The Perfectly Good Lie Page 2

  One indulgence led to another.

  Inside his head, he envisioned what would happen when he arrived at the hospital. It would go something like this:

  Ruthie would be sitting up in a hospital bed. Buck would have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face when he thrust the trophy into her hands.

  “See. I told you I could do it,” he’d say, and then his mother would break into tears of joy and tell him she’d believed in him all along.

  No. Start over.

  He’d give the trophy to her as a get-well card, a peace offering, and the promise of a new life for both of them.

  She’d quit smoking and get healthy. Pretty soon he’d be making good money and would buy her a house. She and Art would live together and everything would work out.

  Then a deeper wish materialized. His mother would say she’d been tough on him all these years only to make sure he succeeded. That the neglect and negativity had come from a place of love, not indifference.

  #

  Buck missed the exit in a tangle of intersecting loops where I-45 and the 610 crossed paths on the north side of Houston. He wasted a quarter of an hour driving five miles out of the way before he found the visitors parking lot.

  It was one a.m. and the air was mild but damp and misty. With the glass trophy in hand and the rumble of the road still beneath his feet, Buck walked through the door marked Emergency. He felt his heart pumping when he came to a halt, unsure where to go. He’d never been in a hospital before.

  A couple of receptionists sat behind a circular desk with a glass barrier. He asked for Ruthie Rimlinger’s room.

  “Take a seat,” the woman said.

  Buck called Ruthie’s cell. He heard the ring through his phone and then it seemed to echo from across the room. Buck wheeled around and saw Art in the far corner. His head was buried in a video game. The exact same pose Art had been in when Buck last saw him. How long had it been? Two, three years?

  As Buck drew nearer, he could tell that the kid had put on some weight. His hair was darker, although he still wore the same pageboy cut that made him look twelve instead of seventeen.

  When Art saw Buck, his face crumbled. “What took you so long?”

  Art sprang to his feet and grabbed Buck around the waist.

  Before Buck could say anything, a tall, slender woman in scrubs approached them.

  “Are you Mr. Rimlinger?” she asked Buck.

  “He’s Art Rimlinger.” Buck released himself from Art’s embrace.

  She looked at Art. “I’m sorry to tell you that your mother did not survive.”

  A cold shiver went through Buck.

  Art’s eyelids fluttered and he lifted his chin, exposing his throat like a baby bird accepting a worm down its gullet. His head moved rapidly and his throat quivered when he said, “No. It’s a mistake. She’s going into a room. That’s what they told me.”

  “She came through the surgery but there was too much stress on her heart.”

  “What’s that mean?” Fatigue clouded Buck’s head and he couldn’t focus.

  “She lost quite a bit of blood and her lungs were severely damaged.” The doctor hesitated, staring at Buck like he should understand. “A nurse will be here in a minute.”

  “Where’s Momma now?” Art asked as the doctor turned away. “She promised me she’d come home.”

  “Nobody keeps their promises.” It was cold and hard, but the truth was something firm Buck could hold on to.

  The trophy in his hand felt like a chunk of worthlessness. Deprived again, Buck would never have another chance to prove to his mother that he’d succeeded. Against the odds. Against the obstacles, his mother’s indifference being tops on the list.

  A chubby woman in scrubs walked over to them. She had copper-red hair and freckles covered her cheeks and nose. Buck couldn’t help but wonder whether they were related. When you’ve never had a father, you look for him everywhere. It was an ingrained habit and he dismissed the thought.

  The nurse led Buck and Art through heavy double doors and down a dingy hallway. They entered a small room, dark and cold. Ruthie’s body lay on a gurney with a sheet covering everything except her head. The caseworker clicked on the wall lamp, casting deep shadows over Ruthie’s face. The skin along her jawline sagged. For a split second, Buck expected her eyes to open.

  Art moved closer to her, weeping openly now.

  Buck held back.

  Their phone conversations the past few years had been short and stilted, nothing more than obligatory attempts at communication. His mother wasn’t good at most things, but holding a grudge until the end of time was something she excelled at.

  Here it was, the end of time for Ruthie Rimlinger.

  She’d done it to herself, smoking her way through good times and bad, through colds, the flu, and the hacking cough of bronchitis.

  Buck couldn’t stop a sense of impending freedom bubbling up within him. He’d missed the chance for vindication, but now the fight was over, the circle complete, and Nature was moving on.

  Casually, without tragedy or regret or bitterness—rather with a sense of lightheartedness, as though it was the most normal thing in the world—Buck moved closer, bent down, and kissed his mother on the cheek.

  He took Art by the shoulders and tried to turn him away. Instead his brother reached out to hug Ruthie. Art draped his body over hers and started sobbing.

  Buck pulled Art to his feet. “C’mon. We can’t stay here.”

  “You’ll come home now, won’t you?” Art’s cheeks and lips were covered in tears.

  Any sense of freedom Buck had felt moments earlier drained away.

  “For a while,” he answered.

  “You can have Momma’s room.”

  Buck shuddered at the thought. He wanted to turn and walk out, forget he ever had a family, pretend to be an orphan with a clean slate, but when a song popped into his head.

  He Ain’t Heavy, He’s my Brother.

  If only that were true. Not Art. This kid weighted a ton.

  A blind Lie

  They left the hospital around four a.m. and rode in silence to the small, two-story apartment complex. The few visitor parking spaces were already filled. Buck idled the van behind Ruthie’s car.

  “I don’t want to leave the van on the street. Get out and move the car.”

  “I’m not supposed to drive.”

  “Why not?”

  Art lifted his head and exposed his throat, screeching, “I don’t have my license.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  “In her purse upstairs.”

  “Go get them.”

  Even in the dark, Buck could see the gray compact sedan hadn’t been driven in a while; it was covered in dust. The last time he’d been in it, every time Ruthie accelerated, the car had sounded like it was about to cough up a carburetor.

  Buck felt his phone vibrate.

  A text from Denny.

  hope ur mom doing ok

  no go @ phx

  tucson maybe?

  Who sends a text this early in the morning? Someone who didn’t want to talk to you.

  After Buck switched out the cars, he took his golf bag from the rear of the van and gave his duffle to Art.

  “Do you have lots of money now?” Art asked. “You said you’d be rich after college.”

  “You remembered that, huh?”

  Graduation day. Buck cringed at the memory.

  After the ceremony, Ruthie had insisted on having a late lunch at a buffet in town. Art only put down his Gameboy long enough to shovel food into his mouth.

  Over dessert, Ruthie gave Buck a card with fifty dollars in it and told him, “I want you to come home to Houston and get a job. Art will be going to high school soon. I can’t do it all by myself anymore.”

  “I don’t believe you’re even asking me,” Buck had said. “There’s no way I’m giving up my career.”

  “You can still play your golf.”

  “I won’t be his b
abysitter. If you hadn’t coddled him to death, maybe Dimlinger over there wouldn’t be a total waste of oxygen.”

  Buck could still feel the anger and resentment and the crushing disappointment he’d felt that day. But something else came with it, the uneasy feeling that he could have been a better person.

  While Art turned to unlock the apartment door, Buck said, “Listen, I know I said some shitty things the day I graduated, and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to.”

  “You made Momma cry.”

  “I was mad at her.”

  “You’re always mad.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. That’s why people don’t like you.”

  The door opened. A familiar odor hit him, a distinct mix of ashy perfume, and then was gone in a flash.

  The same yellow dinette set was in the tiny alcove off the kitchen. Plastic pill bottles and piles of paper covered most of the table. Two placemats sat in the open space.

  Buck leaned his golf bag in the corner and then looked at the stack of mail. He lifted the top one, it was an overdue invoice from a medical lab.

  Depressing. He stared at what was left of his mother’s life: a bunch of unpaid bills and medicine that couldn’t save her from herself. The hospital bill would only add to the load. How much would that be? And who was going to pay it? Buck worried that whatever papers he’d signed at the hospital had put him on the hook for Ruthie’s expenses.

  He rifled through the mail. Midway in, he found a letter from the high school. He opened it.

  Art hadn’t been to school for months.

  “Art?”

  Buck went into his old bedroom, the one he’d shared with Art.

  The same twin beds were there but now a large gaming console sat atop the dresser.

  Art wasn’t there. Buck checked the bathroom. Empty.

  The door to Ruthie’s bedroom was closed. As Buck opened it, he half expected to see her in the bed, smoking and reading a trashy paperback romance.

  Art lay on the bed with her pillow pressed to his face.

  Buck stayed in the doorway, holding the letter. “This says you’ve been skipping class.”

  “I had to take care of Momma.”

  Buck wondered how bad it had been, but didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

  After a few moments, he stepped to the closet where Ruthie kept a metal lockbox for her important papers. He hoped to find some life insurance or something in it. But he had his doubts. Even if she’d had money, life insurance wasn’t the sort of thing she would buy.

  When he opened the door, a stronger, more vivid reckoning of his mother came with the powerful scent of perfume and smoke, overwhelming him with a terrible sense of longing. He pressed his face against the hanging clothes and breathed in deep. A pointless gesture. He forced himself to stop and flicked on the light.

  She’d always kept the box on the top shelf, but Buck found it hidden in the back corner on the floor. When he picked it up, something fell from behind. He pushed a wool coat aside and saw Leon’s old 1-iron.

  Buck lifted the club and, with the metal box under his arm, went to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Do you remember the combination?” he asked Art.

  “My birthday. 5-24-01.”

  The box opened. Inside Buck found the title to her car, the marriage certificate for Ruthie and Leon, and the divorce papers. He’d not known they’d officially divorced. Ruthie never talked about Leon.

  There was no life insurance or will, only a savings account booklet with Art’s name and a balance of eighteen thousand dollars.

  “How’d you get this much money?” Buck asked.

  “My dad gave it to me.”

  “Leon? When?”

  It was deeply disturbing to think that Leon had been in contact with Art and yet he’d not bothered to find Buck. Unjust to the core. Art had been only three years old when his father left. To him, Leon was an abstract concept, an inanimate object. There was no bond between them.

  To Buck, Leon was khaki pants, electric razors, and the musky scent of the sweat from being outdoors.

  For years, he’d waited for Leon’s return. But he’d wanted it too much, like a penny he’d rubbed so long and hard it dissolved in his hands.

  “What happened?” Buck asked. “Did he call or something?”

  “He sent it in the mail after he died.”

  “Leon’s dead?”

  No. Ruthie’s death was a shock, but Leon being gone was the crushing blow. It created a wider void, destroying the improbable but irresistible dream that one day they would play a round together.

  Buck’s fingers flew through the lockbox again, this time searching for evidence of Leon’s death, hoping to find something to show Buck had been remembered too. But there was nothing.

  Buck’s heart felt like an anvil dropped on his chest.

  He picked up the 1-iron. His thumb smoothed the loose binding on the grip back in place.

  It had taken him years to break through, and now that it had happened, Ruthie had found a way to get what she wanted. To force Buck to babysit Art. Except Art wasn’t a thirteen-year-old kid anymore. He was a high school dropout with limited skills and zero prospects.

  A chuckle escaped.

  “We need to start clearing out the apartment,” Buck said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t live here by yourself.”

  “You said you’d stay with me.”

  “Not forever.”

  “I have money.” Art sat up, his lower lip jutting out.

  “That’ll last maybe six months. Then what? Nobody’s going to hire you without a diploma. On top of that, if you don’t start showing up at school, they’ll come looking for you. Might even put you in foster care or juvenile detention.”

  Buck knew the last part was an exaggeration, if not an outright lie.

  Art threw back the blanket. “That’s not fair.” He raised his chin and shook his head rapidly, his throat quivering.

  Buck grabbed Art’s shoulder. “You need to stop doing that weird turkey gobble move with your head.”

  “I’m not a turkey.” Art started crying.

  “Quit that too,” Buck said. “I’m not going to sugar coat things for you. You have to grow up.”

  Art sniffed the tears back. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “That’s exactly what I am. Because you need me now.”

  “Well, maybe you need me too,” Art said.

  Buck grunted. “You’re the last person I need. And don’t forget that.”

  #

  Later that morning they were at the back of the van. Buck set his golf bag down to unlock the doors.

  “Is this yours?” Art asked.

  “Of course,” Buck said.

  He’d bought the used cargo van straight out of Baylor, assuming it’d be a short term relationship, thinking he’d rocket onto the tour and soon be flying around in first class. But the van had hung around like a one-night-hookup who wouldn’t leave in the morning.

  He’d bolted a rack for his extra clubs to the bare metal floor.

  With no sponsor behind him, he had the freedom to pick and choose his equipment.

  At this moment, he played a fatheaded driver with an eight-and-a-half loft. He could reach three hundred yards with it, three-twenty if he was pumped. TripleX long irons, hefty muscle-backs with a wide sole; he liked the feel when he cut the grass. No hybrids; he preferred his 3-iron for difficult lies and played Zinger short irons for their superior backspin.

  For putters, he was like an addict: promiscuous in his quest for the latest technology, often falling hard only to be disappointed or distracted by the next new thing.

  Other than Hickenlooper balls, he had no allegiance to any brand.

  Buck placed Leon’s 1-iron in an open slot, as though the space had been waiting for it all along.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and Art settled in beside him.

 
; Art poked his head between the seats into the middle section. A rod with clothes hanging in plastic dry cleaning bags obscured the view into the back. There was a camping mattress stretched out on the floor directly behind the front seats.

  “Who sleeps here?” Art asked.

  “It’s for emergencies.”

  “Do you let girls sleep here?”

  “Not exactly,” Buck said.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I have girls who are friends,” Buck said. “At least for a while.”

  “I have a girlfriend,” Art said.

  “Really? Who is she?”

  “Gigi. Her name starts with a G because that’s a girl letter.”

  “Did you meet her online?”

  Art nodded.

  “Are you sure it’s not somebody yanking your chain? Has she asked you for money?”

  “No. She’s a VR girl.” Art grinned sheepishly.

  “Virtual reality? You mean you have a simulated girlfriend?”

  “She’s real to me,” Art said.

  “Probably for the best.” Buck started the engine. “Because you need a driver’s license if you want to have a real live girlfriend.”

  Art removed a small thin paper from his wallet and handed it to Buck. It was a learner’s permit to drive.

  “Why’d you make me move both cars?” Buck asked.

  Art shrugged.

  Buck looked at the permit. “This expires when you turn eighteen.” He handed it back to Art. “Get out.”

  “No.” Art grabbed ahold of the door handle, crouching like a threatened animal.

  “I’m not ditching you.” Buck opened his door. “I want you to drive.”

  Art’s face lit up. He drove to the nearest Whataburger without incident. They went inside and while they waited for their order, Buck said, “Let’s go hit some balls after this.”

  “What kind of balls?”

  “Golf balls.”

  “I have the Tiger Woods game. We could play in my room.”

  “No. I mean the real deal.” Buck looked at Art. “Matter of fact, I think I have a job for you.”

  “Are you going to trick me like you used to?”

  “No. I’m giving you a job.”

  “What kind of job?”