I'd known of this habit of Todd's and thought it was random, until I'd inadvertently made him freeze when I opened my post-Christmas credit card bill.
Some people take Valium to relax, but I relied on Todd. Whenever I was near him, I felt a warm, special kind of serenity. It's hard to explain.
I hoped a little of Todd would rub off on Genie, who still appeared shook up from our brush with the minivan. Now and then she'd close her eyes and take a deep breath.
Todd was still pretty frisky when it was time to go in, so Hesper and I fixed up a run for him up and down the hallway that led to the bedroom Genie and I were using. Hesper shut the other doors that opened onto it, and I pushed some furniture and plants that I hoped were nontoxic into the other end. He liked it.
"But won't he just jump over this stuff?" Hesper asked. Her face had gotten sweaty as we worked; she lifted the hem of her T-shirt and ducked her face into it. I got a shot of her belly, which was a stack of perfectly curved, perfectly white rolls.
"You'd think he would," I said, "and he would if he wanted to, but that's not the way rabbits think. He sees this wall of plants, and he has no idea whether jumping over them would be worthwhile. Maybe he doesn't know he's being confined. Anyway, if he thinks he's safe where he is, he's happy to stay there."
For dinner, Hesper turned out a platter of the most darling little lamp chops you've ever seen, plus baby vegetables and an odd delicious pilaf made from oats. There was a lovely wine, all for me; Genie was not drinking from now until after the tournament.
We talked through the meal, which we took outside. Part of the terrace extended into a deck that stuck out over the canyon. You could see the lights of L.A.
That evening I learned many things about Genie, and didn't learn others. She considered winning the Dinah her first year on the tour to be a fluke. She hadn't won it since and was anxious to repeat her victory. I learned she didn't have much in the way of folks.
"Your parents are dead, then?" I asked.
"More or less."
"I see. Brothers, sisters?"
"One of each, but they've both disappeared."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that."
"I see."
I learned that the camaraderie on the LPGA tour wasn't what it used to be. In the old days the gals on the fledgling tour shared rides to tournaments, shared motel rooms, and, one could safely suppose, beds every so often. Prize money was paltry. Today it's only paltry compared to what the men get.
"Oh, everybody's friendly," said Genie. "You know, you're polite enough—you say hi and everything, but there's, like, an edge to everybody. That look in the eyes, you know?"
"What's it like?"
"Your mouth is smiling, but your eyes are saying, I'd just as soon kill you. The money's bigger, the girls are better trained—not just as golfers, but as athletes—heck, nobody even eats doughnuts anymore." She looked wistful. "There's more at stake. The media attention's bigger, not that it's big enough."
"I know. They cover the whole last round of the men's majors on TV, and I'm lucky to get the last six holes of the women's. That is so sucking."
"It's very sucking." She liked that construction.
I like to watch golf on television. Even if you're not really interested in golf, televised golf is a valuable tool for wellness. The next time you're home sick on a summer weekend, or have really bad cramps, or whatever, close the blinds, find some golf on TV and curl up on the couch with a nice cold glass of ginger ale. You can sort of drift in and out to the subdued tones of the announcers, the murmur of the crowd, the cool green glow of the screen. You'll feel better after an hour or two.
Genie said, "You know, the LPGA and the sponsors work like crazy to minimize the appearance of lesbianism on the tour. They're always playing up publicity for women with husbands and kids."
"The stigma thing. Dykes hurt the tour, right?"
"That's what they think. But the truth is, it's prejudice against gay players that hurts the tour."
Every so often as we dined, Hesper would come out on her little cat feet and remove a dish or refill something.
I told her, "Hesper, this is all just wonderful." She smiled, then cocked her large head toward the shrubbery, listening. I'd heard nothing but the birds and the bees; I guess after a second Hesper decided that was all she'd heard, too. She withdrew to the kitchen.
Genie said, "I'm glad I'm not a rookie anymore."
"Tough times?" I knew she'd come up from a pretty humble beginning; that much I'd retained from reading magazines.
"Oh, those days. I was on my own. All those black golf gloves."
I was baffled. "What about black golf gloves?"
"Well, they wear longer than any other color. The black dye makes the leather stronger. Plus they don't look dirty after one week. Serious golfers on the cheap wear nothing but black gloves."
I made a mental note to look for black gloves the next time I went through the sale bin.
"Did you stay with families at the tournaments?" I asked.
"Yes, my whole first year."
At most tournaments, people living near the course, some of them, offer their homes to the golfers. At the high end a golfer can rent a luxury home right next to the course for a fat fee. At the low end, some families simply make a spare room available for nothing to a young pro on a tight budget.
"They're all nice, the families," Genie said. "Only once in a while you sort of have to sing for your supper."
"Yeah?"
"Like, they make these nice meals for you, and then they sit with you and ask you your life story, and they tell you theirs, and they try to get you to gossip about the other golfers. But you know, even that's not so bad compared to guys who want to help you with your swing."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"You mean, like you're sitting there at dinner after your round, and the dad says something like, 'You know, I noticed that your right elbow is flying a little bit on your backswing'?"
"Exactly," she said. "Once I had a host—this was at the Tour Championship—this guy takes me out in the yard after dinner. It was Saturday night, and I'd gotten into the lead by two shots. At first I thought he wanted me to correct his swing, but suddenly I'm realizing that he's trying to coach me. He kept talking about my hips, my hip turn. 'Do you know you're tilting slightly, he says?'"
"Oh, God."
"The next day during my round I kept hearing this idiot's voice in my head, talking about my hips. I tried not to think about my hips, but it's like the blue horse in that movie, you know?"
"Yeah," I said. "What's-her-name tells the jury to think about anything but a blue horse."
"All I could think about was my hips. So essentially, I blew the round and tied for fourteenth. That wouldn't happen today."
I nodded. "You've learned greater mental discipline?"
"I've learned that sometimes you gotta belt people in the mouth!"
I laughed.
"I'm kidding, yeah," said Genie.
Hesper came in with some coconut sorbet for dessert.
Genie's knowledge of golf history was awesome. I'd thought mine was pretty good, but I didn't live and breathe the game. I did know who Glenna Collett Vare was, after whom the Vare Trophy was named, and I owned instruction books by Vivien Saunders, Judy Rankin, and the great Mickey Wright.
"Have you ever met Mickey Wright?" I asked. Most people have never heard of her, although she won almost as many titles as Kathy Whitworth and received the highest compliment in the history of golf: Ben Hogan was on record saying that of all the golfers he'd ever seen, the one with the best swing, man or woman, was Mickey Wright.
"Oh, she's my total idol," Genie said. "I've met her a few times. She's getting old. I wish she'd been born later, so I could study her at her peak, in person. She's the chairman of the board. That swing, she could do anything with it. Of course, it wasn't just that she could put anything she wanted on the ball."
&
nbsp; "It was her confidence."
"That's right." Genie leaned in to me, her sandy brows scrunched. "Knowing how to do it and doing it when you have to—do you have any idea what a difference there is between those two things?"
"I've never hit a golf shot under pressure. Say, you said you didn't want to dwell on golf this weekend."
"This isn't dwelling. You don't know what dwelling is. If I was dwelling on golf, we'd have the Golf Channel on all the time, then I'd be going over every hole at Mission Hills shot by shot. I'd be talking about all my past rounds there. I'd be speculating how thick they're growing the rough this year—plenty thick, that's always a safe bet. I'd be obsessing over whether I'm going to go for the green in two on eighteen or lay up—"
"Ah, the water hole, right?"
"Yeah. There's a few of us who can do it—Laura Davies can, when her head's straight, which is most of the time. I can. It's a risk for anybody. You've got to have two perfect shots. Should I go for it in the early rounds? Or just if I need a miracle?"
Suddenly she leaned forward and drilled her eyes into mine. "How old are you, anyway?" Her eyes, I'd determined, were hazel, tending very slightly to green. Beautiful flecks of color that changed all the time.
I drilled her back. "I lie about my age."
"You're too young to lie about your age."
"You're never too young."
"You're older than me."
"You have a beautiful smile."
That made her laugh, and she looked out at the lights of Babylon. "Peaches and I've been working on course management," she told me. "We'll get together tomorrow and go over our plan."
"Who's Peaches?"
"Peaches Oshinsky, my caddie."
"Are you happy with her?"
"Peaches is a he, you goof. Oh, my gosh, I'd die without him. You will not find a better caddie on the tour. He knows every blade of grass on every course we play."
"Peaches—that's so funny." It made me smile.
"His real name is Herman or something. People call him Peaches because of his beautiful face. He makes movie stars look ugly. He's a doll, completely, and he's a good guy. I'd put my life in his hands any day. You'll meet him. He's been with his wife in Tallahassee. She just had a baby, so he was glad to get a week off. But we're gonna buckle down tomorrow."
"How're you going to have time to shoot a round of golf with me and meet with Peaches?" I asked.
"We'll start early."
"In that case."
"Yes. To bed."
I liked Genie's directness, her up-frontness. She was a specialist at golf and a specialist in the sack. Oh, yes.
Before we dropped off to sleep, I asked, "Where do you get your drive from?"
"A lot of who I am, I invented."
It didn't occur to me until later that she had answered a different question.
Chapter 10
Sunday's highlights most certainly did not include the round of golf Genie and I played at an out-of-the-way public course called Woodley Lakes, starting at daybreak. I mean to say, my play wouldn't have made any highlight tapes, except the accidentally wonderful shot I hit by viciously topping my ball off the tee on one of the par threes, which ricocheted off a bunker rake and came to rest a foot from the cup. I missed the putt. It was a typical outing for me. Using rented clubs and Genie's advice on strategy, I shot a 97.
"You're really not that bad," Genie said as she slammed the trunk on the Jag. "You hit some good shots." She'd slaughtered the course.
It's interesting to realize that golf pros don't hit every shot great. When you watch them on TV, you mostly see the leaders, who are all over their game, or they wouldn't be out front. You don't see the pro who can't hit the broad side of a brewery that day. Genie had a fine morning, but even she hit a few lousy shots.
"The main difference between you and me," I observed, "is that your bad shots come only one in a row. Then you make the putt for your par or your birdie anyway."
"You gotta make putts." She felt good.
A guy in a primer-painted Buick, about a '79, zoomed up from behind and cut in front of us as Genie was trying to merge onto the expressway.
"Goddamn it!" I yelled, as Genie braked and swerved. "What an asshole!"
Genie just kept driving. "You can say that again."
"You never swear, do you?"
"It's not my style."
"That's nice," I told her. "That is very nice. I've been swearing like a sailor since I could talk."
"What, did you grow up in a bar or something?"
"Yeah."
"You grew up in a bar?"
"Yeah! Even people who run bars have kids."
"Well," she said, "I take pride in not having to use gutter talk."
I played with the power window control, fighting feeling ashamed. "Good for you, Goldilocks, but every time I try not to swear I feel flaky." I sat there wishing I hadn't brought it up.
When we got back to the house, Peaches was already there, drinking iced tea at the kitchen table and flipping through his yardage book. I didn't spend more than a minute meeting him before leaving Genie alone with him, but I liked him at once. Unlike many strikingly handsome people, he didn't appear conceited: You could sense his warmth right away. Beneath his impeccable skin and dimples, he had that scoutmaster look, as if he'd wade through a lava pit to rescue a stranded fawn. Plus he was big enough to haul Genie's heavy leather golf bag all over a championship course, hustling back and forth with divots and towels, without needing supplemental oxygen.
They talked strategy while I looked after Todd, taking him out for a stroll on the terrace, then brushing him and talking to him. I felt him all over, feeling for his bones, to make sure he was eating enough.
I wondered whether he and Hesper had made friends. She was like a hologram—there, then not there, then somewhere in the distance. I felt like shooting the breeze with her, but she went out on errands.
I got out my mandolin and played a few tunes into the canyon, testing the acoustics. They were pretty good. I'd played for Genie the night before, and she liked it. She got up and danced to the music, moving so sexily that my fingers trembled.
Peaches would stay to dinner, I thought, but he left after a couple of hours, driving down the canyon in his rented Altima. He and Genie would meet in Rancho Mirage the next afternoon to play a practice round.
That night something jolted me awake. Something had happened—a vibration, an earthquake? Only a noise? Whatever it was, it brought me fully awake, nerves tingling.
I listened.
Genie was breathing slowly and regularly, curled next to me. I realized that what had awakened me was one of Todd's thumps. It's amazing how loud they were.
Then I heard another one. A second later, I heard a sound like static, like something brushing against the wall just outside the bedroom door. I grunted in surprise. There was a sharp rustle, then footsteps.
I sprang naked out of bed and rushed into the hallway. There was a night-light out there; Todd hunkered in its greenish glow. At the far end of the hallway, I saw a plant teeter and fall over—one of the plants I'd moved to block in Todd. I ran down to the foyer, hearing the front door bang open. I reached it and paused there, flailing my hand on the nearby switch plate, searching for an exterior light and not finding one.
The door was in the deep shadow of a patch of cedar trees. There were no streetlights in this neighborhood anyway. I stepped into the night toward the street, looking everywhere, seeing only blackness. I thought I heard a rustle to my left, where a dense hedge blocked the next house.
"Hey!" I called. I stood there uncertainly, the concrete of the walkway gritty beneath my bare feet, the cool night breeze slipping around my body. I listened for a car door, an engine, anything. The night was still.
I went back inside and found my way to the other end of the house. I opened doors and flipped light switches until I found Hesper's bedroom.
She was snoring, spread-eagled on her back, no covers on.
For pajamas she was wearing a yellow T-shirt that said WEST COVINA DEMOLITION VOLLEYBALL. Between her legs a huge bush of hair rose up like a mountain.
She sat, blinked at the light, saw me standing there with no clothes on, and said, "Is there something you need, Ms Byrd?" I saw that she had one of those nose strips on, like football players wear.
"I'll explain later," I said, backing out.
I woke up Genie, told her what happened, and reached for the telephone. She was taking little whooshing breaths and rubbing her forehead. "Ohh, ohh. Rats, rats, rats. Wait. What are you doing?"
"Calling the police."
"Don't."
"Why not? You're not awake yet. Listen. There's somebody out there, maybe not far. Somebody was in this house, Genie."
Very quickly she grabbed the receiver out of my hand. She was awake all right. "No police," she said.
We got dressed and went into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave said 2:54. Hesper appeared and began preparing cappuccinos. Nothing appeared to be missing. I scouted around and found that a small sliding window in the laundry room had been jimmied open and the screen removed. I closed and latched it.
Hesper, who had added a pair of black bicycle shorts to her ensemble, produced a flashlight; I took it and went outside. I could see faint marks in the dirt beneath the window, like the edge of a smooth shoe, and there was a smudge on the stucco wall where a shoe or dirty hand had rubbed.
"Here's why no cops," said Genie when I reported back. "First of all, whoever it was is long gone. What would the cops do anyway?"
Hesper and I made automatic Yeah, cops faces.
"Second, I'm out of here tomorrow for tournament week. Third, I just want to forget all about this. I don't want to dwell on it. I have to prepare for the tournament. I don't need this. I don't want to think about this anymore."
"Hesper," I said, "this is your main home, right? How do you feel about not reporting it?"
She shrugged.
Genie said, "And I don't want Dewey worried with this."
"I understand," said Hesper.
So the prowler in the night would be our little secret.
I picked up Todd and held him in my lap while we drank our cappuccinos. Genie motioned for Hesper to sit with us.
Damn Straight Page 6
