Albatross

by Terry Fallis

  “There’s no point in second-guessing now,” she said.

  “Right. Sometimes hindsight can be very annoying.”

  It occurred to me just then that perhaps now was the perfect time to play my last gambit in Operation Alli.

  “So, now that the big charade is over and my true identity is out of the closet, as it were, there’s something else in the closet I figure I should bring out,” I said.

  “Uh oh. That sounds deeply psychological,” she replied with what sounded like trepidation.

  “Well, even though we are lying on a couch, it’s not deeply psychological at all. In fact, it’s quite literal. There is actually something in my closet I want to show you.”

  I moved from horizontal to vertical and disappeared into my bedroom. When I returned, I placed the wooden box on the coffee table in front of her.

  “Nice box,” she said.

  “I’m glad you like it, because it’s yours.”

  She looked at me as she leaned forward. I nodded and she lifted the lid. Her eyes widened when she saw all the letters sealed in envelopes, fully addressed in my hand with whatever fountain pen I had in rotation at the time. She sorted through them a bit.

  “Wait, are all of these to me?”

  “Every one of them.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Well, let’s see,” I said as I reached into the box. “They’re stacked in reverse chronological order, and I numbered each one where the stamp would normally go to make it a little easier to keep track. It’s not exactly the Dewey Decimal system, but it gets the job done.”

  I grabbed the top letter in the pile to check its number, even though I already knew what it was.

  “One hundred and one over the last six years. I wrote you every three weeks or so, as if we were still together. I wrote this last one while in Temagami in August.”

  “But you never sent them.”

  I just shook my head.

  Then she buried her face in her hands, stomped her feet—almost as if she were running on the spot while still seated—and released a long, low moan. It took me a second to realize it wasn’t really a moan, but a word. Sort of a word-moan.

  “Nooooooo.”

  It dawned on me that perhaps it actually hadn’t been the perfect time to play my last gambit in Operation Alli. Since I couldn’t really follow my instincts right then and curl into a fetal position on the floor, I just sat next to her saying nothing and doing nothing.

  “Noooooooo.”

  Again with the moan and feet-stomping. I worried about my neighbour one floor below. But it passed.

  Alli suddenly turned and hugged me so tightly, breathing was difficult. She snuffled into my neck and I could feel the wetness of her tears.

  The suspense was killing me and I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Um, I don’t want to interrupt the moment, but what’s wrong?”

  She pulled back and gathered herself. She wiped her eyes, sniffed a few times, ran her fingers through her hair, and then sobbed for another five minutes.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d react this way,” I said, closing the lid on the box. “Clearly I misread the situation. I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I just…”

  “Stop,” she mustered. “Just give me a second.”

  I thought I should maybe stroke her arm or her shoulder in a comforting, overtly and infinitely platonic way. But I just sat there as one might in the electric chair.

  It took ten more minutes, but she calmed down.

  “Sorry about that. I’m just so upset that you did that and kept it up this whole time.”

  “Well, I don’t know why it would be upsetting,” I said. “I’m sorry if I’ve made a mess of this. We can just forget it happened. I don’t want…”

  “Stop!” she repeated. “I’m not being clear. I’m upset because I wrote to you as well, about the same number of letters.”

  “You did? Well, that’s just awesome!” I said, shocked and tingling all over. “Can I read them? Where are they?”

  “Ah, yes, well, um, now we’re finally getting to the point,” she explained. “You see, the letters I carefully wrote you and filed away are all currently residing in, um, a landfill site somewhere north of Toronto.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “I kept them for a very long time, thinking we might have a moment like this at some point in the distant future. But about a year ago, you were winning everything on the Tour. You were on television every weekend. Your face was on magazine covers. You’d won every major at least once and were obviously on track to play in the Olympic Games. Well, the odds of getting back together again just seemed so remote. So I bit the bullet. I stopped writing you and I threw out all the letters. I didn’t even recycle them. I didn’t want them coming back in any way, shape, or form. So I threw them in the garbage.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “I know how committed you are to the environment.” It hurt a little, but I sensed we might be heading for a happy ending.

  “I’m sorry. If I’d ever thought we might be with each other again, I would have kept them. But it seemed hopeless. I thought I needed closure. I needed to move on. I’m sorry I threw them out. I shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s okay. Thanks for writing them,” I said. “You know, I saw you once at the Eaton Centre when you were doing Christmas shopping that first year I came back from Stanford. Anyway, I kind of watched you for a bit,” I blurted. “There, I said it.”

  “You did?”

  “Well, even from afar it was just so good to see you, and we’d agreed we wouldn’t contact each other. But I wasn’t stalking you. I just watched until you disappeared into a store and then I left. I thought I should tell you. Oh, and I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. If I’d seen you, I’d probably have watched you for a bit, too.”

  “And remember when I went over to your house during your family Christmas party?” I asked.

  “I remember.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry about that, too.”

  “That was hard,” she said. “I was so surprised to see you. I just wanted to talk to you all night. And then what’s-his-name came out and got all proprietary and touchy-feely.”

  “Robert Usher,” I said.

  “Right! Robert Usher. Wow. It’s a little weird you remember his name. But it’s really nice, too.”

  Alli stayed over that night, and all was right with the world—I mean, other than no longer being able to move so freely around it without being recognized.

  When I walked into my poetry workshop the next afternoon, my beard gone and my hair cut, everyone knew who I was. The story of my surfacing in Toronto had been running on all the networks since the previous afternoon. I don’t mean it was the lead news story. There were far more important things going on in the world. But it certainly led the sports coverage on Canadian channels. My fellow grad students all seemed to take it in stride and were actually quite nice about it. There were no avid golfers in the class, or I suspect they would have known much earlier.

  “Welcome, Mr. Coryell,” the prof said. “Nice to see you again for the very first time.”

  “Um, thanks. And look, I’m sorry if I seemed deceptive, but I really just wanted you—all of you—to treat me, and my writing, as you would any other student. I just wanted to be a normal grad student.”

  “Well, you’re not a bad writer for a pro golfer,” said Shannon, who was sitting next to me.

  “Well, um, thanks, but I’m here because I’m a much better golfer than I am a writer. The problem is I really want to be a writer, and not a golfer. So I need your help.”

  “This is a much better look for you,” Bethany said from across the table, pointing vaguely to the general vicinity of my head.

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  A FEW DAYS later, my cellphone rang around lunchtime. It had been ringing nearly constantly since news of my whereabouts broke. I had been rejecting a
ll of the calls from numbers I didn’t recognize, but I knew this one. So I answered.

  “Professor Gunnarsson.”

  “No, you can’t be Professor Gunnarsson, because I am,” he said.

  “No, no, it’s Adam Coryell, but I knew you were calling.”

  “What? How did you know I was calling when I didn’t even know until just before I dialled?” he asked.

  He sounded a little different, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  “Right. Well, I mean your name appeared on my phone when it rang, so I knew it was you.”

  “Well, it still seems a little presumptuous.”

  “Professor, are you in Adelaide?”

  “Of course I’m in Adelaide. I’m always in Adelaide. I’m marooned here in Adelaide. I will never escape Adelaide.”

  “I see. But by my calculations that would make it about two o’clock in the morning where you are.”

  “Well, where I am is at my kitchen table with a good friend. And yes, you are correct, it is just about two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, it’s nice you’ve got a friend to talk to.”

  “I’ve been with two friends tonight, but neither is very talkative. Jack Daniel’s ran out a little while ago, so now I’m with Jim Beam. They both are very staunch friends when my hate for this godforsaken land gets too much for me.”

  I’d never heard him under the influence. I didn’t even know he drank.

  “Ahhh, okay, now I understand. Well, um. I’m sorry you had to resort to those two particular friends. They may not seem like friends in the morning.”

  “It is the morning already. And I still like them.”

  “Right. Professor, what can I do to help? I’m a long way from Adelaide, but I’d like to help if I can.”

  “I know you’re a long way from here. You’re in Toronto. I saw it on CNN tonight. The big mystery is solved! You’ve exchanged your golden golf clubs for a pauper’s pen,” he said, his voice building. “If you really want to help me, throw the pen away and go back to the PGA. It is a crime against golfers everywhere and against your own potential to give up the game you play better than anyone else before you. Stop this nonsense and go back.” “I’m not really sure how to respond to that,” I replied, a little annoyed. “Why is it so important? I’ve proven your theory. The algorithm works. It kind of feels like it’s actually a good time to move on and do something else, something that really makes me happy.”

  “You are wrong and possibly stupid, too. Interest in my pet PIPP theory is in fact waning, because despite the publicity around your success, we have never found anyone else with a ninety-plus G-score. I can no longer bear to call it the Gunnarsson number. I go with G-number now. That is what it has come to.”

  “You mean in the whole world, there’s no one else above ninety in any sport?”

  “Of course there are. There must be. We just don’t know who they are. Oh sure, we have a few prospects. There’s a twelve-year-old boy in Bogota who comes in at eighty-nine for the discus. If he grows proportionately in the coming years he could break ninety, but it’s for the fucking discus. Who cares about the discus? I’ll tell you who. Nobody! Why couldn’t it be soccer, basketball, American football, or baseball—you know, where the real money is?

  “There is also a woman in the Philippines who is already fifty-seven years old and for some reason has a Gunnarsson number of eighty-eight for bloody platform diving,” he continued in an over-the-top theatrical tone.

  “Well, that’s promising, isn’t it?” I said, trying to cling to anything that faintly resembled hope.

  “Adam, please try not to be stupid. It is many things, but promising is not one of them. It is quite likely that her G-number was over ninety when she was in her twenties. So we are already going backwards. But there is more to cry about in her case. You see, she lives with a deeply rooted fear of water after a traumatic duel with the undertow at a local beach when she was six! But being afraid of water is just not enough. She also is scared of heights. So we have a potential world champion ten-metre platform diver who is scared of water, scared of heights, and too old to compete anyway. That is cruel, almost as cruel as this godforsaken Adelaide. I haven’t been back to Stockholm in two years and it will be the end of me. Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam understand. But no one else does.”

  I wasn’t insulted by his continual reference to my stupidity. He couldn’t help it.

  “I’m so sorry, professor. I’m sure you’ll find someone else. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Just go back to golf. That will help until the next Adam Coryell arrives.”

  “I’m really sorry, professor, but I just cannot go back to the game. I just can’t do it.”

  “I know,” he replied, and hung up.

  I was alone in the condo. Alli was doing final editing on her novel with her thesis supervisor. Now that Operation Alli was complete, it was time to consider Operation Ingemar. I just sat there and thought for quite a long time. With only a stunning view to distract me, I found I could actually think quite well. Something emerged in my mind. It was a bit hazy, but enough to describe to others. I liked it. So I called Lisa Griffiths and then managed to conference in Susan Maddocks, and Operation Ingemar was soon underway.

  Chapter 15

  DECEMBER 2020

  SOME MAY HAVE thought it was the approach of Christmas—you know, the season of giving—that triggered it. But I knew better. Or maybe it was just my subconscious still trying to deal with the trauma. Whatever the reason, I had another idea. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. It seemed the perfect fit. I did a little research online and started to crunch some numbers. If I wanted to make any kind of impact, it was going to take a significant investment. Coincidentally, I was fully able to make a significant investment and still never have to work another day in my life if I didn’t want to. And of course, that didn’t even take into account the unspeakable riches that would surely come if I ever became a fully-fledged published Canadian writer. Ha! You know the old story. If you want to make a small fortune, start with a large fortune and become a novelist or open a bookstore, or better still, both. Anyway, the point is I could afford to pursue this new idea I’d just come up with and still maintain a lifelong residence on Easy Street.

  After another long call with Lisa and Susan, they both agreed to work with me on the initiative, provided I agreed to stop proposing new and interesting ways to part with my money. They were just looking out for my best interests. But Lisa confirmed that even after underwriting my latest brainchild, I’d still be forever fine financially. So with their blessing, I met on my own with the Canadian Association of Public Libraries to discuss the proposal in broad terms. To put it mildly, they were ecstatic. It wasn’t every day someone walked in off the street and offered to throw money at them. So I wasn’t surprised they were delighted, but it’s always nice to have your ideas embraced. Nothing was etched in stone that first meeting, but the good folks at the CAPL needed no encouragement to take our discussions to a more serious level, where I’d bring in Lisa and Susan to support me and they’d bring in a team of professionals on their side. A solid start.

  I loved almost everything about the master’s program—my courses, my professors, almost all of my fellow students, and what I was learning. The smaller class sizes and predominantly workshop format seemed to concentrate and almost purify the teaching experience. And I was absorbing it all like a parched sponge. I was nearly obsessed with assimilating the comments and advice my fellow aspiring writers shared when my work was critiqued. Don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t accept every suggestion, but I considered every one, and edited my work accordingly. But I could almost feel myself growing stronger and more confident as a writer. I was learning my craft.

  In addition to constant tinkering with a growing collection of short stories, I’d also started mapping out the novel that had been steeping in my mind for several months. I felt the stories were getting close. Each t
ime I worked through them, I made fewer and smaller changes. Restructuring became reworking became revising became refining, until it felt like they were nearly ready for prime time.

  My second time around with Alli could not have been progressing more successfully. Since the night I had popped the lid on the box of unsent letters, we’d been together almost constantly when we weren’t toiling on our respective master’s programs. I was happy…very happy. Always a dangerous observation, but there you go.

  It was about a week before Christmas. Alli and I were having a rare dinner out at a Chinese restaurant nearby. Eating at a restaurant was seldom intimate and romantic for us, even at a really nice one. Eventually someone would approach us.

  “I can’t believe you’re right here in this restaurant,” it would start. “I’ve been a huge fan from the beginning. I followed you at the Players last year. You played amazing. Oh, and the gold medal. Wow, that was incredible. We were all so proud. Um, would you mind autographing my napkin? The restaurant is letting me take it. Sorry about the pasta sauce. Makes it authentic, right?”

  This scene played out at least once each time we tried to have a quiet dinner out. It was almost always with fans who approached us apologetically and said really nice things. But not always. A few weeks earlier when we’d dined at a restaurant in Yorkville, a short walk from the condo, a young, athletic-looking woman had approached our table and she did not look happy. There was no Excuse me or Hello or I’m really sorry to interrupt your dinner. She just cut right to her point while cocking her finger at me like it was loaded.

  “You have been given a rare gift and you are wasting it. That is an offence against your nature, an offence against your family, an offence against golfers like me who work so hard to improve, and an offence against the game.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, thanks for sharing your thoughts,” I replied, trying to turn down the heat.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself. You could have achieved so much. But instead you’ve just sucked a whack-load of money out of the game and walked away.”