"Not." She blew out a breath, shook her head, then laughed softly. "You need my help today. Fine. But I still need your help. Okay, so the world's hanging in the balance or something, for this golfer of yours."
"She's Genie Maychild."
"I know. But what do I do if my best prospect for sex only wants to cuddle?"
"Oh, Jesus, Trube, I can hardly think. Hey, cuddling's great. I just spent a nice morning doing it."
"But that's not all you've been doing."
"No."
"I thought if I cuddled her enough, she'd make love with me. You know, eventually." Truby's brow lifted and her expression softened. "So I cuddled her. I mean, like, I cuddled my ass off, I cuddled her until the embroidery wore off her pajamas—"
"Her pajamas?n
"I know."
"Oh, hon."
"They have cats on them," she said helplessly.
"Hell," I said. "Well, you've got one more night."
"Tonight's the night, baby."
"I gotta go. See you on the first tee."
"Lillian."
"What?"
"Please don't do anything stupid. Please."
If it wasn't for the hell I was trying to deal with, I'd be having a great time. The sun was shining, the mood was festive—everybody's but the golfers', of course; they had their game faces on. The TV towers made everything feel important and exciting. Well, it was important and exciting. I kept checking my watch; Genie's tee time was nine-fifty; we had about fifteen minutes.
Looking around, I saw the spectacle in all its glorious bits and pieces. The former champion Judy Rankin, now an announcer for television, walked briskly toward the clubhouse. A course marshal held up his sunburned arms on the first tee, signaling for quiet as Maria DiCenzo, the outstanding amateur from Italy, smacked her drive. A chubby, happy fan with a curly perm stood transfixed at the sight of Coco Nash applying Chap Stick. The fairways looked as though you could sew a prom dress from them.
I realized Coco was teeing off in the group immediately ahead of Genie's. In that case, her security people wouldn't be far off.
On the men's tour, they go off in pairs. The women, in order to accommodate TV schedules built around other events, must play in threesomes, to compress the air time they take up.
Genie's partners in this round were Janet Anson and Sally Trent; they were a shot behind Genie, who in turn, was a shot out of the three-way lead held by the veterans Lois Underwood, Rosa Garcia, and Valerie Klamm.
Peaches and Genie went over to the on-deck area. He helped her double-check her equipment, as they did before every round. He counted her clubs, touching each one, counting softly, "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. One dozen balls with your mark." Genie's mark was a cluster of three penciled dots above the logo; Peaches marked a fresh dozen every night for her. "New pack of tees, sunscreen tube half full, Band-Aids—"
"Did you get that glue stuff off, that residue off the grip of my five-iron?"
"Yeah, Mike helped me, over in the equipment trailer—he had this stuff that took it right off. Where's your inhaler? Remember, you threw away the old one?"
"Oh!" She looked up. She slapped her pockets, then panicked. "I didn't have it in the locker room. It must have fallen out of my spare socks in the car. Lillian, remember, I had my clean socks and my inhaler?"
"I'll go find it," I said quickly. I looked around and luckily spotted the red cap of our driver.
"Hey, Stacy! We left something in the car. Is it locked? Give me the keys, okay? I gotta run and get it."
She tossed them, saying, "It's in the members' lot, left side as you come around to it."
But Peaches picked the keys out of the air in front of my cupped hand. "I'll go with you," he said with a challenging grin. "I bet I can get back faster."
"Four minutes!" Genie called apprehensively.
Peaches and I took off, leaping over shrubs and dodging around spectators. I kept up with him; my juices were flowing. It felt good to run and jump, felt good to burn off some energy.
"Which one is it?" he said, when we came to the lot.
"Blue Volvo," I panted, "I think it's that one over there, see, way at the end."
He turned on his real speed and was at the car before I'd even started down that row. I saw him get the passenger's door open, then bend down into the car.
.
Somehow, right then, I became aware of everything, everything in the world.
The sky was the prettiest, widest sky, and the ancient rocks of the mountains that ringed the valley were seamed with black: riven, mysterious. I was aware of the husky little buzz of a hummingbird overhead and of the quiet hubbub of people going in and out of the swanky clubhouse. I was aware of the bigness of the earth and the smallness of this instant, aware of the desires that had brought me here, aware of the flimsiness of life and of the treachery that lies in wait beneath cleanliness and order and safety.
The explosion was not a large one. It tore the air—yes, with a bang!—and it lifted the car slightly before it bounced down on its tires, yes, and it shot smoke and fragments outward. Yes. But there was no fireball, no echoing blast, no destruction save for part of the Volvo, and the windows in the neighboring cars, and Peaches Oshinsky, who, by the time I reached him, had opened his mouth and begun to scream.
Chapter 25
Not that he could have known what hit him. He had been turned into something raw and terrible. He had been thrown out of the car, and was lying on his back on the asphalt between the Volvo and the next car.
I knew help was already coming; there's always an ambulance on hand at big events like this.
I edged between the cars and crouched over him. Dear God—oh, my dear God. The flesh of his face had been blasted apart, outward and away. His eye sockets were pools of blood, filling and running over, and he had no nose. His mouth was open in agony, his jaw badly askew, and the screams he was screaming made me wish we were both dead. His hair was bloody, and his chest was bloody, and he began to thrash.
"Peaches," I said, low, "it's Lillian. Lie still. Lie still."
He screamed once more, then made a gurgling sound; lying on his back as he was, he was beginning to drown in his own blood. "Peaches, I'm turning your head so you won't choke." Christ, I hope his spine's not broken.
The air around us was still blue from the blast. Burnt gunpowder smell filled my nose.
"We need help here!" I hollered. I heard footsteps rushing toward us.
Peaches extended his hand toward the sound of my voice, and I took it with both of mine. He gurgled again, loudly. His hand convulsed, and I tried to hold it tighter, but it squirted out of my hands like a fish. I saw then that it was as mangled and bloody as his face. The force of my grip had caused one of his fingers to come all the way off; it dropped from my knee to the ground and then rolled a little way under the Volvo. I reached across his chest and retrieved it. His other hand, I then noticed, was missing completely.
I was gripped by the shoulders and pulled away: the paramedics. I handed the finger to one of them.
Someone took my arm, saying, "Lillian, Lillian," and led me, stumbling, to a patch of grass. A ring of people had formed around the scene.
.
It was only an hour later that the decision was made to go on with the day's round. The police had gathered; some of them stood looking at the Volvo, waiting for lab people to come along with experts on arson and explosives. Another medical team was summoned to check me over because I had so much blood on me, I suppose. All of it was Peaches's, though.
Barely alive, he was rushed off.
The cops had sealed the gates for the time being and were asking everybody questions, starting with me. It took me a while to pull myself together. Truby was at my side, keeping calm, and so was Genie. I wanted a chance to wash up. There was a little flurry of confusion as more cops arrived; Genie took the opportunity to hustle me into the locker room. We were alone.
It was very clear to me what had just happened.
It was as plain as anything.
Peaches hadn't seen the inhaler on the seat, so he'd bent to look on the floor, placing one hand on the mat in the footwell. Beneath the mat was where the explosive had been placed, with some kind of pressure trigger. The violence was intended for Genie, of course. It was intended for her lower body, and it was intended to maim her, not kill her.
It was the work of a clever monster. Clever to think of such a horrible payback and monstrous to set it up, but a complete fuckup to not have anticipated that it could work perfectly but fail to harm Genie.
Deep inside one of the vicious caverns of my imagination I could see Dengel's fantasy: Genie in her wheelchair, pregnant, spinning around the kitchen fixing him a steak dinner, planning on giving him a king's blow job later.
.
After I'd taken a few deep breaths, I turned from the sink and said, "Genie, I know who it is, and you know who it is."
"I can handle it." Her voice was very quiet, and I pitched mine accordingly, uncomfortable with doing so, but doing it anyway.
"You're insane."
"I don't want you talking to the police."
"Genie!"
Her nostrils flared, and she took me by the shoulders. "Don't. Say. Anything. I'm going to let Meredith handle this."
"Meredith?"
"She's getting in touch with my lawyer. And Donna'll take it from there."
"Yeah, but..." I shrugged off her hands. Something was making my ears ring, as if the explosion were still echoing.
"I'm not going to say a blessed word to them, and I'm telling you you shouldn't either. Look, it's not going to matter what you say, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Donna will advise you, too. She'll make sure this gets handled right."
I shook my head and wiped my face with a towel. "I must be—"
"Look, Lillian. You can talk to the police all you want. After the tournament. All right?"
"After the—? Aren't you going to withdraw?"
"I can't do anything for Peaches now, can I? I can't do anything but win this thing and dedicate it to him."
I looked at her, my jaw hanging open.
"I know what you're thinking," she said. "But will you give me that? Can you do that much for me—and for Peaches?"
"What about his wife?"
"Meredith'll call her."
I now knew what people meant when, after going through a shock, they said they were numb. I'd always thought it had to do with emotional numbness. But I felt numb physically, specifically. I turned my clean hands over and looked at them. They did not appear to be mine. Someone could have driven a spike through my hand—or my arm, or my head—and I'm sure I wouldn't have felt it. It was the oddest thing.
"Genie, I don't like this," I told her.
"It doesn't matter what you like right now. Do you understand?"
"I guess it doesn't."
"Do this for me. Please, Lillian. Please. You've got to trust me on this."
There was that depth in her eyes, that bottomless look, that made me just want to fall in and not have to think.
"All right."
As we returned to the group of cops, I heard Stacy telling one that a woman had approached her in the parking lot and asked whether she'd be taking Genie home.
"And I told her yes, and I asked why, but she just patted my arm and went away."
"In which direction?" asked the cop.
"The clubhouse. I just figured she was a fan and was maybe going to try to ambush Genie for an autograph."
"What'd she look like?"
"Well, she—I don't know, she was—"
"Was she white or black or—"
"She was white. Um, brown hair, I think."
"What was she wearing?"
"Like a—a, well, she had a funny dress on, like a tennis dress or something. And a sweater, like a lightweight sweater. And a hat, a sunhat."
"How old, how tall?"
"Oh. Maybe forty? Thirty? I don't know...she was kinda husky."
The cop kept asking questions, and two other cops got hold of me.
I told them only what I'd seen, what had happened. I volunteered nothing else. They were just beginning to get themselves organized. Everybody figured it was a crazed fan, you know, a Monica Seles-type thing. The police gave Genie a hard time for not cooperating, but it didn't faze her. She expected them to understand that she needed to keep her mind focused on golf.
The public and the other golfers were informed only that there had been a terrible accident involving a caddie. The tournament people consulted with Genie and the other golfers yet to tee off. Given the choice, most athletes, primed for a contest, want to go forward. And that's what they all said: Yes. Let's go. Let's do it. I'm ready.
After the cops wrote down where we were staying and gave Genie some more hostile hassle, she told me they were going ahead with the tournament.
"Uh-huh," I said.
"ABC will tape it."
"Uh—"
"We can finish before dark. Come on."
"We?"
"Lillian, listen. You're going to caddie for me."
"What?"
"I need you to caddie for me. You can do it."
"Are you—are you—"
"Lillian!"
I accompanied her to the first tee. Truby, pale and bewildered, looked on.
"I am up for this round," Genie announced. "This one's for Peaches. All right, now—" She looked around and called, "Where're some coveralls for my caddie?"
"We're getting them," someone answered.
In a minute I had on the bright white jumpsuit with the tournament logo on it and a blank space on the back where MAYCHILD was on Peaches's. Everything looked and sounded and felt completely wrong. Sounds were muffled. I felt shrunk down, somehow, as if I were hiding inside a bale of cotton.
"I'll tell you everything to do," said Genie, standing her bag and me to the side of the tee box. "I'll choose my own clubs. You know how to wipe dirt off. Get her a towel, please—thanks—and just look after my divots. You know how to handle the pin."
"Peaches has your yardage book in his pocket."
"I got it." She handed me the small spiral notebook, filled with notations for each hole on the distances of every hazard, every safe landing spot, the height of trees. It was still damp from Peaches's sweat.
"You—"
"I got it while they were lifting him. I explained it was mine."
"Oh."
"All right?"
The starter announced her.
.
I don't remember much more about that day. I did get through it. I toted Genie's monstrous bag down the fairways and up to the tee boxes. I fetched divots and stomped them back in. I avoided the curious eyes of the fans, and I made hushed small talk with the two other caddies in our group. I raked bunkers. I gazed, during pauses, at the grass and the sky and the trees and the mountains. I picked Genie's birdie putts out of many cups. I watched her beautiful liquid swing over and over again, and I heard her tell me she was in the lead by a shot over Coco Nash as we were leaving the club and the sky was going slowly purple.
I must have done all those things, had to have, but I don't really remember.
Chapter 26
Genie slept deeply that night; I know because I barely did. I got up and talked to Todd in the den, then played Mad Scramble with him and talked to him some more. We dozed together for a while, on the nice carpet in there, then I went back to lie in bed. My shoulders and back ached from carrying Genie's heavy leather golf bag.
By morning I was feeling more solid, more in control of my emotions. The bloody image of Peaches had faded somewhat; we'd gotten word that he'd been given a fifty-fifty chance of making it, which was more than I would have thought. I couldn't let myself think about his suffering, and I couldn't let myself think about what would lie ahead of him if he did make it.
Genie was in the zone. Man, she was hyper-there, hyper-Genie, but wrapped in a cloak of serenity
. Dreamily, she told me, "I played out of my mind yesterday." She did her stretches and got herself ready for the day with placid determination, and I puttered around and thought.
By the end of yesterday, the word had gotten around that what had happened to Peaches wasn't an accident. I wondered what Coco Nash was thinking. I wondered what Marian Handistock was thinking, knowing that she had to have seen me caddying for Genie. I wondered what Dengel was thinking—and where he was.
And I tried to put myself into their heads.
I remembered Coco telling me, when the subject of Peaches came up, "I'd love to take him away from her." She wanted the championship trophy as much as anyone. Maybe I'd misjudged her. Maybe I'd been too generous.
The look that Coach Handy had given me on the airplane kept coming back to me.
Dengel wouldn't be stopped by repeated failure, I was certain.
It felt to me that today, Sunday, the final round of the most sought-after trophy in women's professional golf, would be the day when everybody would grab for their own personal brass ring, their own heart's desire. And it was plain to see how high the stakes were—for all of us.
Incredibly, Genie wanted me on her bag again.
"Oh, Genie, no. Didn't you ask the club to find you a caddie, a professional? My God, hon, for a day like today, you need somebody who knows what the hell they're—"
"Lillian, you're it." Not only that, but, "I want Todd along, too."
Since there could be no reasonable response to that, I just looked at her.
"I mean it," she said.
"What?" I countered.
"Yes."
"Todd is not coming onto the golf course."
She took my hand and led me to the living room, where she made herself comfortable on a couch. I perched on its arm.
"It's time for me to explain something to you," she began. "You wanted to know about my new source of...special focus."
"Yes."
"Well, it's you."
I hadn't expected that; I had not. I twisted a strand of my hair into a knot and kept listening.
Damn Straight Page 16
