The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  Pumped full of adrenaline, Buck nearly forgot to wait for Dawson to putt out.

  Dawson bogeyed the hole, making Buck’s birdie even sweeter.

  #

  Don’t accelerate. Keep your head down. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Buck recited the phrases to himself silently as he followed the marshal and the young standard bearers into the tunnel exiting the arena. Halfway through, the marshal stopped abruptly, turned, and approached Buck.

  “We’ve had a complaint about your caddie moving during play.”

  Buck stopped cold. Art nearly bumped into him.

  “Who complained?” Buck asked.

  “Mr. Dawson’s caddie came to me about it,” the marshal said.

  Just then Dawson and his caddie walked up from behind.

  “He’s been jumping around like a monkey all day,” Dawson’s caddie said as they passed by. The words echoed in the tunnel.

  “He’s not a monkey.” Buck stopped himself from calling out, “asshole.”

  “You’ve had a warning, Mr. Buchanan.” The marshal gave Buck a curt nod and walked ahead.

  Buck clenched his fist, resisting the desire to punch the lights out of that baby-faced son-of-a-bitch Dawson. He knew deep down in his core that the complaint was intended to get under his skin. Dawson was being a dick on purpose, intentionally trying to fuck with Buck’s head.

  And it worked.

  From that moment on, his former concentration became a helter-skelter of anger, fear, and the need to strike out, all bouncing around inside his head. Without thinking, he didn’t take a practice swing on the seventeenth tee. His ball found the water. There’d be no saving par on this hole.

  On the eighteenth tee, Buck struggled to relax into his swing but managed to make the green in two without any major mishaps.

  His first putt stopped three feet from the cup. With the end in sight, his vision blurred and he saw no clear line to the hole. He couldn’t fight the impulse to flee any longer. His shoulders and hands collapsed and everything dissolved into a mad rush to get the fuck out of there. In front of the largest crowd he’d ever played before, Buck slapped at the ball without any intention or respect or preparation.

  It skipped off and rolled farther away from the cup.

  It took another two putts to hole out. He’d pissed away his lead over Dawson.

  Buck wanted to run and hide, but etiquette dictated that he wait for Dawson to hole out. In a final insult, Dawson birdied the hole. After that, Buck couldn’t force himself to stick around any longer. He’d puke if he had to shake Dawson’s hand. Buck stalked off the green as soon as he could.

  He rushed through signing his scorecard and kept his head down the whole way to the locker room.

  Buck was afraid if he ran into Dawson, he’d lose his cool—exactly what that dick-head wanted. Buck barely saw the locker as he pulled his gear out and stuffed everything into his duffle bag. He skipped showering or changing; he was taking the dirt and grime and pounding humiliation with him.

  He stomped over to the caddie shack and found Art. Then he headed straight to the parking lot with Art ambling along behind him with the golf bag, oblivious to what had happened. When they passed the media tent, Buck turned his head away and pulled the bill on his cap lower. It wasn’t that he was afraid of talking to a reporter; he’d done that millions of times in his head. But those imaginary interior conversations were about triumph and victory, not about shitting your pants on the eighteenth green.

  What hurt most was that Buck knew the complaint against Art was true, to a point. Art probably was fidgeting when Buck couldn’t see him. It was the damn shirts.

  By the time they reached the van, Buck had calmed down a little. He opened the side door, looking for a clean towel. Lying atop a plastic laundry basket was Art’s jock strap. The idiot hadn’t worn it.

  “Why didn’t you wear this? Huh?” Buck grabbed the jock strap and waved it in Art’s face.

  “I don’t like it.”

  Buck exploded like a volcano spewing hot molten lava. “You goddamn, mother-fucking asshole. I can’t trust you as far as I can see you. You are one hundred percent worthless. You are a total fucking waste of oxygen.”

  Art cowered at the back of the van. He started blubbering. “I want to go home. I want to go home to Momma.”

  It caught Buck off guard and he became aware of people milling around their cars. Buck moved quickly to Art, putting his arm around his shoulder.

  “Shit, stop it. Don’t have a meltdown now.” Buck steered Art to the driver’s door. “Get in. We can’t both lose it at the same time.

  Buck opened the door and pushed Art inside, ignoring the stares.

  He closed up the back of the van, ran around to the passenger side, and jumped in. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Art sniffled while he drove toward the exit.

  Buck felt as though he’d died and left his whole messed-up life out on the eighteenth green to be picked over by vultures. He’d banked everything on Art carrying his bag. What if all that hard work had been for nothing? He couldn’t press rewind and resurrect Ruthie and make Denny his caddie. Couldn’t wave a wand to make Art a mature young man capable of being on his own.

  An ugly question appeared, one that would gnaw at him if it didn’t swallow him whole. Could Buck bounce back quickly enough to keep his card? He had one exemption left. If he didn’t make the cut in Tucson, he’d be back to the pre-quals or the mini-tour.

  “Why did you lie about wearing the jock strap?” Buck asked.

  “It rubs me the wrong way.”

  “I told you to put some powder on it.”

  “I didn’t have any. I’m sorry.”

  Buck shook his head slowly and took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean any of that shit I said, but you just cost us thousands of dollars. Maybe my card.”

  They were stopped at the main road. “Where are we going?”

  “Hotel.”

  Buck sank into the seat, hiding behind his cap.

  It was Art’s fault. He couldn’t keep from hopping around when he was supposed to be a rock at rest. But, face it. Buck had let Dawson fuck with his head. Why hadn’t he just sloughed off the warning? Why couldn’t Buck control his head at the most critical time? And now, now that he was a laughingstock—nobody four-putts on No. 18—how was he going to mentally recover?

  Was the damage permanent? Was it a wound that could heal, or a permanent scar on his psyche?

  Failure bred fear and fear begat hesitation and hesitation was the undoing of every golfer, no matter how skilled, talented, or driven. All it took was one grand, humbling public failure to permanently embed doubt into the recesses of the mind.

  Buck knew he had the physical makings of a pro, but did he have the mental fortitude? The question chewed at his core like a tapeworm. He had to find a tougher mindset to win and fortify those nerves of steel he thought he’d developed. At times he felt so strong, but then something like this happened.

  Thing was, he could imagine the heckling and snide comments in the locker room after he left. And he knew what they were saying, knew exactly the words he’d be saying if it had been anybody else.

  Loser. Choker. Poser.

  Buck had not allowed a moment of consideration to the possibility he wouldn’t make the cut in Phoenix. He looked up the scoreboard on his phone. He’d fallen deep into the bottom half. The final results wouldn’t be in until later, but he knew he’d missed the cut.

  Now what?

  Ground Under Repair

  Buck slid both key cards towards the desk clerk. “Room 227. Checking out.”

  A wrinkled frown appeared on her face. “Did you ask for late check-out?”

  “The room hasn’t been cleaned.”

  “I’ll have to charge you anyway,” she said. “It’ll be a hundred dollars. Because of the season.”

  The room rate was over three hundred a night. With no winnings to cover the credit card bill, Buck couldn’t see paying f
or another night here. There was bound to be something cheaper on the way to Tucson. He’d slept in the van before, he could do it again.

  Punishment was the instinct closest at hand; he needed deprivation, not comfort. Although it didn’t have to include a hundred-dollar late charge.

  Any other time and Buck would have turned on the charm and flirted with her to get what he wanted. Instead, he said, “Listen, we’ll be sleeping in our car tonight. If you charge me that extra hundred dollars, it means my brother and I might not eat.” He said it not for sympathy, but to pull back the curtain and show how wretched his world felt right now.

  “Well, you were here for almost two weeks. I’ll take care of it.” She smiled.

  The tension released from Buck’s shoulders. “First break I’ve had all day.”

  Art waited behind the wheel. “I’m hungry,” he said the minute Buck opened the door. “I wanted to have a sandwich at the caddie shack, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  The thought of food made Buck’s stomach turn. “Well, get used to it. Because if you can’t do a simple thing like wear a jock, you’re not going to eat on a regular basis anymore.”

  Art had changed into a black Pokémon shirt. “Where are we going now?”

  “I don’t know, just drive toward the freeway.”

  Art moved the van toward the exit.

  “Where are we sleeping tonight?” he asked.

  “Don’t know exactly. I might be on at the mattress in the back. I don’t know where you’ll be.”

  “That’s mean, Buck.”

  “No more mean than you costing us the tournament.”

  “I already said I was sorry.” Art’s face broke and he started to cry.

  “Don’t start balling again. It’s not helping anything.” Buck stared at his hands. “You gave them a reason to complain.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Buck refreshed the screen, checking the scores. He was still under water. Perhaps it was a false hope, but he couldn’t leave town until the final results were in. Yeah, a dozen other players would have to drop out or be disqualified for him to make the cut.

  “Turn right. Let’s go hit a bucket of balls at that driving range.” Buck looked out the window, and then said, “You can get something to eat there.”

  He stared out at the moving frame of cheap strip malls, dirty gas stations, and aging fast-food restaurants. This was the side of town where people struggled to eke out a living and survive the daily contest of the workingman’s life.

  Had Buck lost his way? The question lodged in his throat.

  It was close to three-thirty when they reached the Glenwood Golf Club. Buck stepped from the van. The range was nearly full. He scanned the line for Carla and thought he glimpsed her at the far end. But he couldn’t be sure. Buck lifted his cap and rubbed his forehead, feeling the grit and sand and dried sweat. Now he wished he’d showered at the hotel.

  Art already had his tablet propped on the steering wheel. Gigi was on the screen, as though in a movie theater.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Buck said.

  Art looked up. “I need some money.”

  Buck handed him a twenty. Art hopped from the van. Buck found a clean white t-shirt in his duffle and changed out of the rough Big Tex polo.

  Yesterday he’d sneered at playing StraightLine’s ball. Now, they probably didn’t even want him in the Pro-Am next week. Would he crawl back to Denny’s father and ask for money to wear these itchy shirts in Tucson?

  Buck pulled Leon’s 1-iron out from the rack and, after paying for a large bucket of balls at the small pro shop, he already felt better as he walked down the line at the range.

  He stopped when he saw Carla in a slot. She was on her own, practicing.

  Buck found an open slot and dropped his bucket to claim it. Then he walked back to Carla, 1-iron in hand.

  He waited until she noticed him.

  “I collapsed on eighteen.”

  “Oh no.” She looked at her watch. “How close to the bubble are you?”

  “Doubt I’ll make it. I gave up six strokes on the last two holes.”

  Her shoulders sagged and she flexed her knees. “Oh, I am so sorry.” Then she seemed to regain her composure, saying, “You got impatient, didn’t you?”

  “Buck!” Art rushed towards them.

  “What now?” Buck rolled his eyes.

  Art thrust his chin up, shivering. “We have to leave. They don’t have Dr. Pepper.”

  “That’s not a crisis, Art.” Buck caught Carla’s eye.

  “Yes it is because I ordered a Dr. Pepper and they didn’t tell me it’s not here. When I found out they lied, they said I still had to pay for the sandwich because they had started making it. But I told them if they had told me about the Dr. Pepper, then I wouldn’t have ordered the sandwich because I need a Dr. Pepper with my meal. They wouldn’t listen. Now do you see why we have to leave?”

  “Just take the van and go buy a Dr. Pepper.”

  Art bounced up and down on his toes, smiling. “I’ll bring you a Mountain Dew.”

  “Come straight back.” Buck handed over another ten dollars.

  Art made a little jump and the bounded off to the van.

  Buck glanced at Carla. “Kids.”

  “He’s not your son, is he?”

  “Brother. Half brother. We’re eight years apart.”

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  At first he wasn’t certain what she meant. Was she asking how Art ended up as Buck’s brother?

  Then he realized she was asking about what happened in the tournament. He looked at his feet, swinging the 1-iron. “Sterling Dawson complained about my caddie moving too much. It blew my concentration.”

  She sighed loudly and smiled. “I guess you’re not using that caddie anymore.”

  “I’m stuck with him.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “Art,” he said.

  “Oh. Family thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where to now?” she asked.

  “Tucson. My last exemption.”

  She positioned a ball in the strike zone. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Oh shit. You make it sound like I’m doomed.”

  “Sorry. It’s just…” She hesitated. “I know how hard it can be to bounce back. Sometimes it takes a week or two.”

  Buck scoffed. “I’ve got five days to get back in the saddle with my head on straight. That’s why I’m here.”

  “But if it was your putting, then shouldn’t you be on the green?”

  “You’re right. See, that’s why I need help from someone like you.” He caught her eye. “Seriously, do you have some time tomorrow?”

  “Don’t you have a coach already?”

  “They want to get paid every month.” He exhaled. “Look, I know I can make the cut in Tucson. But I need someone to help me hit the reset button.”

  “Sorry. I’m committed tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, you’re a scorer. I forgot. It was a dumb idea.” He hated thinking she would be at the TPC and he’d be licking his wounds in Tucson. He turned away, saying, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. See you around.”

  Buck returned to his bucket and began slamming balls, whaling on them, trying to purposefully not think about anything, to exorcise the demons. He’d worked up a good sweat by the time he heard Carla’s voice behind him.

  “Why me?”

  She stood with her golf bag on her shoulder, as though she was leaving. “There are lots of other golf coaches,” she said. “What makes you think I’m the best one for you?”

  “I don’t know.” Buck lay the 1-iron against the bucket. “I guess it’s because you were so confident you could help that older man.”

  “Lots of coaches have confidence.”

  “Most coaches are cocky. Always about making me fit their program. I only do me.”

  She pulled her lips in, suppressing a smile.

  “What?”

/>   “How do you know I’m not that way?” she asked.

  “Like I said, it was a dumb idea.” He lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his hair and then used his arm to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Well, that’s too bad because I came by to tell you I have some time available early tomorrow. But if you think it’s a dumb idea…”

  He looked at her quickly. “No, no. I meant it was dumb of me to assume you could drop everything for a total stranger.”

  “You aren’t a total stranger,” she said. “But you are a little strange.”

  He nodded. “Okay. What time tomorrow?”

  “Around eight. I can give you an hour or two. But, I make no promises. Don’t expect miracles.”

  “Thanks,” Buck said, and then asked, “Uh, what’s your rate?”

  “Actually.” She shifted her feet and then said slowly, “I could use someone to fill in a foursome in the afternoon tomorrow.” She looked away. “If you’re willing to do that, we could call it even.”

  “Deal.” Buck reached for his phone. His pockets were empty. “Are we meeting here for the lessons?”

  “No. I’ll text you the address.”

  Quickly, Buck scanned the parking lot for a sign of the van.

  “What’s your number?” she asked.

  Buck gave it to her and then stepped a few feet for a better view of the far side of the parking lot. The van wasn’t there. Was Art lost?

  “I left my phone in the van. What time is it?”

  “Five-fifteen.”

  “Uh, mind if I have you text him for me?”

  “What’s his number?

  Buck gave it to her and she tapped in a short message. They waited for several minutes but there was no response. If Art was lost, he’d have answered the text. Or maybe he was driving and didn’t hear.

  “Can you call him?”

  She pressed the number and held the phone out. It rang and rang, going to voice mail. Ruthie’s old greeting came out of the speaker, sending a momentary shudder through Buck.

  “Is that the right number?” Carla asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll bet he’s playing with Gigi and that’s why he’s not responding.”

  “Who’s Gigi?”