“That was just a seven iron, Darb.”
He came to a dead stop and stuck his finger in my chest. “A seven iron you hit when you had to make the shot. A seven iron that landed ten feet from the flag and guaranteed us the victory.”
“How in the world do you remember that?”
Darby grinned, and I noticed the missing teeth in his mouth. “I’m a ghost now, Randolph. I’ve been sent here to show you something, and I remember things that maybe you should remember. That was a great shot hit under pressure when you had to have it.” He paused and then winked. “The drive you hit today on the eighteenth hole at Twickenham out over the parkway and the eagle putt you drained were both pretty frisky too.”
I studied him. “Did you have anything to do with that putt dropping?”
He shook his head. “No, sirree. That was all you.”
I scratched the back of my neck and sighed. “None of the shots of mine you’ve mentioned were even close to your three wood on this hole . . .” I stopped and waved my hand at the beautiful scenery that surrounded us in every direction. “That was a major championship.”
He smiled, but his sunken eyes were sad. “Yeah, I hit that shot. You remember the putt for eagle?”
“Well . . . as I recollect, you two-putted for birdie.”
“I missed a five-foot putt for eagle that would have gotten me within two of Watson and Crenshaw. The ball didn’t even scare the hole, and I barely made the comebacker. I didn’t sniff a birdie the rest of the way and I shot seventy-eight the next day to not even make the top twenty.”
I glared at him. “You played the tour for nineteen years. You made hundreds of thousands of dollars. You won four PGA Tour events.”
“Five,” Darby corrected.
“Exactly. Five. You played the Masters almost twenty times.” I again waved my hand behind me and breathed in the scent of the Georgia pines that lined both sides of the fairway.
“I never won a major. I never played in the Ryder Cup.” Darby sighed. “And by the time I retired, I had blown every cent I ever made on a golf course.” He snickered. “When my Jaguar ran off the road early yesterday morning, the only money I had in the bank came from my dealerships.”
We crossed the small footbridge that took us over Rae’s Creek. “You lived my dream, Darb. You played the finest courses. You walked alongside Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer and Tom Watson. I’ve looked up to you my whole life.” I paused in the middle of the bridge. “Hell, I guess Mary Alice was right. You are my hero.”
Darby stopped and wheeled on me. “No, I’m not. I’m a drunk. I was a poor husband and an even worse friend.”
“Are you kidding? You got me Masters badges every year.”
Darby shook his head and dropped the club from his hands. The sky had become darker and I couldn’t see the green anymore. I felt dizzy. I leaned over the railing, but I didn’t see Rae’s Creek anymore.
Instead, I saw the muddy water of the Tennessee River. I was standing in the same spot where I had stood when my birthday had begun. The place where I planned to jump and end my life.
“Where was I when you lost Graham?” Darby asked. His voice was in my ear, but I couldn’t see him. “Did I come to the hospital? Did I even make the funeral?”
“I didn’t hold that against you,” I said, closing my eyes. I squeezed them tight, but then, as if by some sort of magnetic pull, I felt my lids opening. I now heard the beeps of the monitors and the sound of sniffling. Mary Alice sat on the bed, rubbing my boy’s forehead, whispering, “It’s okay to let go, baby boy.” By the window, my mother’s angelic face was streaked with tears. She had her arm wrapped around Davis, who had buried her face in her chest. Davis had been twelve.
I saw myself standing by my son’s bed. I heard the sound of the monitor as the line on the screen went flat. There was a long monotone beep. I heard my wife’s shriek and saw my hands go to my knees.
“Darby, get me out of here,” I said. I turned away from the awful scene and saw my father. He leaned his back against the far wall of the hospital room. His arms were crossed, and a tear streaked his cheek. I don’t remember seeing Dad when Graham died. I knew he was there, but everything was a blur. I could see him now.
I turned back to the bed, but I was no longer in the hospital. Now I was at Maple Hill Cemetery.
Though the visitation the day before had been huge and overwhelming, the graveside service was small. Only family and close friends.
As I approached the tent, I saw myself standing by the casket. Behind me, Mary Alice sat stoically in her chair in the front row. Tears had smeared her makeup, but she took no notice. Davis and my mother sat next to her.
My father stood behind me and whispered something in my ear.
“What did he say?” Darby asked.
I turned and saw that my friend was standing beside me. “That I needed to be strong. That Davis would look to me to be the example. That Mary Alice would need me too.” I sighed. “Stuff I already knew.”
“I should have been here,” Darby said.
“Where were you?”
Darby grimaced and snapped his fingers. When he did, the cemetery evaporated. I wiped my eyes as they adjusted to the new scene. We were standing in a dank hotel room. The carpet was greenish brown. The covers had been thrown off the king-sized bed, and Darby lay sprawled in the middle of it. There was an empty bottle of gin on the bedside table. Beside the liquor was a tin plate with a white powdery substance smeared all over it.
I turned and saw a woman emerge from the bathroom. She had just showered, and her body was barely covered by a towel. Beautiful. Sexy. And not Charlotte.
I watched her glide into the room and look at Darby’s body on the bed. Then, shaking her head, she went over to the couch, where Darby’s pants had been flung, and she pulled his wallet out of the back pocket. I watched her take at least five bills out of it, and then, without even a glance at Darby, she got dressed and walked out of the room.
“Cold,” I said.
“Want to know how many times that scene played out in nineteen years?”
“No,” I said, feeling a wave of depression come over me.
“I missed your son’s funeral because I was in the middle of the Florida swing on tour. I could have flown to Huntsville, but I didn’t.”
“You were a professional golfer. You were working.”
“That look like work?” Darby asked, his voice sick with sarcasm, as he pointed at himself on the bed. I glanced at Darby, expecting to see the old mischievous grin with a wink thrown in, but he gazed back at me with blank eyes. Dead eyes.
“I didn’t have a life, Randolph. I never had children. I was a terrible friend. An even worse husband, and my reckless life got me killed last night.” He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, I was back on the Tennessee River Bridge.
“But you do have a life, Randy.”
I felt my heartbeat speed up as I turned to my friend. I couldn’t remember the last time he had called me “Randy.”
“You were everything I ever wanted to be, Darb.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he snapped. “You didn’t want to be me, and I darn sure wasn’t your hero.”
Glancing down at the dark current and then back to the ghost of Darby Hays, I whispered, “What are we doing? Why are you here?”
He stepped closer to me.
“Before I leave you and this world forever, I need to tell you about the gift you are about to receive.”
“Gift?”
He nodded. “You see, Randolph, you have had heroes, just not me.” He paused. “And you are going to have the opportunity to play a round of golf or . . . something like that . . . with each of them. Four heroes. Four rounds. A tournament, so to speak, with the champions you’ve looked up to your whole life.” He chuckled. “The Randy Clark Invitational.”
“Why?” I asked. It was the only thing I could think to say.
Now, Darby did give me his trademark smile of mischief followed by a wink. “You’ll see, old friend.” He began to walk away, and I ran after him. In the distance, I saw an eighteen-wheeler approaching.
“What am I supposed to get from this?” I asked, trying to catch up to my friend but losing ground. The roar of the tractor-trailer’s engine was closer, and Darby was walking straight for it. “Darb!” I ran toward him, but it was no use. When the rig was a few feet away from him, Darby turned to face me.
“I’m sorry, Randolph. For everything.”
“No!” I screamed, trying to run but unable to move my feet. The rig passed right through Darby as if he weren’t there. Now, it headed straight for me. Again, I tried to move my feet, but it was no use.
As the grille of the truck came into focus, I saw a man behind the wheel. I gaped at the figure. For a moment, I couldn’t make him out, but then his eyes seemed to glow. My father leaned his head over the wheel.
“There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes that he’s not going to be Joe Namath.”
The voice was then drowned out by the sound of the engine, and headlights flashed in my eyes.
I tried to scream, but no words would come. I covered my face with my hands and dropped to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut. As my nostrils filled with the scent of diesel fuel, my vocal cords finally let loose.
And I screamed at the top of my lungs.
First Round
8
When my eyes flew open, it wasn’t an eighteen-wheeler driven by my father that I saw. It was my daughter, Davis, crouching over me with a terrified expression on her face.
“Dad! Wake up! Dad!”
I was lying on the carpeted floor of the den. “Davis?”
“Yeah,” she said. Her eyes were creased with concern. “You were having a nightmare. A bad one.”
I sat up and grabbed hold of my knees. My head was pounding with a horrific headache. Funny, the pain from the hangover had gone away when I had started talking to Darby in the dream, but now it was back with a vengeance. “Can you get me some water, champ?”
“Okay,” Davis said, her voice wary as she rose and started walking toward the kitchen.
“Randy?” Mary Alice asked, brushing past our daughter and stopping when she saw me on the floor.
“Nightmare,” I said.
She folded her arms across her chest. She was wearing a white bathrobe that she had tied in front. He hair was matted down on the side she had slept on and a strand was hanging in her face. Her eyes were puffy from sleep and her face was pale. Still, she looked beautiful as the sun shone through the cracked blinds of the den onto her face.
I managed to stand and felt piercing daggers of pain in my temples. Davis returned with a glass of ice water, and I took a long sip. I looked around the den and saw the bottle of gin on the coffee table. The top was still off. Shame poured through me at being found by Davis like this. Then I felt a soft touch on my arm.
“Was your dream about Graham?”
I looked into Mary Alice’s kind brown eyes and past her to Davis, whose face was stoic. I rubbed the back of my neck, knowing that my dream had gone far beyond Graham. But he had been a part of it, I thought, remembering the sight of my father leaning against the far wall of the hospital room.
I nodded.
Her eyes glistened, and she wrapped her arms around me. “How do you feel?”
I snorted. “Hungover.” I pulled back from her. “I’m so sorry I missed dinner last night.”
She squeezed my arms. “It’s okay. I told you to take the day off. I’m sorry about Darby.”
My body tensed as I heard my friend’s name, and a vision of his ghost popped into my head. The teeth falling out of his mouth when he had grinned.
“What time is it?”
“Six thirty in the morning,” Davis said. “Your yelling cheated me out of fifteen minutes of sleep.”
“Sorry,” I said, taking another drink of water.
Mary Alice turned and began to walk toward the kitchen. “How about some coffee?”
“Sounds good,” I managed. As my bearings returned to me, I sat heavily in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The cake with its forty candles still adorned the center. It had a plastic covering to keep it fresh.
“Maybe we can celebrate your birthday tonight,” Mary Alice said, as she put a coffee filter in the maker.
“Okay,” I said, knowing that if everything went as planned, Mary Alice would likely be at a funeral home tonight tending to my arrangements.
As I watched my wife effortlessly move about the kitchen, I heard the sound of the shower crank up in the back. Davis had started to get ready for school. I took another gulp from the glass and my thoughts drifted back to the dream. Darby Hays sitting in my leather chair in the den. Then me in the passenger side of Darby’s Jaguar at the crash site. The explosion. Then the thirteenth hole at Augusta. Walking over the footbridge of Rae’s Creek, which had turned into the Tennessee River Bridge. Then the hospital room. The cemetery. The hotel room. The images flashed through my mind like they were on a fast-moving projector screen.
I’m not your hero.
You will be given a great gift.
Four heroes. Four rounds.
The Randy Clark Invitational.
I drained the rest of the water. When I stood from the chair, my head didn’t feel quite as bad, though I was still woozy from the dream.
“I’m going to get cleaned up,” I said, beginning to walk out of the kitchen.
Her voice stopped me “Randy?”
“Yeah?” I turned and looked at her.
“Are you okay?”
No.
“Fine, hon. Thank you. Just hungover and still in shock over Darby.”
Her eyes narrowed. It looked like she was going to add something, but all that came out was “Okay.”
9
On my way to the bridge I stopped at Gibson’s, a barbecue joint on Memorial Parkway that also served breakfast. I planned to get a coffee to go, but the smell of biscuits, bacon, and sausage made my stomach growl. Even death row inmates get a last meal, I thought. I grabbed a booth in the rear, hoping not to be recognized by anyone, and ordered the works: eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits and gravy. After a few bites, my stomach and head began to loosen. I’m gonna live, I thought. Then, realizing the absurdity of the thought given what I was planning to do afterward, I shook my head.
I thought about my visit from Darby.
Four heroes. Four rounds.
You do have a life, Randy.
As I headed toward the cash register, I glanced around the bustling establishment, seeing groups of middle-aged men and women talking, laughing, and eating. People living.
I paid for the meal and walked briskly toward my car. When was the last time I had felt alive?
I couldn’t remember. And, in about an hour, none of it would matter anymore. As I put the key in the ignition, I heard a knock on the window. I turned and almost winced when I saw the familiar face.
“Randy Clark!”
I tried hard not to sigh as I rolled the window down. “Hey, Mick. How you doing?”
White-haired and besuited, Mickey Spann had sold life insurance for the past forty years. “Randy, I’ve been trying to reach you. Is your secretary not giving you my messages?”
“I’m sorry, Mick. Just been busy lately.”
Mickey shook his head, but the ever-present grin on his face only widened. “So much like your father. Robert worked like a dog every day of his life.” He paused. “But when he passed, he’d let me set him up so that your momma was taken care of.”
“Mickey, I have the maximum term coverage. I couldn’t get more protection for Mary Alice and Davis even if I wanted
to, right?”
The salesman had a twinkle in his eye. “The company has a new product that would be perfect for you. Permanent coverage that would actually pay a return.” He shrugged. “You’d have to pay a little more now, but you’d start earning interest. Term coverage is great, Randy, but a man of your means needs more.”
A man of my means? I owe a quarter of a million dollars to the hospital in unpaid bills for Graham.
When I didn’t answer, Mickey reached through the window to put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I know you’ve had a tough go of it with your son and then your dad. Your father and I were good friends for thirty years, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him.”
I pictured Dad from my dream the night before. Leaning his head over the steering wheel of the rig. “Me too, Mick.”
“Your father sure would be proud of you,” he said.
“If you say so,” I said. I started to roll up the window, but Mickey stuck his hand in the opening to block it. “Mick, I need—”
“He would be,” Mickey said, his voice firm. I had rarely if ever heard anger creep into Mickey Spann’s voice, but there was a twinge of it in his tone now. I looked up at the man, who had to be at least eighty-five years old. Long past retirement age, but still peddling life insurance as if every customer might be his last. “One of the last times I saw him, when hospice had come into his and your mom’s house, he told me something that I want you to hear.”
I sighed. “What?”
“That he didn’t think he’d been a great father.”
I almost laughed, but held it in. “Really?”
Mickey nodded. “Said he had been too harsh. Not enough hugs.” His face curved into a sad smile. “I’m a Stephen Minister at the church, and I hear that a lot from people, especially older men who regret not being better to their children. He said he had tried to do well by you, but that he didn’t think you knew how much he respected you.” Mick’s voice began to shake with emotion. “How much he loved you.”
The Golfer's Carol Page 4
