Another couple strolled by, smoking cigarettes and wearing tight shorts.
"What is it with that hairstyle?" Truby said. "I used to only see guys wear their hair like that back home. Like hockey players."
"Yeah, the mullet, that's what it's called. God knows why it's called that, and God knows why anybody would wear their hair that way."
"Well, I guess it's convenient to have it short in front so it doesn't get in your eyes, then long in back to show you're still a babe. Or if you're a guy, to show you're a rebel."
"Yeah."
"I find," Truby said, "a certain swagger some butches have to be very appealing."
"Yeah? Tell me."
"Well, I was at this party over at the Wyndham, and this ultra-butchy type comes on to me very cutely! She had on this white linen suit and these shoes, so at first I was like, oh, right, Fantasy Island, but then, I don't know. She looked like she'd just walked out of a barbershop. No mullet, needless to say. We started talking. There was really something about her. I was thinking hey, maybe this is it! But it turns out—" She dropped her eyes.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to tell you."
I waited.
She muttered, "She didn't know who Colette was."
"Hon—"
"Don't say it, Lillian, all right? I know. But it'd be like you trying to make it with somebody who'd never heard of Chaucer."
"Oh, I've managed to do that."
"You give me so much grief."
"You give yourself so much more than I ever could."
"Look," Truby said, "okay, so we didn't work out, but like I say, there was something about her, and something about some of the other ones."
"That irresistible combination of female beauty and that sort of assertiveness."
She peered at me attentively over her sunglasses. "Yeah!"
"I stop short of saying 'aggressiveness.' Because I find that whole stone-butch thing slightly repulsive. Well, it's like the whole machismo thing. I understand it, I accept it, I even respect it, but—" I stopped.
"Yeah," Truby agreed. "But it's like, who doesn't want a partner that takes the lead during sex?"
"Boy, have you nailed something. You know, lesbians who've been together for a while, some of them don't have sex very often, and I think a lot of that's about both of them wishing the other would initiate sex. Both are reluctant to do it."
A light dawned in her eyes. "That must be why gay guys have so much sex—you've got two guys initiating sex."
"Plus the hormones."
"Yeah."
"Then again, Trube, there's the attractiveness of that femme-role thing. Everybody wants a wife. Who doesn't want a wife? Straight women want a wife. That part's about support. Receptiveness."
"Right. Because I met another woman I really like who is totally different. She's beautiful and soft but not simpering."
"Good! A CUPCAKE?"
"I don't need that crutch anymore."
"Good!"
"She owns a gallery in Fort Worth. We didn't leave together, but we're getting together tonight."
"All right," I said. "I'll keep my fingers crossed."
We watched the people go by, lots of gay women chattering and laughing, happy to be on a holiday in the sun.
"Lillian?" said Truby.
"Mm?"
"Don't get into trouble?"
I took her arm. "Truby. I swear to you."
"It's going to happen. Don't tell me, because I know."
"No. Look at me."
"You turn into an idiot when you're in love. I know it, goddamn it."
"I know how to take care of myself."
Chapter 17
After finding Genie on the fifth hole and blowing her a discreet kiss, I slipped away and went back to the house.
Again I dragged out the charred memorabilia, and this time examined it more thoroughly, making notes as I went along.
Aside from the ominous-looking marks Coco Nash had drawn, only two things stood out to me:
One was the fact that in none of the articles was there any information about Genie before she picked up a golf club at age fifteen and a half, other than the flat statement given by Genie in several interviews, "I had no home to speak of. Golf became my home."
The other was a spread from the Pearl Center Bugle about the retirement of Marian Handistock, a local gym teacher:
What befits a legend most?
When it comes to Marian Handistock, whose very name calls to mind gym and winning sports teams at Pearl Center Consolidated High School, it's a city-wide day of recognition. Last Tuesday, under sunny skies that matched the mood of the crowd, Mayor Dick Coggins declared Marian Handistock Day in Pearl Center. The widely beloved Ms. Handistock, or "Handy," as her students affectionately called her, retired from PCCHS after 25 years of service...
The article noted her popularity, the records of the teams she coached, and featured a quote from Genie Maychild, who had flown back to her hometown to speak at the ceremony. The article went on:
"Marian Handistock was the best thing that ever happened to me," said the sprightly linkswoman, noting that it was Ms. Handistock who not only introduced her to golf, but coached her to her first junior championship trophy.
Currently ranked the top female golfer in the world, Ms. Maychild stood before a crowd estimated by the PCPD at more than 300. She spoke at length about the kindness and wisdom of Ms. Handistock.
"The Pearl Center Con girls' golf team consisted of me alone," said Ms. Maychild. "She drove me to the matches and back to Pearl Center at all hours. She was there for me. I remember her lending me her own golf shoes to play in before I could afford a pair. You couldn't say the word 'can't' in her hearing. There was always a way to make the shot you needed, always a way to learn. Always a way to win. I see some of the girls from softball and volleyball here. I'm sure they have their own special memories of Handy."
The old expression, "A good time was had by all," certainly applies to last Tuesday's festivities.
The day was marred only by a brief incident during which a spectator, wearing a mask and a bedsheet spattered with a red substance, appeared in front of the platform as Ms. Maychild was speaking. Ms. Maychild appeared shaken by the sight and stopped speaking for a few moments before regaining her composure. The shrouded figure left the area a short time later.
When asked to comment on the strange incident, Ms. Maychild said, "No comment."
Indeed. I returned to the country club. Before heading out on the course, I made a few calls from a public phone. I got hold of two people who were eager to see me, and was unsuccessful at getting hold of a few others, but I didn't consider that a bad score. I bought a plane ticket for a hideous amount of money and reserved a car.
I caught up with Genie on the fourteenth hole, where she was lining up a lengthy putt. Peaches was tending the pin, his handsome face a study in concentration. It was as if his will could guide the ball into the hole. Man, it was a beautiful stroke she made, just as solid and smooth as Foucault's pendulum. The ball dived in, for her second birdie of the day.
I'd been gone for almost three hours; after she holed the putt, she saw me and gave me a "What gives?" kind of look. I gave her back a warm, knowing, reassuring smile, and a thumbs-up. I'd picked up a pairings sheet and found that Coco's tee time had been well ahead of hers.
Genie had a good round that day, shooting two under. This is a tournament where plain old even par wins it some years.
When we met up after the round I let her think I'd been looking after Coco, doing some scouting work, secret work—whatever.
"I'm just not sure about her," I said.
"Let's talk later," said Genie, looking over her shoulder. She went into the clubhouse to shower and change.
While cooking up a stir-fry for dinner I repeated what I'd said. "But the main thing," I added, "is for you not to worry."
"What do you think is going on?"
"I'm working on it. I know you were w
ondering what the hell I was doing out there today, but you know—" I stopped.
"What?"
"Well, this is going to sound drama queenish, but if you don't know what I'm up to, you'll be safer."
She looked at me uncertainly.
"What I'm trying to say is, if I fuck up—I mean, really fuck something up really bad—well, if you have no knowledge, then you'll be in the clear. No problem."
The quick gears of her mind went into hyper-drive and she went quiet. Sucking her cheek, she slowly asked, "Do you think you might have to—you know—do something to her?"
I hadn't expected her to latch right onto that. The way she said it made me go over a bump. I looked at her.
"You mean, like, kill her?"
"You said it, I didn't."
The very thought made me laugh. She laughed, too, and after a minute I felt fine again.
She leaned over and kissed me and said, "I'm a lucky girl."
"You sure are. The loyalty of Lillian Byrd is not to be taken lightly."
She smiled like the break of day.
"Now," I said, "I'm going to ask you for something."
"What is it?"
"Just some understanding. Truby's having a hard time. I mean, not in getting laid, which she seems to be heading inexorably for, but—well, see, she gets—see, she has a little trouble with panic attacks."
"Oh."
"And she's asked me to spend the night with her. Not necessarily spend the night, but be there if she needs me to. You know? I'm good at getting her settled down from these—states she gets in. I've promised her I'd meet her for a drink, anyway."
"You know, I feel I could use a night alone," Genie said. "Don't be so apologetic. Hey. I need you. You're my charm, my touchstone. But you've got a life, and if another friend needs you, I guess I can lend you out."
"Oh God, Genie, honey, thank you. Thank you for being understanding. All right. I'll plan to see you on the course tomorrow. But you might not see me."
"Uh?"
"Remember what I said: The less you know, the better."
"Would you—would you leave Todd with me?"
"Oh, certainly! You know what to do; he's easy. He'd love to play with you. He likes you." He did, too.
.
When I left the house that night, I stopped first at the Nash hacienda, where she and I had a quick little conference.
"I need to go out of town tonight and tomorrow, and probably tomorrow night. I'm worried about her. Not terribly, but I am. And I was wondering—"
"Listen. She has got Peaches to look after her on the course, and I have got some security I can direct her way."
"You do?" I thought about my barging in and our rasslin' match in the living room.
She laughed quietly. "Yes. They are discreet. She will be all right. She will not know a thing about it."
"You're fantastic, Coco."
"I am beginning to think you are, too."
"Thank you, but what I am is an earnest-faced fool in love."
I left her laughing and hit the road.
.
The Palm Springs airport was small and convenient, and I could've caught something to LAX there, but I distrust those little short-hop airplanes. Anyway, in the Jaguar I made as good or better time, given the waiting and the boarding and the taxiing and all that.
Fortunately, I had a row to myself on United's 11:38 red-eye to O'Hare. Before going to sleep, I looked over my notes and composed my thoughts, focusing on the facts, trying not to go too far with my inferences.
It was obvious that something from the past was trying to take a bite out of my athletic lover.
She'd left behind a childhood that had dissatisfied her, let her down, damaged her.
Someone was trying to blackmail her.
And terrorize or hurt her.
And had been at it for a while; it'd been almost a year since Marian Handistock Day.
A person doesn't exist who would have been "almost fourteen now."
Life today, for Genie, was her golf career.
The past for her was everything that happened before she met golf. Therefore, that was the past I needed to look into, that was the place where I could do her—I suspected and hoped—some concrete good.
I felt in the pocket of my coat for my pint of Ballantine's. Never do I travel without some whisky. I asked for a cup of water, drank most of it, then poured in a shot and sipped it. I slipped off my loafers, pulled out Valparaiso Farewell, and read a little. It won't be ruining it for you to tell you that Calico Jones suavely manages to escape from the ambassador's residence, but not before enjoying a zestful romp with the ambassador's soon-to-be ex-wife. Then Calico hunts down the guy who counterfeited the government bonds, but learns the shocking fact that his real racket is running Cambodian orphans into Quebec via Panama, for use in French-language snuff videos.
After a while I rolled myself in two blankets and relaxed into the roar of the engines and the clink of the beverage carts, grateful to feel drowsy.
Chapter 18
Pearl Center, Illinois, pop. 2,560, is 63.8 miles north-northwest of the Alamo rental car lot at O'Hare airport. At that distance, it's stayed out of reach of the suburban creep that has made places like Northbrook, Lombard, and Downer's Grove into extensions of places like Evanston, Villa Park, and Oak Park.
The utter flatness of the terrain heading out from the airport gives you a clue as to what lies beyond, as you segue from the Pizza Huts to the places that used to be Pizza Huts but are now used sewing-machine shops. It's farm country; it's Farm Aid country, where people eventually stop fixing the motor on the RV and just let the weeds grow. Little welfare office on the prairie. A gray place, an uneasy place, it felt to me.
Pearl Center's motto, I read on the sign at the town limit, is, "Honoring the Past, Envisioning the Future." Anything to avoid a hard look at the present, I thought.
It was nine in the morning and, despite the dreariness and the wet March thaw, I was feeling fairly wholesome. I'd eaten a good solid breakfast of bacon and eggs at the terminal and was ready to implement Operation Save Genie Maychild.
In Pearl Center, which hugs the banks of an apparently nameless small river, there were five taverns, four stoplights, three churches, two police cars, and one newspaper.
Every small newspaper office is different in every detail from every other one, yet they are all exactly alike. That is, you will find different people working there, different stories on the layout boards, different advertisements, different contact names in the stacks of press releases, a different brand of sugar cubes at the coffee shrine—yet the smell and sound and feel of the place is like that of any other you've been in: You're aware of the stale coffee, carpet lint, printer toner, hand soap; you're aware of the low clamor of plastic keyboards, voices on the telephone, the odd crinkle of a candy wrapper, the jingle of coins dumped onto the front counter by a carrier.
If you've worked in the business, you can also walk in and tell what day of the week it is, whether the issue's just gone out to the printer, or just about to go out, or somewhere in between. You can feel it in people's voices, in the tension of their movements.
I'd noticed that the Pearl Center Bugle published on Thursdays. That was good for me; Friday, then, was a day of nothing pressing.
Skip Doots, staff correspondent, heard me ask for him in the front office and came bounding out to meet me.
"Hi there, Theresa. Good to meetcha!" His grip was sweaty but firm.
"Skip, how do you do? Good to meet you, too." I liked him instantly, knowing that ninety-nine percent of reporters would've waited in their office for the receptionist to get up, come in, and announce me. Then seventy percent of them would've stayed seated behind their desks while she showed me in. I also liked his title, staff correspondent: just a trifle over the top for Pearl Center, Illinois. His name, Doots, was one of those funny Northern European names common in the Midwest. I'd gone to school with a DeVroot, a Waards, and even a Doody.
<
br /> He offered me a chair and coffee. "Jenny just made a fresh pot, so hopefully it won't strip the skin from your throat," he said, as he handed me the cup.
"Thanks. You drink yours black, too? Then I guess we're both gluttons for punishment."
"You said it." He was a beanpole with acne scars and crooked teeth, but his eyes and smile made him look like a best friend waiting to happen.
"Nice setup you've got here," I observed.
"Thanks!"
"I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."
"Well, it isn't every day somebody from Sports Illustrated comes to Pearl Center."
"Heh, yeah. Um, you've been with the paper for quite a few years now, right?"
"Yeah, how'd you know that?"
"Oh, I've seen your work in an archive, a sports thing—you know."
We heard a growl just outside the door, which Skip had left ajar. Another growl coalesced into words. "Jenny, I will not take the call!" It was a haggard male voice. "Would that all my accounts paid me net thirty! I told him he'll get the money in his grubby little hands as soon as I get it! And he says, my hands are not grubby! That bastard's hands are grubby, all right."
The boss. Skip laughed silently. I smiled.
A low, soothing voice said, "I know, but I can't lie to him."
"Then tell him I'm in conference with Skip!"
Skip's door flew open and a fellow shaped like a fireplug jumped inside. "Skip," he yelled, "have you called Ellen Schmidt yet about that goddamn flood insurance program?"
"Yes, we're meeting Monday to go over it."
"I'll never understand it!" He twisted his ear as if he wanted to throw it away.
"It's very complex."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Theresa Sanchez."
"She's from Sports Illustrated, doing a piece on Genie Maychild."
"What's she doing here, then?"
Damn Straight Page 11
