"I don't know how," she said, "but since I picked you out I've felt...I saw you and I knew. If I talk about it too much, I'll ruin it. When you're around me, I feel like—like there's more of me. I feel unafraid. Golf feels effortless. Life feels effortless. Do you have any idea what that's like to me?"
She took my head in her hands. "What is it like to be inside Lillian Byrd? To be Lillian Byrd?"
I said nothing, feeling her hands caressing my head—such fine hands, such good hands.
"You might think it's a very funny joke for me to want Todd along today."
"I don't."
"He's your touchstone. You get energy from him. And you are my touchstone, I get energy—and courage!—from you. The two of you together are magical. I don't know how or why I brought you into my life. I do know that I can't ever let you go."
"Do you want Truby to carry Todd along with us? That's just no good. He'd get too nervous—"
"No, I want you to carry him in my bag."
"Genie."
She waited.
I said, "I'll carry your bag, and you can pay for my hernia operation later, but I'm not carrying Todd, too."
"Yes, I want you to carry him in the bag. In the big pocket on the front."
"It's too hot. He'd overheat."
"Not if you keep a cold bottle of water in there with him. Rabbits like small spaces, don't they?"
I had to admit they seemed to feel safe that way. Do magicians still pull rabbits out of hats? The reason they use rabbits is that they're quiet animals; they keep silent and still in dark, close places.
But I protested, "Carrying Todd around all day—what if the bag falls over with him in it, Genie? He could get hurt! He could die! What if he panics? What if—"
"No!" She snapped her head emphatically. As it did when she whacked a golf ball, her hair flew into a golden halo, then settled into a perfect thatch. "The two of you together are magical. You'll look after him. Nothing will happen to him. I know it. Lillian, I've got to pull out all the stops today. I'm leading by one."
"And Nash is at your heels. Genie, not that I want to—oh, hell! Golf is just a game! All right? It's a game! And Peaches—oh, God! This is ridiculous, Genie. And I'm sorry, but there's something unhealthy about it."
It is the measure of me that I allowed Genie to bully me into doing exactly as she wished. I rationalized it to myself: I could use Todd's energy, his friendship, at my side today. This day. He was a patient, good rabbit who'd always been there for me. If he could understand what was going on, he'd want to help me.
.
A Mission Hills security car picked us up and took us to the course. Genie's bag was stored in the club's bag room. Carrying Todd in a canvas tote, I used the caddie credential I'd been given the day before to claim the golf bag.
I carried it into a corner and slipped an icy bottle of water into the bottom pocket, then Todd, murmuring to him over and over what a blessed bunny he was, and what a goddamn idiot I was. I zipped the pocket almost shut.
All I could think of was Genie, my true love. After dinner last night and before she had fallen asleep, she'd taken me totally by surprise with a tempest of lovemaking. Yes. If I'd been paying attention, I would've noticed her desire building, her passion rising up out of the horror of the day.
It's true: In the face of death, some people want to make love. A way of forcing back the terror, I guess it is, a way of showing grief who's boss.
Until she touched me, I would've doubted I could even become aroused that night. But boy, she took me there. Never had I experienced such excitement, never such sustained pleasure, never such thorough release. She allowed me to reciprocate, then she took me there again, then we slept like logs.
Now she was in the clubhouse having a conference with Meredith who, I guessed, was keeping the media at bay. They were there, though. They were massing. I'd brushed past a few reporters already; they wanted to talk to me, find out who I was, find out what I knew about what happened yesterday.
I ducked around the back of the building and threaded through the throng near the members' pro shop. Todd added about six pounds to the bag. "It's gonna be a long day," I muttered. I wanted to find a piece of shade until I needed to meet Genie at the practice range.
"Hey," came a tight voice at my shoulder.
I glanced over and kept walking. "Finally," I said.
Coach Marian Handistock followed me to a quiet spot at the north side of the building. Shade from an overhang made it slightly less blistering there than in the direct sun. I set Genie's bag upright against the wall and coach Handy and I talked across it. Her face sagged in the heat, but her body was tense. I saw the muscles in her forearms twitch.
She said, "I don't like you."
I folded my arms.
"I don't want you fucking around with her."
I said, "Is that what you think's going on?"
"You want something from her."
I didn't deny it.
"What's your real name, anyway?"
I showed her my credential. She murmured, "Lillian Byrd," as if she'd been expecting the name to tell her something.
I said, "Have you asked Genie about me?"
"No. She doesn't know I'm here."
"Why not?"
She thrust her aggressive chin at me. "I pegged you for a rat the first minute I saw you. She doesn't need you. The last thing she needs is you."
"Why are you wasting your time on me? How come you're not—"
"Because you're just as dangerous to her, and she doesn't know it." Searchingly, she asked, "Do you...care for her?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you pretend to, but all you really want is to drain her dry. You—you—all you want is to suck the life out of her. Look at you." She bared her teeth contemptuously. "You're the kind of person who doesn't bother to make your own way in the world. You just want to ride somebody else's coattails. A parasite. If you care anything for her, if you really care, you'll leave right now. Go back to wherever. Find somebody else to feed on."
It was with tremendous effort that I refrained from punching her as hard as I could. She could've taken me anyway, I'm afraid.
Instead, I chose to obtain information.
Cracking my knuckles, I said, "I know what you went and did after we talked in your kitchen."
Her breath caught in her throat. I heard it, like a match being struck. She couldn't speak. I saw her mind working, her eyes staring straight out at me, desperate.
I waited.
"It had to be done," she finally said.
Boy, had I nailed it.
"Genie called on you," I said, "and you took care of it. And now she's safe."
"Not yet."
Coach Handy began to fondle the black plush clubhead covers sticking up from Genie's bag. She stroked them as if they were alive.
"Dengel doesn't know what you went out and dug up, does he?"
She glared at me. "Get away from Genie."
"Did you know before—"
"No. I didn't."
"And it doesn't matter to you that—"
Coach Handy stepped around the golf bag, shoved me against the wall with her own solid belly, and twisted a fistful of my white coveralls.
"You listen," she hissed into my face, "you nobody, you, you nothing. I created Genie Maychild. She is mine, more than anything in the world. I dreamed her. I dreamed her up, don't you see? No one's going to hurt her. Not you. Not anybody. I gave her the clothes off my back. I gave her—everything."
"You loved her."
"Yes, I loved her," she breathed, still clutching the front of my coveralls, her face inches from mine. Her eyes were hot and hard. "I loved that girl."
Deliberately, I said, "But she didn't love you."
"She...she..."
"She never loved you."
That was cruel, but I tell you, I was feeling pretty goddamn ornery right then.
If there had been a button labeled PUSH TO VAPORIZE LILLIAN BYRD
, she would have jumped on it with both feet.
Instead she jerked me sideways, then rammed me against the wall. My head bounced off the masonry.
As she turned away from me, all she said was, "I've waited for her all my life."
I've said it was a hot day; the thermometer was reading, I believe, ninety-four. But watching Marian Handistock walk away, I felt a sudden cold wind down my neck.
Chapter 27
I lugged Genie's bag over to the practice tee. She wasn't in sight yet; I stood the bag at the right-hand end of the hitting area, her favorite spot.
"Need anything?" asked the range boss.
"Yeah, a couple of towels, please."
Even though Genie's clubs looked perfectly clean, I dampened a towel and went over them, rubbing the faces and wiping the grips. The practice tee wasn't busy, since most of the golfers were on the course already.
I thought about those golfers, the ones who were out of contention for the win. Their tee times were early and, ignored by the TV cameras, they were out there grinding out a tenth-place, or a thirty-something place, or a last-place finish, working on their stats, hoping for a decent check, glad they at least made the Friday cut. If you're a journey-woman golfer, one who's just good enough to stay on the tour, well, you've got to deal with dentist bills and oil changes and termites like everybody else, and you're not thinking all the time about glory: You need the dough.
The right-hand end of the range was Genie's favorite because, if you swing right-handed, you don't see the other golfers: Your back is to them, so there's a feeling of privacy there. Nobody else's swing gets flashed onto your brain cells while you're working hard on yours.
I fiddled around. I checked on Todd, I kept an eye out for Truby, and for Dengel.
An extremely natty guy, one of those combed-back Aqua Velva types, came up to me, wanting to talk. He wore a golf shirt with the embroidered logo of one of the big equipment manufacturers over the heart, khaki shorts with a razor crease, and anklets. Men in anklets make me nervous, no matter how good their legs look. But this guy had a very reassuring smile.
"Jeff Evans," he introduced himself, "Ace-Tek."
"Lillian Byrd. How do you do?"
"Fantastic! I haven't seen you around before. Before yesterday, anyway."
"No, I'm new."
"Well, I wanted to make a point of wishing you well in the final round!" Jeff tilted his head and squinted at me. "Looks like you got some sun!"
In fact, I'd gotten slightly fried yesterday afternoon, having neglected to replenish my sunscreen after getting on the course with Genie. I only had one summer hat, my Vietnam surplus hat, but I hadn't thought to pack it. My cheeks and nose were pretty pink.
"Well, I have a little present for you!" said Jeff, reaching into his shoulder bag.
I stiffened, waiting for an assassin's bullet, but he pulled out a brand-new sun visor and held it out to me. It was a beauty, high quality and bright white, nice terry-cloth sweatband. The main feature, of course, was the logo of Ace-Tek with its famous pouncing rooster. They made clubs for half the men's pro tour, I guessed, and maybe a third of the women's. Big company. Genie played Ace-Tek. I'd always considered their logo ridiculous, this rooster jumping on a golf ball. You had to figure they'd tested it thoroughly on focus groups, though.
"Uh, no, thank you," I said. "I'll remember my sunscreen today. Thanks just the same."
"Would you prefer a cap? I've got one in here..."
"Really, thank you, but I'll be fine. Hats give me a headache sometimes."
He laughed heartily, then leaned closer. "See, Lillian, I'd like to make you an offer. Doing my job here. How does five hundred dollars sound?"
"If it's in nickels, it sounds like jingle, jingle, jingle."
His laugh rang sudden and free. "Oh, I like you!" he cried. "Whew! Lillian, here's the deal: You wear our visor during today's round, and we give you five hundred bucks. Simple as that."
"Because people'll see the logo on TV?"
"Yep!"
"Well...I still have to say no, thank you."
He clutched his chest. "Lillian! You make my work tough! What'll it take here?"
I was thinking about a quick five hundred. I'd spent a bundle, coming out to see Truby, then the Chicago trip. I hadn't had time to wonder how I was going to pay down my credit card bill.
Jeff Evans said, "One thousand dollars, Lillian! Going once, going—"
"All right," I said. "When do I get the money?"
He whipped out a clipboard and a pen. "Sign right here. This is a one-page contract: very simple, dated today, dealing only with today." He filled in "$1,000" next to where amount was printed.
I read it in half a minute—it looked all right—and I signed it.
"I'll catch up with you after the round, and I'll have the check with me. How does that sound?" Jeff clapped the visor on my head.
"Wow. Okay." I took it off to adjust the band, and he waited until I put it back on.
"Wear it nice and straight," he said. He looked me over. "Too bad we can't do anything about those shoes."
I looked down at my feet. My black Chuck Taylor sneakers were homely, but damn it to hell, why should anybody care?
"I don't give a shit," I said.
"Well, good luck!"
Genie didn't notice my new visor, nor anything else, save the task ahead of her. She warmed up in her tunnel of concentration, murmuring to herself once in a while. She looked solid, solid as anything. Her swing repeated perfectly and effortlessly, it appeared to me. After practicing her middle and long irons and her woods, she chipped a few balls, pitched a few, and then we moved over to the putting green. She didn't ask about Todd.
Truby came by, not much less worried and bewildered than she'd been after the explosion yesterday. I went over to her.
"I can't believe any of this," she said. "I can't believe you haven't gotten away from this. I don't even know what the fuck—God! You're not telling me what the fuck is going on. I have no idea, and here you are, still involved in this bizarre—"
"Truby, I'm not arguing that this isn't bizarre. Okay? I need you to be around today, just like yesterday. Please be calm, okay? Life is weird sometimes. We can deal with it."
We stood for a minute watching Genie practicing her putting stroke with no ball, just making a pendulum swing with the club and her arms.
Truby looked at me again. "Where did you get that?"
"Believe it or not, I'm getting paid to wear it."
"A pasta strainer would be more attractive."
"I'm not arguing with that either."
We watched Genie some more, then Truby hooked her thumbs in her waistband and said, "Not that it's the slightest bit important right now, but—"
"You got laid."
"Yes."
"And?"
"I have to talk to you. Will you be able to spend any time at all with me after this is over?"
"Yes. Yes, hon, I will. I've got a lot to sort out."
"Yeah, so have I."
As I followed Genie over to the first tee, I caught sight of Meredith listening intently to a woman wearing a press pass, who was talking low into her ear. She dropped her head, then turned away looking at nothing. I veered over to her.
"Meredith."
She looked at me. "Peaches died an hour ago."
I took a deep breath and, looking skyward, sent up an arrow of prayer.
Meredith said, "Don't tell Genie."
"No."
"I'll talk to her after. I'm sorry I told you. Now—"
"It's all right."
Oh, God. Oh, Peaches.
.
The crowd was the biggest of the week. Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Fans were trooping along next to their favorites, rustling their programs, lining up to buy pop and beer and hot dogs, ducking in and out of the porta-pots, adjusting their belt packs, murmuring admiration for the strength and composure of the best players in women's golf.
Gay women were enjoying t
hemselves everywhere. All week I'd noticed this twinning thing going on. For example, one couple who walked by was wearing matching anodized rainbow necklaces, Ray-Ban sunglasses, khaki shorts, and Adidas running shoes. I saw lots of matching jewelry, earrings and such. Rings, of course. It made me happy to see matching rings. However, I thought the rest of the twinning signified lack of imagination.
Marshals and monitors kept everybody neatly behind the ropes; lots of police officers strolled and stood watching, their gold badges winking in the sun.
And at number one, Coco Nash was on the tee, Genie Maychild was on the tee, Lona Chatwin was on the tee, and I was there with the two other caddies, and the starter was peering into the distance watching the last approach shot of the group ahead, and we all had one more minute to gather ourselves.
Chapter 28
If you've been around the game of golf at all, you've met that most ubiquitous of bores, the shot-by-shot raconteur. You know, the one who comes into the snack bar, or the kitchen at home, smelling agreeably enough of fresh air and crushed grass, but then he holds you at vocal gunpoint for forty-five minutes.
If it's a classic, the story starts well in the past: "Well, you know, Claude's wife had that operation last week, so he called me up and he's, like, 'There's no way I can get out on Sunday,' so I'm, like, 'Great.' So I had to sit on my neck to get somebody, because if you don't have a foursome they always stick somebody with you, and it's always some guy nobody else wants to play with for whatever reason, and finally I thought of Larry—remember Larry? He's Ignacio's accountant, and he can hit the ball but he's wild—remember at that charity thing for the Prostate Society? When he got lost in that marsh looking for his ball, remember I told you about that and what his pants looked like for the rest of the day, but he's a good guy, so I called him up."
If you're lucky, you've got something monotonous that needs doing while you're listening to the story, like shelling peas for a big church supper, or sanding down a pair of bookcases.
"So I was like, 'Okay, I'm using a new ball over this water hazard if it kills me,' and wouldn't you know it—there's this rock about two feet from shore...so my second shot I'm like trying to remember how to aim for a downhill-sidehill lie, and I'm standing there, and finally I just go, 'Man, hit the goddamn thing,' and I swear I just looked at that pin and then I swung, and it was, like, perfect. It hit the fringe, and there was a little upslope, so that took something off it, but if that upslope hadn't been there, I woulda been right at the pin..."
Damn Straight Page 17
