The Perfectly Good Lie Page 12

  “I studied physical therapy in college,” she said.

  “And I thought you were being friendly.”

  Silently, she inspected his fingers individually and then slowly felt her way over the mounds and lines and edges of his palm.

  When she let go of his hand, he asked, “So, what’s the prognosis?”

  Without answering, she went over his right hand in the same meticulous and sensuous process.

  Buck felt suspended in a soothing, tranquil space as her fingers floated across his skin, and the feeling lingered when she said, “I feel a little roughness on your right index finger.” She pressed into the spot. “Right here.”

  “Do you think it’s fatal, doctor?”

  She laughed, and turned over his hand as though she was a palm reader.

  “I see a bright future for you, Mr. Buchanan.”

  Then her voice shifted into a difference cadence. “But you need to realize that the choices you make off the course are as important as the ones you make on the course.”

  She let go of his hand. “If you overwork yourself and Art, you won’t last the season.”

  “I need the points to keep my card,” Buck said.

  “Try to strike more of a balance, otherwise the points won’t come. Believe me.”

  And he did believe her except they were leaving tomorrow and he wanted to bring that calm confidence she had with him to Tucson.

  “Buck.” She picked up his 1-iron. “I have an early morning.”

  “What time do we need to be out of here?”

  “I have to leave by seven, but you can leave later.”

  “No, we need to get on the road too.”

  “Well, it’s been a long day. Would you like to take a key with you tonight?”

  “Nah. It’s late now.” He took the 1-iron from her. “I think I’ll stay out here for a little longer, if that’s okay?”

  “Certainly. Lock up when you come in. Goodnight.”

  Buck stayed on the green where a vision began to form in his mind. He could find a place like this, a landing spot to recharge and regroup. He could figure out how to balance his schedule somehow, find a rhythm that worked for Art and him.

  He putted under the light of the moon for a while longer and then went inside. Art was still on the sofa, playing with Gigi.

  Buck sat on the sofa. “Hey.”

  “What do you want?” Art didn’t move his eyes away from the screen.

  “Nothing. Just thought I’d hang out for a while.”

  “Then why’d I have to get the keys for you?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  Art ignored him and Buck watched the screen where Gigi was in a kitchen.

  After a few minutes, Buck asked, “We had fun at the beach, didn’t we?”

  Art kept his attention on the simulation, but said, “I had my own room there. I liked that.”

  “Chipping balls into the surf was fun. You had a good time chasing after them.”

  Art shrugged his shoulder.

  Buck sighed and rose to his feet.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” he said. “I want to be on the road by seven.”

  Buck walked to the guest room. There, he undressed and climbed into bed, letting his thoughts drift down the hall and through the closed door and into Carla’s bedroom. There’d been no invitation, so why did he feel an attraction? However vague the signal had been, he knew it had happened.

  It might be something more than simple biology, though. Chemistry, magnetic energy, whatever it was, in the safe confines of the room, with the dim light seeping through the blinds, he allowed himself to consider the possibility that maybe he could be the man Carla thought he was.

  #

  “I don’t want to leave today.” Art was on the sofa, burrowed under a blanket. It was just after six o’clock. “I want to stay here.” Art tugged the blanket over his head.

  “We can’t.”

  “But I like it here.”

  Buck’s bag was by the front door, his clubs all buttoned up and ready for the ride to Tucson.

  “C’mon.” Buck nudged Art’s shoulder. “Carla is leaving at seven.”

  Art ripped the blanket off and bolted upright. “She didn’t tell me that.”

  Carla appeared from the hallway. She was in a Zinger golf shirt, slacks, and a sweater over her shoulders, her hair swept up off her neck.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you both sleep well last night?

  “I slept very well, thank you,” Art said.

  Carla smiled at him but kept walking toward the kitchen.

  Buck moved behind the sofa and took Art by the shoulder, pushing him to his feet. He steered Art towards the guest room. “Do whatever you need and be quick about it.”

  Art lumbered away a few steps and then he wheeled around. “Carla, can I make pancakes for breakfast again?”

  Carla returned to the living room.

  “No Art. Go get dressed,” Buck said. “And all this electronic stuff needs to be unplugged and packed or you’re leaving it here.”

  “Hey.” Art’s eyes lit up and he put his index finger in front of his lips for a moment. “Buck, you could practice golf on my Xbox. We don’t need to leave.”

  “Knock it off, Art.” Buck gave an I-told-you-so look in Carla’s direction.

  Art lifted his chin, his eyes fluttering and his neck and head trembling. “But I don’t want to leave here, ever.”

  Carla mouthed, “I’m sorry” to Buck.

  Art stomped to the sofa. “I’m not leaving.” He sat down and folded his arms across his chest. Buck knew the routine. Art wasn’t going to budge an inch until he got something, not necessarily what he wanted, but something.

  Carla went to Art, and bent down on her knee at his side.

  “Art, I have to leave now.” Her voice was soft and soothing. “See, I made a commitment to someone, so now I have a job to do, even if I maybe wanted to stay home.”

  Art relaxed his arms. “You want to stay here with me today?”

  Carla sat on the sofa, close to Art. “You know Buck depends on you. He said you’re a very good caddie.”

  “He did?” Art squinted at Buck. “Then, how come he’s mean to me?”

  Carla glanced up at Buck.

  “I’m not mean,” Buck said.

  “Yes you are.” Art pointed at the television. “You walk in front of the screen all the time.”

  “I only do it when I have to.”

  “You call me names, too. I don’t like that.” Art’s voice didn’t have the same stubborn conviction in it.

  Carla took his hand. “I’m sure that Buck will try to be nicer now that he knows how you feel.”

  “Can I live here, please? I have money.” Art looked down, and then gave a furtive glance toward Carla. “You could be my girlfriend.”

  Buck clenched and unclenched his fists. “Cut it out, Art. You’re out of bounds.”

  That seemed to make Art dig in deeper. He glared at Buck. “Shut up!”

  “You’ll always be welcome here.” Carla squeezed Art’s hand. “If you go with Buck and help him then maybe real soon you can come for another visit.”

  Art pulled his shoulders up to his ears, beaming.

  Carla quickly glanced up at Buck.

  “I think Buck needs you very much. Maybe you could ask him for a favor, something you might like. What would it be?”

  Art cast his eyes sideways again. “Can I kiss you?”

  “No!” Buck said.

  Carla leaned over and gave Art a peck on the cheek. “How’s that?”

  Art’s face flushed and he squeezed his shoulders up to his ears again, this time with a wide, sheepish grin on his face. She ruffled his hair.

  Art then glared at Buck, and his smile turned to a snarl. “You can’t kiss her.”

  “Are you done?”

  “She’s my girlfriend now.” Art rose to his feet. Looking at Carla, he said, “We can go on a date when I come back. I could
take you to the mall and buy you a ring.”

  Carla stood up. “Instead of buying me a ring, you know what I’d really like?”

  “What? I’ll get it for you.”

  “I’d like you stop at the mall and find a comfortable athletic support.”

  “Okay. What is that?”

  “It’s a jock strap.”

  Art looked at Carla. “Why do you want one?”

  Carla suppressed a smile. “Not for me. For you. To wear it during a tournament. It’ll help you be comfortable.”

  Art frowned. “But those things are nasty.”

  Carla lifted her eyes to Buck. “Well, maybe you could find one that isn’t nasty. Could you try to do that for me?”

  “Can we go to the movies the next time I’m here?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  Now Art turned to Buck as though all was forgotten and forgiven. “When are we coming back?”

  “Not ever if you don’t get your stuff packed and in the van.” Buck knew he sounded like a jealous old maid giving orders.

  Art ran to gather his bags from the guest room.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Buck said to Carla.

  “You warned me.”

  “You know he’ll bug the shit out of me to come back.”

  “Try to give me a few days notice this time.” She laughed.

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done,” Buck said.

  Art reappeared with his duffle bag and started unhooking the Xbox. Within a few minutes they were out the door. Buck led the way.

  Art was behind him. “I’m not driving.”

  “I have the keys anyway.” Buck opened the back of the van and stowed the gear inside. After that Art climbed up to the rooftop carrier.

  Buck sat behind the wheel. He started the engine and rolled the window down, resting his forearm in the open window.

  Carla came nearer. “You’ll do well this week.”

  Buck nodded, feeling that he was just another golf student—a rehab—in her eyes.

  “Keep you feet on the ground and your eye on the target.”

  “Right.” Buck stretched the seat belt across his chest. All the magic of last night had disappeared and he was ready to be gone.

  Art pressed his face to the window as they drove away, but he was asleep before they reached the end of her street.

  Buck was grateful for the solitude.

  Over the mountain ridge to the east, the sun rose in a murderously low angle. Despite sunglasses and the visor, a blinding spotlight kept blocking Buck’s view of the street. It was impossible to see where he was headed, and he slowed the van to a crawl. At each curve in the road, he shifted in his seat to avoid the glare of the sun.

  Buck should have been angrier about Art’s tantrum, especially after all the work he’d done to force Art to grow up. He let the kid sleep until they entered the main road out of town. There was a McDonald’s on the corner. Buck turned into the drive-thru. Now he had a legitimate reason to thump Art on the head, so he did.

  “What do you want to eat?” Buck asked.

  Art mumbled incoherently.

  “C’mon big boy.” Buck shoved Art’s shoulder. “We’re at McDonald’s. What do you want?”

  Art snapped to attention. “A number three and a milk. Don’t forget the Dr. Pepper.”

  Art inhaled his breakfast and then crawled through the opening between the front seats, crashing on the mattress. Within a few minutes he was snoring loudly.

  Buck forged ahead onto the interstate. The silent rumble of the road eased his mind. Leaving usually felt like a fresh start, a clean slate, the breathing room where positive thoughts could flourish. This time though, there was something else.

  Over the next few miles, the feeling of being connected to Phoenix, to Carla, grew stronger, cycling through images of the weekend until it took on a clear vision of his 1-iron on the patio.

  He’d left it by the rack of putters last night.

  Quickly, he searched ahead for the next exit. By now, Carla would have left the house. He could easily run through the back gate to retrieve Leon’s 1-iron. Art might not even wake up. But what if he did? Was it worth the risk of Art refusing to leave? It was probably Art’s hissy fit that had made Buck forget it.

  No way he could risk returning for it now. It would be safe with Carla and he’d retrieve it, maybe make a detour after Tucson. But he worried another trip so soon might make Art impossible.

  He turned on the radio and found a country-western station.

  A couple of songs later, he was barreling along when out of the blue, Art poked his head between the seats and asked, “I know there are more things you’re supposed to do with a girlfriend. Am I going to do them with Carla?”

  “Don’t pin your hopes on Carla. She might not feel the same about you.” Buck glanced in the rear view mirror. “What about Gigi?” he asked.

  Art climbed into the passenger seat. “Gigi’s not real.”

  “Duh,” Buck said. “What about that cute girl in your foursome yesterday. I saw her smiling at you.”

  “Roberta? But when I think about her, it feels funny. Like my stomach hurts.” Art scrunched up his face.

  “Are you sure it’s your stomach?”

  They were halfway to Tucson when billboards advertising a shopping mall sprouted up along the freeway. Buck took the exit, crossed over the freeway, and drove to the parking lot in front of a large department store.

  They headed straight to the men’s department.

  A salesman approached Buck. Art stood next to him, engrossed in a video game on his phone.

  Buck tilted his head toward Art. “He refuses to wear a jock strap, but he needs something.”

  The salesman surveyed Art in jeans and the oversized t-shirt. “What sport does he play?”

  “He’s a caddie and he can’t be rearranging his balls in a tournament.”

  “Oh, I see.” The salesman looked at Art. “Does it tend to get swampy down there?”

  Buck poked Art on the shoulder. “Pay attention. The guy asked if you’re getting sweaty around your balls.”

  “No. They get tangled up.”

  “I think I might have something.”

  Buck and Art followed the salesman to a display rack on the back wall.

  “I sell a lot of these to older men complaining about their balls banging against their knees.” The salesman took a packet down, opened it and demonstrated a drawstring that adjusted the size and form of the testicle pouch.

  “How much?” Buck asked.

  “Seventy-five dollars.”

  “For one pair?

  The salesman shook his head. “They’re not cheap.”

  “Can he try them on before I buy it?”

  “He’ll have to keep his undergarment on.”

  “Did you hear that? You try them on over your briefs.”

  The salesman led Art to a dressing room. Buck stood outside the door.

  After a minute, Buck knocked. “Do you have them on?”

  “Don’t come in!”

  “Then you come out.”

  “I don’t have my pants on,” Art said.

  “Just tell me if they fit you.”

  “I like them.”

  The door opened and Art stepped out fully clothed. Buck told him to walk around for a while, like he was trying on a new pair of shoes. He had Art bend over, twist around, bounce on his toes, and wiggle his hips.

  The salesman joined them. “How do they feel?”

  “It works.” Art grinned.

  “Hallelujah. Give me two pairs,” Buck said. Then he turned to Art. “I’m spending a hundred and fifty dollars of your money. You better wear them.”

  “It’ll be a little more than that with the sales tax,” the salesman said.

  “You’ve got no excuse now, Art. No more scratching your balls in public.”

  “Maybe it’s not the underwear.” The salesman winked at Buck. “He might have a different kind of itch to s
cratch.”

  Buck had been ignoring the not-so-subtle references to kissing girls, hoping the kid would figure it out on his own. But the infatuation with Carla proved otherwise. Art wasn’t capable of taking the next step without some assistance.

  Was getting laid the next lesson in the education of Art Rimlinger?

  CAsual wAtEr

  The Lone Wolf course cut into a southern slope on the Tortolitas range northwest of Tucson. A few years earlier, the PGA held a match play tournament here, but the event bombed when it snowed and had to be cancelled after the first day. The only reason the tour was back this year was because the venerated Pacific Pines Club near San Diego was under renovation after a mild earthquake made the course unplayable.

  In a scramble to put together an alternate West Coast event, Lone Wolf was added to the schedule. It would not be as well attended, nor would the event draw the top players, which could open up a break-through opportunity for a player like Buck.

  By early afternoon on Sunday, he and Art were on the No. 1 tee. The sharp, ragged peaks of the Tortolitas hovered to the north, like a westward leaning battalion of sharp, rigid soldiers marching toward Mexico.

  The course itself was an awesome sight. Lush green fairways meandered through pristine desert, guarded by giant, sentry-shaped saguaros. It felt and looked otherworldly.

  Art stood with a clean notebook in one hand and the range finder in the other.

  “Should I draw in those scary cactus?”

  “They are intimidating, aren’t they?” Buck said. “Draw the ones that could come into play. There’s not enough room to put them all in.”

  The setting inspired a renewed sense of gratitude in Buck. He felt privileged to be here and it was easy to tune out all the background noise, the other players in the foursome, the pre-tournament buzz in the air, and the drama of last week, Art’s tantrum this morning included.

  Buck’s entire past fell away when he turned his attention to the wide, undulating strip of fairway waiting for his drive.

  He said to Art, “We’re rockin’ and rollin’ now, buddy.”

  There were plenty of punches to roll with because every hole held a hidden bunker, blind approaches, or sand traps deep enough to swallow an army tank. The greens were practically three-dimensional, with more tiers than a pyramid scheme; subtle breaks he couldn’t see until his ball skidded off line.