The Perfectly Good Lie Read online

  “Oh, it’s this video game he pretends is real life. Damn it. He’s doing this on purpose. He’s pissed at me because I came down pretty hard on him.”

  Buck turned and scanned the parking lot again, wondering what to do next.

  “Is there a Whataburger nearby?”

  “I think so.” Carla looked at her phone again. “There’s one about a quarter mile from here.”

  “Could I ask you for a ride over there?”

  “Why don’t you call first and see if he’s there. You might miss each other if you leave.”

  “Yeah. Good idea.”

  Carla held out the phone again.

  “Whataburger,” a voice answered.

  She moved the phone closer to Buck and he spoke, “Hey, uh, is a young guy with blond hair in a black Pokémon shirt there?”

  “Let me see.”

  Background noise drifted out of the speaker for a time and then the voice came back.

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “Tell him to come pick up his brother,” Buck said.

  They could hear the voice yelling, “Hey, your brother is looking for you.” Garbled noise and then the voice returned.

  “He says he can’t come right now.”

  Buck rolled his eyes. “Let me talk to him.”

  “Sorry, we’re not supposed to let customers use the phone.”

  Click.

  “That little shit. I have to go get him.”

  “It’s on my way home,” she said.

  Buck took his 1-iron and left half the bucket of balls in the slot. He followed her to a small sport utility vehicle. He slid into the passenger seat, his knees almost touching the glove box.

  “You can push that seat back,” she said.

  The car started moving without a sound.

  “Is this one of those electric cars?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She turned onto the six-lane boulevard and then asked, “Why is Art your caddie?”

  “He’s actually very good at some things, he just doesn’t take it seriously enough, yet.”

  Buck saw the van before she pulled into the Whataburger parking lot. He thought she would stop and let him out, but she parked the car and followed him inside.

  Art sat in a booth, head down in his tablet.

  Buck towered over him. “What’s the big deal? You were supposed to come right back.”

  Art looked up. “You were being mean to me.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “It’s open all night.” Art’s eyes closed and his voice fluttered. “You said you were sleeping in the van. I’m staying here tonight.”

  “Oh, we’re gonna find a room tonight. I was just trying to make a point.”

  “Tonight?” Carla asked. “This time of year everything books up quick. You might not find anything.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Art lifted his chin in the air.

  The heavy smell of grease hit Buck and he suddenly felt lightheaded. He slumped down into the hard seat opposite Art. With his head in his hands and elbows on his knees, Buck breathed in deeply.

  “Are you okay?” Carla moved closer to Buck.

  “Yeah. I hit a wall.” He sat up and felt woozy again, so he leaned back and rested his head on the bench seat.

  “I’ve got a guest room with a queen-sized bed. You’re welcome to it for the night.”

  “I want it.” Art shut his tablet, jumped from his seat, and began collecting his trash.

  Buck didn’t have the energy to argue or resist, and why should he?

  Art started for the door. “Hurry up, Buck.”

  Carla waited for Buck to rise from the seat. “You need any help?”

  “No, I’m good.” Buck got to his feet. Carla walked beside him and held the door open for him. Art already had the van idling at the curb.

  Buck got in through the side door and stretched out on the mattress.

  Carla closed the door for him. A minute later Buck heard her talking to Art. “We’re going east on Shea. I’m in the silver SUV.”

  “Are you a girlfriend, or a girl as a friend?” Art asked.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Carla said.

  “Shut up, Art,” Buck said loudly, and then rolled over on his side.

  He felt the van moving and at first it was a bumpy, stop-and-go pattern, keeping Buck from falling asleep until a long, steady stretch of constant motion lulled him into a deep slumber and soon he is running late for a tournament. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he might be playing Augusta National. The wind stings like a she-bitch. He hurries to the No. 1 tees. Ruthie stands out on the green, struggling to hold the flagstick steady. This is especially weird because she is wearing her pink robe and fuzzy house slippers.

  “Don’t touch the flag,” Buck screams. He can’t hear anything though, not even his own voice.

  He swings his club and the ball disappears. Someone behind him laughs. Ruthie still holds the flagstick and Buck is afraid she will cost him a penalty.

  “Get off the green,” he yells to her.

  He tees up another ball, but it falls to the ground. Someone keeps laughing, and now the coach comes to Buck. He isn’t like any coach Buck remembers. This man is short and bald and his presence stokes the fear that someone will notice Ruthie on the green.

  Now Art stands in the fairway, twitching his fingers and bouncing on his toes.

  “Quit moving,” Buck shouts.

  When Buck looks down at his ball, he sees Ruthie on her knees, her face turning up to him. Her eye sockets are empty...

  Buck woke with a start.

  It was dark. He was on the mattress in the van. He opened the side door and climbed out. The sun was gone, and in the dim light, Buck found the way to the front of the house. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He didn’t hear anyone inside.

  He returned to the driveway and noticed that the van was under a carport next to Carla’s car. He went through the gate that led into the backyard. After entering, he stood still for a moment to gain his bearings. In the distance, he saw movement, a figure by the fence.

  He recognized Carla when she turned and said, “I thought I heard something. How are you feeling?”

  She wore a hoodie and steam rose from the cup she held in both hands, caught briefly by the security light that came on when she moved towards him.

  “Would you like to come inside?” she asked.

  He followed her through a sliding door off the patio.

  Art had already hooked up his Xbox to a large screen television in the living room. Gigi stood in front of a jewelry store.

  Carla led Buck into the kitchen. It had whitewashed cabinets and adobe colored tiles on the floors and countertops. She took a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator.

  “Drink this.” She poured a glass and handed it to him. “You’re probably dehydrated.”

  “Thanks.” He drank deeply, and then asked, “Where are we, anyway?”

  “My house,” Carla said.

  She’d not used the word our house.

  “Phoenix? Scottsdale?” He moved to sit on a stool at a high top counter.

  “East of Scottsdale.” She reached for her cup. Her fingers were long and slender. There wasn’t an obvious wedding band or diamond ring. She wore a turquoise ring on her right hand, that was all.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “I could eat a cow right now.”

  “How about an omelet with a salad?”

  “Any bacon with that?”

  “No, but I have some cottage cheese.”

  “That’ll do,” Buck said.

  Carla stepped around the corner and called to Art, “Would you like an omelet and salad, Art?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Buck leaned on his elbows and turned his head sideways, catching her eye.

  “If you make it too nice for him, I’ll have a hell of a time getting him to leave.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think of that.” She frowned and then moved to the refrigerator again.

/>   “Art’s like a squirrel with a nut.”

  She was behind the refrigerator door and didn’t answer, so he pressed on.

  “Hey, if you’re having second thoughts about us staying the night, just say the word. I’m sure I can find a campground in the area. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve crashed in the van. And it wouldn’t hurt Art to take his lumps, either. We’ve got sleeping bags.”

  She pulled out a carton of eggs.

  “I didn’t realize I’d be ruining your plans by offering you a comfortable bed for the night.”

  “Did that sound ungrateful?” he asked. “I meant to say thank you for letting me sleep in your driveway.”

  She laughed. “You’re very welcome.”

  “You have to admit,” he said, “it’s ballsy to bring home two guys you don’t know.”

  “I knew enough,” she said, glancing at him. “I saw you won the Midvale. Congratulations.”

  He swiveled in the chair, facing the windows. All he could see was his own reflection.

  “It wasn’t the win I’d been looking for,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I was supposed to prove I could go the distance without falling apart. Instead, I avoided the final round.”

  “Well, you paid your dues today,” she said. “You did miss the cut, but you got your fifteen minutes of fame, too.”

  “Huh?” He lifted his head to her.

  “Your four-putt was been all over the local news tonight.”

  “Oh fuck,” Buck said under his breath.

  She smiled. “Mind clearing the dining room table for me?”

  She went through an open doorway and flipped on a light switch. The chandelier came alive. The table was covered in golf paraphernalia—shirts, towels, club covers, sweater vests—with the Zinger brand and logo.

  “Boy, you really are a Zinger fan girl.”

  “They’re my sponsor.” Carla turned. “If you can take some of this.” She handed him a stack of shirts. “I’ll show you where you can put them.”

  The shirts were in smaller sizes and he grabbed the towels too. They passed through the foyer. Art was still on the sofa and Gigi filled the large screen, holding out her hand, admiring a diamond ring.

  “How’d you get hooked up with Zinger?”

  “They’re big supporters of the golf team at ASU.” She turned a corner.

  A hallway light came on and Buck followed her into a bedroom set up as an office.

  She pointed at the small couch. “You can put those there.”

  In addition to a couch and a desk, there was a large bookcase filled with photos, trophies, and books.

  When Carla left, Buck hung around.

  There were some minor trophies for amateur events, but there were also two trophies for the Phoenix LPGA Open, back-to-back years. And one from Rancho Mirage; he’d been a senior at Baylor that year.

  After Buck finished clearing the table, he returned to the kitchen. A trio of salads was on the counter with a carton of cottage cheese.

  Carla stood near the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl.

  “You were a real hot shit for a while there.” Buck snagged a slice of carrot off one of the salad plates.

  Carla looked over her shoulder. “Do you always give a compliment that feels like a poke in the eye?”

  He grunted. “Sorry. I inherited that skill from my mother. She was the expert.”

  A strong sense of Ruthie returned unexpectedly, but this time it wasn’t creepy like the dream. This time it felt like a door closed somewhere while another one opened, as though the nightmare had worked its magic, like a rainstorm washing the cobwebs from his head.

  Carla whipped the eggs and Buck stood at the high-top counter, feeling strangely relaxed.

  When the omelet was ready, she said, “Grab those salads, will you, Buck?” She called out to Art and directed him to bring the cottage cheese to the table where they gathered around. Art took the captain’s chair at the head of the table, the one closest to the living room where Gigi was frozen on the screen. Buck sat opposite Carla. He caught her eye and she smiled at him.

  Art started to eat with his usual noisy, open-mouthed chewing accompanied by grunts of approval.

  “Art, close your mouth. Nobody needs to see that,” Buck said.

  “You’re not the boss of me here.”

  “Yeah, I am.” Buck looked at Carla. “Are you active LPGA?”

  “I don’t compete much.”

  “What do you do for Zinger then?”

  “Corporate events. They sponsor the kids’ day at the Open. I organized the clinic with the pros. I played in the Pro-Am. Really, anything Roger needs.”

  “Who’s Roger?” Buck asked.

  “Roger Lambert.” Carla took a bite of salad. After swallowing and a sip of water, she touched the napkin to her lips. “He owns Zinger.”

  “Oh, yeah, I recognize the name.” Buck said on reflex, and then added, “My agent is talking to StraightLine.”

  Carla put her fork down. “You don’t have a coach, but you have an agent?” She put her hands in her lap. “You can do better than StraightLine. Look at who’s behind the product, you might be stuck with them for years.”

  “After today, I’ll be lucky if Bubba’s Lube Shop wants me.”

  “Don’t say that. You actually had a decent round. Don’t elevate one bad hole over the good ones.”

  “Thanks,” Buck said, nodding.

  Carla turned to Art. “How did you feel today?”

  Art screwed up his face. “I took Gigi to the mall.”

  Carla’s eyes darted at Buck and then she turned to Art again. “I meant while you carried Buck’s bag in the tournament.”

  “Golf is stupid,” Art said. “They give the same points for two hundred yards as you get for two inches. It’s not fair.”

  “You know, I’ve heard that before,” Carla said.

  Art beamed, and then turned to Buck. “See, I was right.”

  “But Art,” Carla said, “counting every stroke is what makes the play more interesting. Your way would mean we’d only need to stand at the driving range and see which player’s ball landed farthest. For a player like me who doesn’t have as much upper body mass, I’d never have a chance to win. Not against a long hitter like Buck.”

  “I would let you win, Carla.” Art scraped up the last bit of omelet off his plate.

  “Thank you, Art.” She smiled and then glanced at Buck.

  “You’re welcome.” Art pushed back from the table and disappeared into the living room.

  Carla waited a moment. “He’s good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I cooked dinner, but he has me thanking him.”

  Buck grunted a laugh. “He’s the expert on manipulating people.”

  “He is, um, smart in a way. But he’s like a child too.”

  Buck pushed his plate aside and crossed his forearms, resting them on the table.

  “When Art was young, Leon accidentally ran over him in our driveway.”

  “Who’s Leon?” she asked.

  “Art’s dad.”

  The shape of the chandelier threw distorted images on the walls and the tabletop. The lines and pockets of shadows mingled together, conjuring up the fragmented image of Ruthie rushing to Art, sprawled flat and limp on the concrete.

  “Leon had just bought the truck.”

  “What happened?” Carla asked.

  “Art broke his arm and had a concussion.” In their panic to get Art to the hospital, his mother and Leon had left Buck at home alone.

  “Who knows if it has anything to do with the way he is? After it happened, Ruthie gave in on everything. So how can you know what caused what?”

  “Who’s Ruthie?”

  “Our mother.”

  Carla reached for Art’s empty plate and stacked it atop hers. “At least Art has a mind of his own.”

  Buck snorted. “But no social skills.”

  She smiled a
nd pushed back from the table. “Family trait?”

  On anyone else, that smile would have been insulting, a know-it-all smirk. But on her, it meant something else.

  What?

  Buck wasn’t sure.

  Best Ball

  On Saturday morning, Buck checked his phone as he walked through Carla’s living room. There was a voice message from Josh and others he didn’t recognize. He’d deal with them all later.

  Art was asleep on the couch, the game console in his hand and Gigi still on the screen. Buck found Carla at the sliding door.

  “There’s coffee and orange juice,” she said, keeping her voice at a whisper.

  Two cups were on the counter next to a coffee maker.

  “Get your jacket and meet me outside.” She slipped quietly out the door.

  Buck returned to her guest room, found a sweatshirt, and then filled a cup with juice.

  Outside on the patio, a wooden rack held a dozen putters. There were lounge chairs and a table and beyond the patio a path meandered through a lush lawn. He walked around to the back side of the house. As he turned the corner, the rising sun illuminated a large, two-tiered green. Carla was on the elevated section near the property line. A knee-high flagstick marked a hole.

  “Life’s been good to you.” Buck swept his arm to take in the awesome view to the east: miles of open desert beyond the fence that led to an imposing mountain range in the distance. The house wasn’t anything to get excited about, but the location was worth a million.

  “More fortunate than most,” she said.

  The small flag fluttered lightly.

  “Sit down.” She dropped to the green, settled into a cross-legged position and placed her coffee cup in the hollow between her legs.

  Buck placed his cup on the ground and then awkwardly went down on his knees. He was stiff, and his hips ached as he tried to find a comfortable position.

  Carla reached around and removed the flagstick, laying it behind her. She pulled a golf ball from her pocket and sent it rolling toward Buck.

  “My sister and I used to do this,” she said. “Our backyard was a golf course. In the summer when it was too dark to play but still light enough to see, we’d sit on the twelfth green. We’d be out there for hours, passing the ball back and forth like this, talking and laughing. After a while, it was almost like we could see the ball in the dark.