Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Peeled grapes, huh?” Doak mused. “I never heard that was good for bad backs. I’ll hafta remember that. Peeled grapes.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so I left.

  Chapter 10

  THE PRESSROOM WAS ABUZZ all morning. I wrote and filed a terse report on Turnbull’s death, then worked intermittently on a background piece. My editor thought the story had possibilities.

  “Can you dig up any dirt on this Turnbull?” he wondered. “You know...drugs? Women? Maybe he cheated at golf once or twice.”

  I sighed into the telephone and told the dumbass that John Turnbull was just a few points shy of qualifying for sainthood.

  “C’mon, Hacker,” he cajoled. “Where’s that reporter’s instinct? Guy running around on a golf course in the middle of the night is not a Boy Scout. I want you to find out what gives with this story. I can smell a Pulitzer.”

  I refrained from telling him what I smelled every time I talked to him. Job security and all that. Billy Corcoran came rushing in to announce an official press conference for 11:00 A.M. and then rushed out again. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen and a pure breeding ground for a peptic ulcer. My compatriots were doing what I was: reducing John Turnbull’s life into a handful of short, pithy paragraphs, using the PGA Tour press guide as the Baedeker to this person’s life. I could overhear snippets as some of the other reporters called in their stories.

  “...win at Honda earlier this year heralded his emergence from anonymity...”; “...had an excellent amateur record while in college, winning –”; “...leaves behind a grieving widow, age thirty-one.”

  There was a good deal of speculation about John Turnbull’s last hours on earth. “Okay...what do you think he was doing out there in the middle of the night?” Corky Willingham of the L.A. Times asked aloud, to nobody in particular.

  “Woman.”

  “He was drunk.” “Checking pin positions.” “Fishing.”

  “Getting away from the wife for a few minutes. Women can be such godawful nags.”

  “Star-gazing.”

  “He dropped a quarter during the shootout and was trying to find it.”

  Yes, most of us were being cynical. That’s how we usually deal with tragedy. Repression and cynicism. Otherwise, we’d probably go nuts.

  Corky looked over at me. “No opinion, Hacker?” he chided.

  “Fresh air,” I said. “He needed some fresh air.”

  Corky snorted. “That wins the prize for the lamest guess yet. Personally, I think Finchem had him offed. Got rid of yet another blond clone clogging up the tour these days.”

  Like I said, cynicism rules the press room.

  “C’mon,” Corky said. “Let’s go hear the official police version.”

  We dutifully filed into the interview room and took a seat in the rows of chairs facing a slightly raised stage. Two TV crews were already in there, setting up their tripods, lights and running microphones to the podium on the stage.

  Bart Ravenel came striding in and took one of the three chairs set up behind the podium, along with tournament director Ned Barnacle, impeccable as always in his gray flannel trousers and double-breasted blue blazer. They were followed by Billy Corcoran, trying to tuck in his flapping shirt tails, straighten his necktie and plaster down his flyaway hair style while he waited for a signal from the television crews that they were rolling. I noticed Doak Maxwell hovering in the background standing along the wall. He seemed to be furtively looking for someone famous.

  The TV guys nodded and Barnacle stood up and began to speak.

  “Thanks for coming,” he started. “As you know, we’ve suffered a terrible tragedy in the PGA Tour family this morning with the death of John Turnbull, one of the tour’s brightest up-and-coming stars. Our hearts and prayers go out to his wife and his family. I’ve got a couple of announcements and then we’ll take some questions.”

  He consulted his notes. “First, there will be a memorial service this evening and everyone is invited to attend. The Reverend Ed Durkee will officiate. Second, in deference to this terrible tragedy, and to allow the local police to complete their work out on the golf course, today’s pro-am will be postponed. We’re planning a shotgun start at 2:00 P.M. Finally, the Player’s Board has asked me to announce that the tour membership, which is all the players, has voted unanimously to donate ten per cent of this week’s purse, or $120,000, to a special fund for Mrs. Turnbull.”

  He waited while we all wrote this down. “Now, I think I’ll let Lieutenant. Ravenel tell you what he knows, and then we’ll take your questions. Lieutenant?”

  Bart Ravenel stood up in front of the microphone. He waited while photographers crowded in and flashes exploded. “Right now,” he said finally, “We don’t have a whole lot of information you don’t already know. We are conducting a preliminary investigation into Mr. Turnbull’s death to discover how this tragic accident occurred. As soon as we have some hard information, we will, of course, release it to the press.”

  “Are there any conclusions as to what Turnbull was doing when he died?” Corky Willingham asked, throwing me a sideways wink. Ravenel looked down. “Not at this time,” he said in flat officialese. “We are attempting to retrace Mr. Turnbull’s steps prior to the accident in order to gain some understanding of that.”

  “Will there be an autopsy?” I asked.

  Ravenel seemed to squirm. “South Carolina law requires a forensic laboratory report in all cases involving accidental or suspicious deaths,” he said carefully. “That procedure will be carried out this afternoon as required, and said report from the medical examiner will be filed within 48 hours.”

  “You said ‘suspicious,’” piped in one of the TV guys. “Is there any indication of foul play in this death?”

  “No,” Ravenel said flatly.

  “Lieutenant,” purred one of the other TV reporters, a short woman with straight black hair. “Is there any indication of drug or alcohol abuse that might have contributed to this accident?”

  “No,” Ravenel said. “The medical examiner’s report will let us know if there was anything in the victim’s system, however.”

  Ned Barnacle jumped up and grabbed the microphone. “Those of you who follow the tour regularly know that drug use is virtually nonexistent on tour. Besides which, John Turnbull was one of the most outstanding and upright members of our family, just a fine young man. I don’t want to sound overly righteous, but I think we ought to let the authorities complete their investigation without interjecting these absurd conjectures, and in the meantime mourn the loss of a truly fine athlete and sportsman. And I just want to add that I think the players’ selfless gesture of financial support is truly laudatory and an indication of the closeness that exists between these fine competitors.”

  Barnacle had succeeded in numbing us into submission and the press conference quickly concluded. The TV folks clamored for their six-second stand-ups and sound bites, while the rest of us left in search of some lunch. Lt. Ravenel was hauled off to a corner of the room to provide clips for the six o’clock news. I sidled up to Doak Maxell who was reading a copy of the tour’s media guide. I’m sure he was fascinated by reading, say, the names and birth dates of the children of Tom Purtzer. I know I always am.

  “Tell you what, Doak,” I said to him. “I’ll get you a genuine autographed visor from anybody in that book if you’ll get me a peek at the autopsy report on John Turnbull.”

  “Really?” Doak said happily. “Geez, I dunno what to say.” He began thumbing through the book frantically, trying to decide which PGA star’s autograph he’d really like to have.

  “I know what to say,” said a cold voice behind us. “I’d say that sounds suspiciously like an attempt to impede and/or interfere with an official police investigation, which in South Carolina is a felony crime punishable by up to five years’ sentence in the state penitentiary. That’s what I’d say.”

  I turned to face Bart Ravenel. “Hey, c’mon, lieute
nant,” I protested. “That report’s gotta be public information. I’m just trying to get a little jump on the competition.” I motioned at the room full of reporters.

  “You can get your information the same way everyone else does,” he said coldly. “And that’s by waiting until we decide what to give y’all.”

  “Excuse me, Ravenel,” I retorted. “It’s my job to get information, and your job to provide me with it. I think it’s called the First Amendment and unless I missed something in the news, I believe that still exists even down here in South Carolina.”

  We glared at each other for a long moment. “We’ll see,” he muttered and stalked away. “What’s eating his ass?” I wondered aloud.

  Doak Maxell watched his boss leave, started to follow him, paused and looked back at me.

  “The boys downtown want him to wrap this one up fast and quiet and drop it in the bucket,” he said. “He’s still got some questions about what happened, but he’s kinda been tole to file them under ‘Ferget It.’ Kinda gripes his butt, y’know?”

  “Well, tell him that I don’t have to stop asking questions. Maybe we can help each other out here a little.”

  Doak snapped off a smart salute. “Yes-suh!” he said.

  Chapter 11

  GOLF COURSE ARCHITECTS, in recent years, ha v e developed a new concept in design called “stadium golf.” Yet another insult to the traditional idea of using what nature has provided, the stadium golf concept involves heaping up huge artificial mounds of dirt around golf holes for the sole purpose of providing more room for the paying customers to stand to watch golf tournaments. Stadium golf is a gimmick, but it’s one that pays off commercially, and therefore one that’s here to stay.

  Still, I doubt the designer of the Bohicket Country Club realized that his grassy amphitheatre surrounding the eighteenth green would ever be utilized as a chapel, and an oddly appropriate place for John Turnbull’s memorial service.

  In the cool of twilight, players and their families, tour officials, and several hundred other onlookers quietly gathered on the grassy hillocks surrounding the green. The flagstick had been removed and replaced with a simple white cross. Two tall candles flanked the cross. It was eerie and effective and subduing to all; and the serenity of the evening, with the sound of the surf crashing just over the line of sand dunes, sent chills up my spine.

  Becky Turnbull was seated on a chair at the edge of the green, holding tightly to the hands of the two other players’ wives who flanked her. Dressed again in her severe but stylish business suit, she stared straight ahead at the cross and candle tableau.

  The Reverend Ed Durkee, dressed in his funereal black clergyman’s suit, knelt on the green behind the makeshift altar, facing away from the people and back down the eighteenth fairway. He was erect and unmoving, head bowed and hands clasped firmly around a large black-leather Bible.

  Durkee held his dramatic pose for several long minutes while the crowd assembled around the green, buzzing, and finally fell silent. The whir of camera lenses and motor drives broke the silence of the evening. Durkee remained in his prayerful pose until, at some unheard signal, he rose wearily to his feet, turned and faced the crowd.

  “Brothers and sisters in the Lord,” he began in a stentorian preacher’s voice. “Man born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life, we are in death.”

  I hoped to myself that Durkee was quoting Scripture, not sure if I could abide him speaking Olde English.

  “Our brother John was yesterday here among us,” he continued. “Full of life and full of a future filled with hope of success and all the good things of this earth. Today, all that is but a chimera, gone in a flash. We come together tonight, his friends and extended family, not just to mourn his death, but to learn anew the lesson his death teaches us.”

  He paused, his deep-set eyes glaring out at us.

  “We live accidental lives,” he said. “All that we are today can be as nothing tomorrow. Only the Lord knows when he will call us home. It can happen to any of us, at any time. Even here,” his arm swept across the vista of beach and ocean and grass. “Even here in this most peaceful of places, a place of recreation and happiness, our lives are but accidents waiting to happen.”

  He paused and let us all look at the scenery.

  “So what do we do, then? Do we just give up? Wait for the final accident that ends all of our lives to occur? No!” Durkee thundered, his voice growing in timbre. “We must reach out for life, not death! We must be not afraid, but extend both hands to the light. Be not afraid, children of God!

  “Listen to me!” he thundered. “We all work so hard in this life, to provide for our families, to give them the good things of God’s earth. And yet you know it can all end in an instant. So what do you do? You protect your earthly possessions. You provide insurance so that even after death, your loved ones can go on.

  “But what about your heavenly possessions ... your eternal soul? Don’t you want to preserve and protect it against the harshness of the earthly life? Don’t you want to know there is something waiting beyond the grave?”

  He was almost shouting now. The wave of emotion he created broke over the people gathered around the green. Some people stepped back in the face of his intangible force.

  “There is a way! Invest in the Lord! Reach out to our heavenly Father. Follow His teaching! Do His good works! Give to the Lord...Give Him everything and you will be protected both here and again later when you come to see His Heavenly Face.”

  Durkee stopped, shut his eyes tightly and dropped his head down onto his breast. The echo of his last words seemed to reverberate over our heads. It was a powerful bit of preaching, by a man who obviously knew how to reach the people in the balcony.

  After a brief silence, Durkee began to recite the Twenty- Third Psalm, and many of those gathered there joined in with him. I looked over at Becky Turnbull. She was staring down at her hands, folded quietly in her lap. Her eyes were dry. I’ll bet that irritated Ed Durkee, who struck me as the kind of preacher who judged the effectiveness of his funeral orations by the amount of sobs and tears he could draw from the family of the deceased. He had apparently flunked with Becky, who now raised her eyes to stare at the black-clothed preacher.

  As Durkee mumbled his way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I glanced over at a group of players standing together. I recognized them as the most active members of the God Squad, Turnbull’s fellow Golfers for Christ. They all had their heads bowed and eyes shut tightly in prayerful concentration. Except one. Dressed in a white button-down shirt and baggy black pants, this one player suddenly turned on his heels and walked swiftly over the grassy mounds and away from the green.

  I thought about going after him, but once the psalm was finished, a church choir bedecked in flowing white robes suddenly materialized atop one of the dunes a ways down the fairway and began a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace.” It was enough to put lumps in the throats of most of us. When the last harmonies died away on the evening breeze, the Reverend Durkee incanted a benediction and sent us away.

  There was a small reception afterwards back in the clubhouse. All the players gathered there, along with the various “regulars” who followed the tour around the country: rules officials, TV guys, sales reps and press.

  I waited around making small talk with various people I knew until the crowd that had gathered around Becky Turnbull had thinned. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to give her a hug or kiss or just touch her to let her know they shared her grief. Brother Ed hung solicitously in the background, hovering closer to Becky’s elbow and murmuring softly to his cadre of Christian players. Finally, I made it through the crowd and stood in front of her.

  We looked silently at each other for a long moment. “Oh, Hacker,” she finally sighed, her voice a thin waver, and fell into my arms.

  “C’mon,” I
said, “Let’s take a walk.” That was about all my suddenly closed throat would permit me to say.

  Brother Ed coughed, moving in closer.

  “Thanks, Ed, for everything,” Becky said coolly. “My friend will see me home.”

  Durkee threw me a dark glance. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call upon me, Mrs. Turnbull,” he said formally.

  She said nothing in return, but dragged me outside. Arms linked, we walked slowly through the dark, silent with our thoughts.

  “What’s with you and his Holiness?” I asked finally.

  She didn’t respond for a while. Finally, she turned to me. “When I was ten years old,” she said. “We moved to a new town. My folks found a church and we started attending. I signed up for the Angel Choir, because I loved to sing. Those old hymns were my favorites. They were so beautiful, I used to believe that God himself had written them. One year, it was spring I think, we had practiced an anthem to sing before the whole church. I was so excited! Mom bought me a beautiful new dress just for the occasion.”

  She paused, thinking as we continued to walk down the path. “When the day came, we filed into the church and stood in two rows, getting ready to sing. I felt like I had been practicing for years. Then, just before we started, the minister, a big, old scary guy in his scarlet robes...he always scared the hell out of us kids ... he came over and pulled me out of the line.”

  Becky Turnbull’s voice was suddenly filled with tears, angry tears of remembrance. “He pulled me out of that line of little girls, in my beautiful, brand new dress, and announced to the whole church that I was not supposed to sing with the choir because I had not yet been baptized. He made it sound like I was unclean or something. Hadn’t been baptized.” Tears were running down Becky Turnbull’s cheeks now. “I ran home and from that day to this, I have never set foot in a church again. And I never will.”