walked and chatted for another three minutes before her residence loomed on our right.
“Well, we’re here,” she said.
“Are you okay to make it up to your room?” I asked without thinking.
“No, I am absolutely not okay to make it upstairs. I desperately need you to see me there safely,” she replied, grabbing my hand and leading me through the double doors into the lobby.
I could see where this might be headed and felt conflicted. This kind of thing hadn’t happened very often to me and I wasn’t sure what to think, feel, or do. But my heart was suddenly banging out a heavy metal backbeat.
The sleepy security guard avoided eye contact with us as Wendy dragged me past the front desk and into the stairwell. Before we climbed the first flight, she pressed me against the wall and kissed me. I’d had a couple beers but I was in full command of my awareness. My head might have been a little heavy but it was clear. Yet I did not resist.
I’d avoided relationships since I’d arrived at Stanford. I just didn’t want to go down that path. I didn’t really know why, but I guess the fact that Alli kept popping into my head should have been a pretty significant clue. I’d had a few opportunities but never pursued them. It felt like a complicating factor in my life I didn’t really need. I had a lot going on, between my golf and my course work, so I’d stayed to myself. But I guess I’d forgotten how great this felt.
She broke the clench and pulled me up the stairs to the second floor and into her large, single, full-ride-athletic-scholarship residence room. My heart was still pounding and, well, other things were happening. Her room was dark, but the lamps lighting the path outside her window cast a surreal glow on the proceedings inside.
We were kissing again. She made it very obvious by words, moans, what she was doing with her hands, and where she was trying to put my hands, that kissing was only the preliminary event.
Then I heard someone say, “I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Wendy said.
“No, I really can’t. I’m so sorry. This is really nice, but it wouldn’t be right. Sorry.”
I slipped out of her grip and out her door, and walked uncomfortably back to my own residence. It took Wendy to show me what I probably should have already known. I don’t know why it hadn’t been clearer to me before. I guess with school, golf, life, and everything else, I hadn’t really noticed the torch I’d still been carrying around with me.
FEBRUARY 2018
“I think you’re almost there with these two,” Professor Edwards said. “Think about word choice. I’ve underlined a few that might be replaced with less common words to add clarity and interest. And also look to tighten it up. Think about the less is often more rule. There are two paragraphs in particular towards the end that seem like they’re slowing me down when I want to be going faster. I think that idea of pacing came up when the class workshopped it as well. Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded and took the two stories she was handing me.
“You know, Adam, you’re very good at taking in your colleagues’ critiques and then actually making your stories better. You should be pleased about that. Lots of writers, perhaps even most writers, don’t take criticism well, let alone assimilate it to improve their writing.”
“Well, it just seems like the right way to go,” I replied. “They usually give great feedback that almost always makes sense to me. It’s like they see deeper into my writing than I do. Plus, some of them are really good wordsmiths, and that makes me listen to their advice even more.”
“Yeah, well, our egos often get in the way. Just keep doing what you’re doing,” she said. “So including these two, how many stories do you have now that are close?”
“I think maybe nine,” I replied, knowing the number was exactly nine, along with the precise word count for each.
“You should submit what you think are your best three for the departmental anthology. You might just snare a spot.”
“Snare,” I said, nodding. “Good word.”
“Thanks,” she replied, with a quizzical look.
“It’s simple, clear, yet most people would probably have used a different, more common word in that sentence,” I said. “Is that what you meant when you said I should think about word choice?”
She nodded. Then I nodded. There was a whole lot of nodding going on as I stood to leave her office.
Chapter 8
APRIL 2018
I DIDN‘T KNOW why the president of Stanford was standing there watching me. I was in a small seminar room that had been specially arranged for me to write my very final university undergraduate exam, for my American literature seminar course. I was the only student in the room. My professor and a rather dour examination invigilator sat at the front along with the president, who had just arrived in the room. I doubted it was coincidental that she had made her entrance when there were only four minutes remaining in the time allotted for the exam. So now there were three university officials in the room, all staring only at me, their solitary focus, while I wrote and thought and wrote some more. Had I ever harboured even the remotest notion of cheating on the exam, the odds were certainly not in my favour. Fortunately, I loved this course and had happily studied long and hard, unlike so many athletic-scholarship students before me. It was a refreshing change from my golfing success. In my courses, there was real work involved in achieving my academic goals, and real satisfaction came along with it.
I lowered my eyes back to my paper. I scanned the essay-question answers I’d written on Melville, Hemingway, and Wolfe. I had three fountain pens lined up on my desk and a fourth warm in my hand. I hadn’t needed any of the three spares, as I’d relied on my TWSBI Vac700 and its huge ink capacity. But I didn’t want to take any chances, so my Diplomat Aero, Platinum 3776, and Pelikan M400 were inked and ready should the TWSBI fail me.
“Time’s up,” the invigilator finally said, looking at his stopwatch. “Pens—or more accurately, pen—down, please.”
I slid all four pens into a small leather case, gathered my papers together, and slipped them into
the envelope provided. I handed it to my professor.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thanks. I think I did reasonably well on it, but you’ll be the judge of that,” I replied. “Unless you’d like me to mark my exam for you.”
“No, no. I’m sure you did fine on the exam. I meant good luck tomorrow.”
“Oh, right,” I replied. “And again, I appreciate your efforts in accommodating my schedule. I swear I won’t breathe a word about the exam to any classmates.”
“I know you won’t. But I don’t imagine you’ll have the chance anyway, given what lies in your immediate future.”
The president then stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Congratulations. I understand that with this exam, you are now officially finished your undergraduate academic program,” she said.
“I am, and it’s been wonderful,” I replied. “Again, thank you for everything.”
“And I also have been told one of your short stories will soon be appearing in the departmental anthology. That’s quite an achievement. Is it true you submitted it under a pseudonym?”
“Yes. Professor Edwards helped me out. We just went with my first and middle names, as opposed to a full-blown pseudonym.”
“I guess I understand why. Good for you,” she replied. “And, thank you for everything you’ve accomplished here, in the classroom, on the page, and on the golf course. All are important in your collegiate experience.”
I just nodded. I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was a little disorienting knowing that this stage of academic life was now over. I wasn’t even thinking about the next few days.
“Okay, enough of this. I know you’re on a tight schedule. Good luck, and now get the hell out of here,” she said with a laugh. “I do not wish to be the one who makes you late. It might affect my reappointment.”
I laughed with her. My backpack and small rolling suitcase were at the front of the room. I slung the pack over my shoulder, wheeled the suitcase out of the building, and bumped it down the concrete steps—or at least started to. I probably should have just lifted it down. The bouncing suitcase wrenched itself from my grasp about halfway down. It lurched the rest of the way down the stairs all on its own before rolling across the sidewalk and into a telephone pole. Two students took cover. With a casual I meant to do that look and quiet apology, I retrieved my bag and started to hoist it into the already open trunk of the black Lincoln Town Car at the curb.
“Hey, I’ve got that,” the driver said, leaping out of the front seat and intercepting my suitcase. “We don’t want you pulling an oblique muscle. Hop in the back. There’s juice and fruit there for you, and the new Golf Digest.”
“Thanks.”
I wasn’t really in the mood to read about golf, particularly the latest issue of Golf Digest. Without even a glance, I tucked the magazine into the pocket of the seat back in front of me. I knew who was on the cover. I’d seen the shot. In fact, I’d been there when it was taken. It was my first international magazine cover, and I just didn’t feel like looking at it anymore. The anonymous airbrush artist deserved some kind of an award, or at least an extra week’s vacation—they’d made me look far better, happier, and more engaged than was actually the case that day. I buckled in for the ride and sipped on freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. By this time it was nearly two p.m. I pulled out the new edition of the Paris Review that had landed with perfect timing in my mailbox that very morning.
We drove right by the San Jose Airport departures exit and continued until the left turn for the private-aircraft terminal. The driver turned in and parked near the door. I thanked him and rolled my suitcase, without incident, into the small office.
“Mr. Coryell?” asked the young woman behind the counter.
“Yes,” I replied, puzzled. “How did you know?”
“Well, your coach gave me this when he dropped off your clubs earlier this morning.”
She waved the Golf Digest around like she was dispersing a swarm of locusts.
“Oh, right. I see.”
“Anyway, your bird is all fuelled up and ready to go. Your clubs are already on board. I don’t think I need to see any ID, unless you have an identical twin brother nobody knows about.” She pushed a sheet of paper in front of me. “So just sign here, and here, initial here and here, and then you can make your way out to the tarmac. You’ll see the jet. It’s the one making the noise.”
It was my first time on a private jet, and aside from the one flight attendant and two pilots, I was the only passenger. After the flight attendant welcomed me on board and got me settled into the amazingly comfortable leather seat that could have accommodated at least two of me, he walked to the front and knocked on the cockpit door. A few seconds later, a young woman with a pilot’s gold-braided epaulettes came back to see me.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Coryell. I’m Captain Jody Carpenter.”
“Please, call me Adam, and thanks so much for flying me. It would have been a very long drive.”
“Our pleasure. We’ll be wheels up in a few minutes. We’re going to head straight across the country pretty much as the crow flies, except we’ll be travelling much faster than your garden variety crow. This is a Gulfstream G650 and it is a beauty,” she said, stroking the arm of my seat with apparent reverence. “We’ll be flying at about forty thousand feet, with a cruising speed of about 950 kilometres an hour. I know you’re Canadian so I switched the numbers to metric.”
“Very kind of you. Metric or imperial, that sounds very fast.”
“Yes, we’ll be travelling at a pretty good clip, but we’ll need the speed. There’s more than thirty-six hundred kilometres ahead of us. We’ll do it in one hop but it’s going to take about five hours, gate to gate. That puts us in Augusta around eleven o’clock tonight, including the time change.”
“Well, if I can do anything to help, I have no plans for the next five hours,” I replied.
“That’s a kind offer, Mr. Coryell—I mean Adam—but we’ve got this one, thanks,” she said. “Strap in and we’ll get this bird in the air. Jeremy here can get you whatever you might need. But your coach wanted us to remind you that alcohol is probably not a good idea.”
The flight was smooth, uneventful, and really quite lovely. The time seemed to pass quickly. It helped that I slept for about two hours, and then watched a mindless but well-executed action movie. I forget the name of the film, but I think the word blast was part of it—or should have been. I drank a Coke and chewed on the fresh fruit they’d laid on at my coach’s suggestion. Unfortunately, there were no chips, pretzels, or honey-roasted peanuts anywhere on board. After half a cantaloupe and a big bowl of strawberries, I figured I was safe from scurvy, but all I craved then was a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. The world should have my private-jet snack problems.
* * *
—
SHE WAS WAITING for me at the Augusta Regional Airport with a car arranged by the Masters. She looked perhaps a touch thinner and a little more relaxed, but pretty much the same. “Mr. Coryell, you made it!” she exclaimed, reaching to hug me.
“So did you,” I replied. “Great to see you, Ms. Davenport.”
“All right. Now that you’ve finished your last exam, and I’ve retired, I think it’s time you called me Bobbie like everyone else, don’t you?”
“Well, that would be quite simple and convenient given that, as far as I know, Bobbie is in fact your real name,” I replied.
“Okay, if you call me Adam, I’ll call you Bobbie. Then we’re square.”
“Done.”
“Is Roberta ever appropriate, or is it completely off the table?” I asked.
“Not just off the table. It’s buried forever,” she replied.
“Understood. Bobbie it is.” I didn’t probe why, but I was curious.
One of the ground crew loaded my golf bag and suitcase into the car. Bobbie drove.
“I am just so happy to be back here in Augusta again,” she said, pulling out
of the airport parking lot. “You must be about ready to detonate from all the excitement.”
“I’m not sure detonate is the right verb. More like doze. For me, it’s just another golf tournament, except at the end the winner is forced to wear a jacket in a colour that should really only be appropriate on St. Patrick’s Day, when people are inebriated enough not to care.”
I could sense her shaking her head in the darkness of the car and issuing a long exhalation.
“You know, fate is a cruel mistress,” she said. “For more than forty years, I’ve dreamed of playing and winning this tournament, I mean beyond the minor issue of my gender. The Masters is the very pinnacle of golf. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. And I’m here at Augusta with someone who is not only playing, but could well be wearing the green jacket. And you’re ambivalent at best, disdainful at worst. It’s just so strange.”
She was smiling when she said it, but I could feel the serious tone beneath. I felt bad. I sometimes forgot just what this tournament meant to people who loved golf.
“Sorry, I guess I was a little harsh,” I said. “Believe me, Bobbie, if this were a Disney movie and we could switch places, I’d like nothing more. I know this is a special tournament, in a special place, with special traditions that carry a lot of weight in this world. But it’s never really felt like my world. You know?”
“I know, son,” she replied. “And therein lies the rub—the cruel, cruel rub.”
She pulled in to the hotel parking lot a short time later. We were in adjoining rooms in the same hotel we’d stayed in the previous year. It was nice, if unspectacular. We were really just using it for sleep, and the beds were quite good. She made sure I got into my room and insisted on carrying my backpack and rolling bag while I lugged in my golf bag.
