Now it was me who took a step forward, and I stuck my finger in the golfing legend’s chest. “When my son, Graham, died . . . that was as bad as it seemed. You are wrong, Bob.”
His gaze never left mine. “I know, Randy.” His voice was lower now. “When I lost the use of my legs . . . that was as bad as it seemed. I know it doesn’t compare to the loss of a child, but I spent the last two decades of my life in back pain and my final fifteen years in a wheelchair.” He again paused, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He took one out and placed it in his mouth but didn’t light it. “Do you know how that felt? For a man like me, who had been the greatest golfer in the world, to not be able to play the game I loved?” Bob struck a match and lit the cigarette. “To not even be able to walk?”
I shook my head but didn’t say anything. My thoughts now were on my son, and I was back in the hospital room. I could hear the monotone drone of the flatline and could feel the shadow of my father in the corner. Mary Alice’s screams reverberated in my temples.
Bob took a puff on his cigarette. “Randy, on the day that the doctors told me I’d never walk again, the sun still set in the west. People worked their jobs. Ball games were played, and men and women fell in and out of love.” He narrowed his gaze. “The same things also happened when Graham died. Life still went on. And though a few things are indeed as bad as they seem, life will always go on. It doesn’t stop for me or you or anyone else.” He sighed. “It just keeps coming.”
I blinked tears from my eyes. “Not for me,” I said. “When this bizarre dream finally ends, life is not going to go on for me.”
“Randy, I understand that you are in a rut right now—”
“A rut?” I spat the word. “My bankruptcy is imminent; my marriage is on the rocks and I’m worth more to my wife and daughter dead than alive.” I ground my teeth together. “Graham is dead, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help him. My father is dead, and I never ever made him proud of me.” I paused and turned to the window, but the people below were gone. As was the light.
All I saw now was darkness.
I want to die, I thought, closing my eyes. For several seconds, perhaps even a minute, the room went silent. I no longer could feel Bob’s presence, nor could I smell the scent of nicotine. When I felt a breeze on my face, I opened my eyes. When I did, my stomach tightened, and I let out a gasp. I was standing on the edge of the Tennessee River Bridge. I still had on my golf spikes, and I didn’t dare move, knowing that any misstep could cause me to lose my balance.
“I think you’re wrong.” I heard Bob’s voice from behind me, but I didn’t turn toward it. “I don’t think that’s what you want at all,” he continued. “I think you’re scared. Afraid that I might be right. That life does go on.”
Despite my predicament, I felt anger burning inside me. Where did this ghost get off talking to me like that? I turned my head and when I did, my right foot slipped on the ledge. My spikes shot out from under me, and I landed hard on the ground. Then I began to slip off the ledge. At the last moment, my fingers found purchase, and I gazed up at Bob.
“You’re fighting awful hard to stay on this bridge for someone planning to jump.”
I opened my mouth to refute him, but before I could get the words out, I lost my grip and began to fall backward. As I hurtled toward the river below, the ghost of Bobby Jones was no longer visible. All I could see was the gray sky above as I braced for contact. I reached my hands out, for what I have no idea.
At the last moment, I flinched and closed my eyes.
15
My eyes opened with a jolt. Where was I? Was I dead? I thought of Bobby Jones’s last words to me. You’re fighting awful hard to stay on this bridge for someone planning to jump. And then I’d lost my balance.
Slowly I took in my car. What am I doing in my car? I glanced out the front windshield and noticed that I was in the parking lot of the old Monrovia Golf Course. The clubhouse trailer was just as it had been when I pulled up . . . when? I grabbed the latch on the door and climbed out of the car. My legs felt rubbery as I tried to get my bearings. It wasn’t quite dark, but there was very little light. Have I been in this car the whole time? I had pulled into the lot when? Nine o’clock? Nine thirty in the morning?
I glanced at my watch. Seven thirty. I leaned my backside against the car, taking note of my clothes. I was back in the coat and tie I had worn this morning. Gone were the golf shirt and slacks that I had magically changed into before entering the trailer and the enchanted world of East Lake and Bobby Jones. I moved my eyes around the empty parking lot. It was getting dark. I looked past the trailer to the flat fairways of the old Monrovia Golf Course, thinking of the round of golf I’d played and the lesson that Bobby Jones had tried to convey. Four heroes . . . four rounds . . .
I took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Self-control,” I said out loud, as I watched the sun set. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Darb,” I whispered, plopping down into my car and shutting the door. For almost a minute, I sat behind the wheel, listening to the engine and going over the round with Jones and some of the flashbacks he’d shared with me.
I had to admit it was fascinating seeing the great Bobby Jones in such bad shape after throwing his club and when he quit at St. Andrews. It made me feel a little better that a champion like Jones had struggled with controlling himself.
But he recovered, I thought, putting the car in gear and easing out of the parking lot. Bobby Jones had won thirteen majors from 1923 to 1930. He had retired after winning all four major titles—the Grand Slam—in 1930. He stopped beating himself . . .
As I reached Highway 72, I pondered where I should go. I had started this trek in the morning with the intention of jumping off the Tennessee River Bridge. But now, after the round with Bobby Jones, I felt tired and unsure of myself. Plus, I almost felt like I had already jumped once today, given the way the dream with Jones had ended. I don’t want to do it in the dark, I thought, turning left to go home.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
16
At eight fifteen p.m., I pulled into my driveway. Mary Alice’s station wagon was in its customary place in the carport, and I parked next to it. As I got out of the car, I noticed Davis’s rust-colored Jeep, her pride and joy, parked on the curb. Over the past two years, she had mowed lawns and babysat kids in the neighborhood, scrounging together enough money to buy the vehicle when she turned sixteen. When I wasn’t home yet, Davis always parked on the street.
I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such a hardworking, conscientious, and dependable kid. I’m going to secure her future tomorrow.
I entered my home and breathed in the scent of hamburger meat and onion rings. I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, smiling at the sack of Burger King on the kitchen counter. Sometimes Davis had to have her fast-food fix after golf practice.
As I walked into the back den, I saw my daughter sitting in my leather chair. She got out of it without being asked, her eyes glued on the TV.
“Where’s your mom?” I asked, sitting heavily in the chair and taking a long sip from the stubby Michelob Light bottle.
“In bed, I think,” Davis said.
“Already?”
“She may be in the bathroom. She’s sick. She was throwing up when I got home from practice.”
“I better go check on her,” I said, setting down the beer. Before I got up, I looked at my daughter. Sitting on the couch with her hair tied up in a ponytail, Davis bore a striking resemblance to a younger version of Mary Alice. I managed a tired smile. “How was practice?”
“Played nine holes with only irons. Shot two over.”
“That’s not bad.”
She shrugged. “Not good, either.”
“What’s the word from Augusta?”
Davis shrugged. “Jack shot seventy-
four. Sounds like he hit the ball well but didn’t make any putts.”
I snorted. “How could he? With that broom he’s putting with. Who’s winning?”
“Ken Green shot sixty-eight. I’ve never heard of him. Norman is two back and so are Kite and Watson.”
I sighed. “Oh well.”
“Jack’s still got a chance, Dad,” Davis said, but I waved her off as I walked out. No way, I thought.
I entered the bedroom, but Mary Alice wasn’t in bed. I knocked on the closed bathroom door a couple of times. “Honey? Are you okay?” When she didn’t answer, I peeked inside.
My wife was in a bathrobe on her knees with both arms around the toilet. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, she leaned over the opening and vomited.
I stepped into the room and placed my hand gently on the back of her neck, caressing the skin. “Honey?”
She wiped her mouth but didn’t look at me. “I think I have food poisoning,” she managed, as she coughed and heaved again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her back and wishing there were something I could say or do to make things better.
“Please go,” she whimpered, pushing my hand off her back before leaning forward and vomiting again.
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“Please, Randy!” she cried, and then covered her mouth with her hands, her upper body shaking. “Please,” she repeated.
I stepped away from her, watching my wife grit her teeth against the next bout of nausea. The scene reminded me of all the times in the last three years that I’d seen Mary Alice crying on the couch or in the bed, and all I could do was stand there, unsure of how to reach her.
I can’t help her, I thought. With this . . . with the loss of Graham . . . with anything . . .
I shut the door to the bathroom and leaned my forehead against it. “What did you eat?” I asked.
“My mother brought over some meat loaf for lunch.”
“Ahh,” I said, and smiled despite myself.
“Oh, shut up. Don’t you dare say anything smart.” She continued to talk, but her words were drowned out by the sound of the commode flushing. All I was able to hear was, “. . . you know she means well.”
“Are you sure there’s not anything I can do for you? Need some water?”
“No. I’ve just got to get this mess out of my system. I think Davis picked you something up from Burger King.” She coughed. “Where have you been? Did work run late?”
“Yeah. Long day at the office.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and I winced. Here was my wife, puking her guts out, and she was sorry about my hard day. A cloak of guilt enveloped me.
“A letter from the hospital came,” she said. “I put it on the coffee table in the living room.”
I closed my eyes. “Did you open it?”
Another cough followed by a few sniffles. “They said suit would be filed in two weeks if we haven’t paid.” Then she heaved again.
“Don’t worry about it, okay, hon,” I said, seeing an image of the Tennessee River Bridge pop into my mind again. “I have a plan.”
“Okay,” she managed.
I turned to go but heard her call out my name. “Randy.”
“Yeah?”
I looked at the door and saw it creak open a few inches. Her pale face was barely visible through the crack. “There’s no way I can go to Darby’s funeral tomorrow. I’m sorry. Can you go?”
Without thinking, I nodded.
“Charlotte mentioned that there was a favor she was going to ask of you. I . . .” Her lip started to quiver. “I’m sorry to make you go by yourself, but—” She abruptly stopped talking and turned away. A second later, I heard the awful sound of her stomach heaving.
“Don’t worry about Darby’s funeral or Charlotte,” I said, raising my voice so she could hear over the flushing toilet. “I’ll take care of it.”
Her only response was a few sniffles and spits and another heave. Damn it, Bee Bee. Even I called Mary Alice’s mother by the pet name that Davis had given her, and the poor woman did mean well, but this wasn’t the first time one of her attempts to “help” had gone awry. I shook my head and trudged back into the living room. When I caught sight of the letter lying on the coffee table, I paused for a second.
I have a plan, I thought. But as I remembered the crazy dream I’d been thrust into today and the funeral I’d be forced to attend tomorrow, I wondered if that was true anymore. Then, as I eased into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, I heard the ghost of Bobby Jones again in my ear. His voice was soft but firm. You’re fighting awful hard to stay on this bridge for someone planning to jump.
Second Round
17
The funeral of Reginald Darby Hays took place at noon the following day at the Trinity United Methodist Church of Homewood, a suburb of Birmingham. I arrived fifteen minutes early and immediately noticed Charlotte at the front of the sanctuary. At thirty-four years old, Charlotte Hays was six years younger than me and a decade Darby’s junior. She and Darby had met at a tour stop in Naples, Florida, about ten years earlier. “Randolph, Ms. Charlotte is the most striking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Darby had told me afterward, and he hadn’t been lying. Even now, at the funeral of her husband and wearing a long black dress fit for mourning, Charlotte Hays stood out with her auburn hair, fair skin, and tall, athletic frame. I strode down the aisle, hoping to give her a hug before the ceremony began. When she caught my eyes, she stepped around a couple of people and fell into my arms. “Oh, Randy. He loved you so much.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Mary Alice would have been here, but she is home with a terrible stomach bug.” I paused. “I’m really going to miss him.”
She nodded and bit her lip. “You know you were his best friend. He . . . really didn’t have that many friends.”
I snorted. “Darby was the pied piper, Charlotte. He never met a stranger. He had more friends than I could ever count.”
Charlotte’s hazel eyes glistened, and she shook her head. “No. He didn’t.”
Before I could respond, the preacher pulled her away. “We need to go over the final details, Mrs. Hays,” he said.
Charlotte looked at me. “Find me afterward. I . . . hope you will do something for me. Please?”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything.”
* * *
—
The ceremony was short and sweet. The Lord’s Prayer was recited; Darby’s niece sang “Amazing Grace”; the pastor said a few words of greeting to “celebrate the life of Reginald Darby Hays”; and, finally, Darby’s younger brother, Cliff, did the eulogy, telling some old family stories and providing the general theme, also echoed by the minister, that Darby Hays was a man people looked up to and respected. A fun-loving man who was always the life of the party. A man who would be sorely missed by his family and friends.
I thought Darby would have been proud of his brother’s speech and the turnout. There must have been two hundred people in the church. As the ceremony ended with the singing of “Jesus Loves Me,” which Cliff said was his brother’s favorite hymn, I couldn’t help but think of the ghost of Darby Hays that I had seen in my dream two nights earlier. Of sitting in my friend’s ruined Jaguar. Of hearing how little he had thought of his own life.
I wasn’t going to burden Charlotte with any of it, if indeed Darby’s ghost had told me the truth.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore, I thought, wondering what I had done all day yesterday while I was supposedly playing golf with Bobby Jones and a Scottish caddy named Johnnie. Had I been parked in front of the old Monrovia clubhouse trailer the whole time? Had I really been transported to East Lake and to St. Andrews yesterday?
Am I losing my mind?
It was a fair question. I was seeing visions of dead people. I was blacking out for long pe
riods of time. And, before and during these hallucinations, I was contemplating suicide.
Perhaps it was more than just a fair inquiry. It’s an easy one. I am losing it, there’s no other explanation. I’ve decided to kill myself, and my body and soul are in self-preservation mode. They have jumbled my mind to keep me from going through with it.
As I hummed the closing hymn, I tried to shake off the thoughts. I was grateful that Charlotte would give me a task to occupy my time.
I peered toward the coffin at the front of the church, and my thoughts drifted to the last funeral I had attended. Dad’s service was held graveside with only family and close friends in attendance. I had sat next to my mother, whose demeanor remained stoic throughout the brief sermon and at the reception at my house afterward. She had never let any of us see her cry, thinking, as always, of other people’s feelings instead of her own. Only when I drove her home that night had she finally released a few long-suppressed sobs.
I hadn’t cried at my father’s death or his funeral. The cancer had slowly eaten up his pancreas over the course of nine months and moved into his bones. By the end, he’d lost eighty pounds and was almost unrecognizable as the roughneck bricklayer he’d been during his working life. By then, even Mom, if she’d been given a truth serum, would have said she was relieved when he passed on.
Did I love my father?
I took in a deep breath and rubbed my eyes. The answer was yes. I worshipped him.
Did he love me?
One of my fondest memories of Dad was watching the 1975 Masters together at my house, almost exactly eleven years ago. He had come over to help me finish installing a fence in the backyard, and we had caught the back nine together. There were no mushy moments. No “I love you, son” or “I’m so proud of you, Randy.” We had merely sat on the couch in my living room and watched Jack Nicklaus win his fifth and likely final Masters title together. We were both rooting for Jack, me probably harder than Dad. We had made small talk about the swings of the different players, the beauty of the course, and, of course, Jack’s forty-foot snake of a putt on the sixteenth hole, which won him the championship. We had both risen to our feet to watch that putt. When it went in, I remembered screaming “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. I turned to my father, who had a wide smile on his face. He hadn’t said anything, but he had pumped his fist once.
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