The Golfer's Carol Page 11

  “Ben, please come with us. We need to pay respects to your father.”

  The boy was sitting in one of the chairs. His arms were folded tight across his chest, and a scowl played over his face. He shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  The woman took a step closer. “Ben . . .” But then she sighed. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  The boy said nothing as his mother opened the door and left the house. I went over to the other chair and sat down, watching the child. I saw his lip trembling and noticed that his hands were also shaking as he brought them to his face.

  I reached my hand out and tried to place it on the boy’s shoulder, but I felt nothing but air. I’m a ghost.

  I leaned back in the chair and looked around the tiny house. Nine years old, I thought. And he watched his father kill himself . . .

  Sighing, I rose from the chair and peered down at the boy. His hands still covered his face.

  And now you’re going to kill yourself, aren’t you?

  The older Ben Hogan’s cold voice rang in my ear as I watched the nine-year-old version cry into his hands.

  Finally, the boy’s hands began to recede from his face. I gasped as I noticed that his features had changed. I was no longer looking at young Ben Hogan.

  Instead, I was gazing down at the tear-streaked face of my daughter, Davis.

  22

  I was no longer in Ben Hogan’s childhood home. Instead, I was sitting in a white wrought-iron chair at a small circular table. My daughter was wearing a long, black dress. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was running. She was twelve years old.

  I knew this setting well. The table was smack in the middle of a small kitchen. I had spent many a morning drinking coffee with my mother here in the two years since my father had passed. And now I saw her. She was standing by the stove, using a knife to cut a piece of pie. Her hair was colored a dark red, which had been her preference once her natural brown locks had turned gray. She put the sliver of pie on a plate and placed it in front of Davis. “Egg custard pie makes everything better,” she said, and I heard her voice crack ever so slightly. She snatched a Kleenex from a box on the counter and handed it to Davis. “Wipe your nose, honey.” She forced a smile, but Davis’s face didn’t change. She dabbed her nose and crinkled up the tissue. Then she gazed at the wall, ignoring the dessert in front of her.

  Mom, who was sitting in the chair next to Davis, reached forward and grabbed my daughter’s hand. “You need to eat something, honey.”

  “Not hungry,” she said.

  “Your momma says you’ve barely eaten a thing since your brother . . .” Again, Mom’s voice cracked, and I looked away, not wanting to see her or Davis in pain. Where was I while this was going on? I wondered. I didn’t remember going over to Mom’s house on the day of the funeral, which, based on Davis’s attire, this had to be.

  Why am I being shown this?

  “I wish it was me,” Davis said, and the bitterness in her voice drew my eyes back to her.

  “Don’t ever say that, honey,” Mom said, and her tone was firm, the crack long gone.

  “I do,” Davis said. “Graham was a lot better person than me. He was smarter. He was a better athlete.” She paused, and her voice shook with emotion. “Everyone loved him. Even me.” Davis wiped her eyes and looked at Mom. “I loved him a lot.”

  “I know, honey.” She scooted her chair around to Davis and wrapped an arm around her. “I know.”

  “I never told him,” Davis said. “I never told my brother that I loved him until he got sick. Can you believe that? I was too cool to say it.”

  “He knew you loved him.”

  “I should have told him. I should have told him every day.”

  I heard the sound of a voice clearing behind me, and I wheeled out of my chair toward it. My father, Robert Clark, was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the den. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. His face was pale, and his shoulders were stooped. He looked smaller than I remembered him. How long has he been standing there?

  “People never say everything they should to the people they love,” Dad said, and the sound of his gravelly voice seemed to startle Mom and Davis. They both turned to look up at him. “None of us do,” Dad continued, approaching the table and taking the seat I had just vacated. When he sighed, I could feel the pain in the room. This was my family, and I remembered now.

  Mary Alice and I had stayed behind at the cemetery. We had asked Mom and Dad to take Davis to their house. We had both wanted some time with Graham’s casket. Mary Alice had alternated between fits of anger and stoic silence as we had mourned our son. Finally, we both had put our hands on his grave and she had prayed to God that our son was with Jesus and that his suffering was over. I had taken her home, then gone over to Mom and Dad’s to pick up Davis. While we were gone, this scene must have been playing out.

  “I miss him, Pawpaw,” Davis said, bringing me back to the moment.

  “Me too, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through Davis’s hair.

  “And I’m worried about Mom and Dad. They’re both trying to be strong and all, but I know they are dying inside.”

  I felt my eyes begin to water, and then I let the tears fall. “They’ll be okay, Davis. Your momma’s a tough woman, and she puts her faith in God. She’ll get through this.”

  “What about Dad?”

  My father stood from the table and walked back to the door leading out to the den. “Davis, I want you to remember something about your daddy,” he said, as he placed his hand on the door.

  I felt my heartbeat flutter as I turned to my daughter. “What’s that?” Davis asked.

  I moved my eyes to Dad, who was now looking over his shoulder at Davis. “Your daddy is stronger than all of us.”

  I took a step backward so that I could now see them both. I was in utter shock at what my father had said. “Even you?” Davis asked, and a tiny smile came to her face.

  “Especially me,” Dad said, and then he walked out of the kitchen.

  23

  I gazed dumbfounded at the closed door. Then I glanced down at the table, where Davis was eating her first bite of pie.

  “That’s my grandgirl,” Mom said, kissing her on the cheek. My heart swelled as I watched my mother, Elizabeth Lowe Clark, dote on my grieving daughter. The one person who had always made me feel better about any situation was Mom. Whether it was a skinned knee, a bad golf round, or a poor grade, Mom never made me feel anything but loved. It was her gift.

  I wiped the tears from my face and walked unsteadily toward the door that led out of the kitchen. I was hoping to see where my father had gone. But when I opened the door, I was no longer in my parents’ house.

  I was standing beneath a tree and looking into the tense eyes of Ben Hogan. He released his grip on my hands, and I stumbled backward a few steps. For a long moment, I stared at him, unsure of what to say or where to even begin. Mercifully, Ben broke the silence.

  “I’m sorry about your son.”

  “Thank you,” I said, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry about your dad.” I paused. “You saw it happen. I can’t imagine . . .” I trailed off, because I was telling the truth. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like for him to watch his father kill himself. But yet he had survived. And thrived. Ben Hogan became one of the greatest golfers in the history of the sport. I looked at the ghost standing beside the tree. “Do you think watching your dad kill himself made you who you became?”

  “And who was that?”

  I smiled. “Ben Hogan. One of the greatest players to ever live. Winner of nine major championships.”

  He squinted at me. “I don’t know. Some folks think it made me reclusive and antisocial. Others said it made me mean.”

  “Did it?”

  He continued to squint at me. “Life has many mysteries.�
�

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “A truthful one.”

  I started to respond but stopped myself. I was curious about something else. “Why did you show me the interaction with Mom, Dad, and Davis after Graham’s funeral?”

  Hogan turned away from me and grabbed the seven iron he’d leaned against the tree. He rolled another ball into the long divot. Before taking his stance, he peered at me. “What did you see?”

  I took a tentative step toward him and rubbed my hand over my face. “They were upset. Mom had made Davis a pie, and she was crying. And Dad . . .” I stopped and glared at him. “What do you mean, what did I see? You know what I saw. What would you call it?”

  “Pain,” Ben said, taking his stance and, after waiting a few seconds to eye the target, making another swing. This shot landed a couple of feet left of the chair. “A lot of pain,” he added. Then he gazed at me. “You weren’t the only one who was affected by your son’s death. Your daughter. Your wife. Your mom.” He paused. “And your father.”

  “I know that,” I said, hearing the exasperation in my voice.

  “Do you? Could’ve fooled me. Do you suspect that any of them are about to take their own life?”

  “Dad’s life has already been taken,” I snapped.

  “I know and I’m sorry. But what about your wife and daughter. And your mom? They are all still dealing with the pain, aren’t they?”

  “I know,” I said, turning away from him and looking out at the green, flat fairways of Shady Oaks.

  “So?”

  I sighed. “It’s different for me. I owe a ton of money. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. My marriage has been suffocated by Graham’s death and all the hospital debt. And Davis isn’t going to have much of a future if I can’t send her to college. And Mom . . .” I felt a lump in my chest, remembering the scene I had just witnessed at my mother’s house after Graham’s funeral and how tender Mom had been with Davis. I was all she had left. How would she react to my suicide? “Mom will understand that I did what I had to do,” I managed, hoping my words were true.

  Ben scoffed. “And so jumping off the Tennessee River Bridge is going to solve all those problems for you?”

  I nodded. “With the life insurance money, Mary Alice can pay off all of the hospital debt and put Davis through college. The sooner I’m gone, the quicker and easier it will be for both of them to move on with their lives. And they’ll be able to do it free and clear of any debt . . . and free and clear of me.”

  “Do you really believe there’s no future for you?” Ben asked. He had lit another cigarette and, after retrieving a bucket from under the tree, had walked about ten yards down the fairway toward the chair that he’d been using as a target. “You truly believe that you are out of options?” he asked, more loudly than he had before.

  “I’ve got nothing left to give.” I paused. “Except my life.”

  Ben continued to walk down the fairway, and I followed him. I was beginning to wonder what the deal was here. Unlike the dream with Bobby Jones and Johnnie, my clubs hadn’t mysteriously appeared. Hogan, for his part, only seemed to have one club with him and was on a random hole in the middle of the golf course. I trotted to catch up and cleared my throat. “Mr. Hogan, are we going to play any holes? I was under the impression that we’d be playing.”

  “No,” he said without elaboration. His gait had slowed, and I noticed that he was limping.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  When we reached the chair, Hogan plopped down in the seat. He sighed and took a long drag off his cigarette. “I’m tired, boy.” Then he pulled up his pant legs to his knees and I saw the tape that covered each leg.

  I peered at him. “Why do you still need tape on your legs? You’re . . . a ghost now.”

  “Do you know why my legs are covered”—he pointed down at his ankles—“with this mess?”

  I nodded. Though I wasn’t as familiar with the part of the Hogan legend involving his father’s suicide, every serious golf fan knew why Ben Hogan had difficulty walking in the latter part of his career. “You were in a car crash. A Greyhound bus heading in the opposite direction as your vehicle was making a pass on a two-lane road on a foggy night. The driver must not have seen you, and the bus hit your car head-on. At the last possible moment, you covered your wife’s body with your own. You saved her life.”

  “And my own,” Hogan said, wincing and rubbing his hands up and down his taped legs.

  “You broke every bone in your body, didn’t you?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “But almost.”

  “I watched the movie. I can’t remember the name of it, but Glenn Ford played you.”

  Hogan winced again. Then he peered up at me with a gaze that could have pierced glass. “Randy, do you think you’re the only one who’s ever been dealt a bad hand in life?”

  “No,” I said, looking away from him. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

  “Then why are you quitting?”

  My arms tensed with anger, but I still could not meet his stare. “Because it’s the best option for my family. It solves our financial problems, and Davis and Mary Alice will have a chance at a future.”

  “Even if you are right and your wife and daughter do carve out a future”—he paused and puffed on his cigarette—“they’d give anything in the world to have you back.” Ben’s voice had grown quieter and more reflective. I finally peered down at him, but now he was looking up at the sky.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I would have given anything to have another hour with my father.”

  I swallowed hard and again looked away from him. I gave my head a jerk and let out a deep breath. “I’ve been over it all a million times, Mr. Hogan. The only choice I have that will solve my family’s problems is to jump off that bridge.”

  “No,” he snapped.

  I glared down at him, and his steel-gray eyes were locked onto mine. “What do you mean, no? How in the world do you know anything about me?”

  “Not the only choice,” he said, his voice as cold as the inside of a freezer. “The easiest.”

  “Go to hell,” I said, and my voice had begun to shake with anger.

  He smiled, but his eyes remained humorless. After another drag on the cigarette, he extended his hand. “Here, help me up.”

  I reached down and grasped Hogan’s right hand. When I felt the rough, hard hand envelop my own, I wondered if he’d tricked me into taking another trip down memory lane. I closed my eyes and waited for the ground to open beneath me. What was I going to see? The bus crash itself? The aftermath in the hospital? Another scene from my own life? Please no . . .

  “No,” Hogan said, and my eyes flew open. I had gone nowhere. Hogan stood before me and pushed his cap up a centimeter. “No more trips with me. I’m done. You need to toughen up, Clark. Life isn’t easy on any of us. Whether it’s a bus crash or watching your own father kill himself, all people experience pain in this cruel world, and some have to endure more of it than others.” He paused and leaned closer to me. Though the man was smaller than me in height and weight, I felt myself cowering.

  “How?” I asked. The word just kind of popped out of my mouth. “What can I do?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You keep going,” he said. “To conquer pain, you have to be resilient and keep pushing forward.”

  “I’ve tried,” I said. “For three years, I’ve tried to get past it, but the debt keeps mounting and I just . . . hate myself.”

  “You have gifts, Randy. Things that you can do.”

  “I can’t hit a golf ball like you.”

  He finally smiled. “No, you can’t. But you have other talents.”

  I shook my head. “None that are going to dig me out of this hole.”

  He let go of my hand. The smile was gone. “Yes, you do. Y
ou just don’t have the guts to use them.”

  My eyes widened.

  “You aren’t hearing anything that I or Mr. Jones have told you.”

  “Yes, I have. Self-control and resilience. In order to survive what I’m going through, I need both qualities. Jones learned to control his temper and became a great champion. You were resilient enough to recover from your father’s suicide and getting run over by a bus.” I sighed. “I get it. I really do. My situation is different.”

  “No,” he snapped. “It’s not.”

  Before I could respond, he grabbed me up under the armpits and shook me. His hands were unbelievably strong . . . I tried to move, but I couldn’t budge. I was powerless to do anything but stare into his gray eyes.

  “How did the son of Robert Clark become such a whiner?”

  I glared at him. “Did you know my father?”

  “I know everything about you.” He shook me hard and my head jostled. I was beginning to get dizzy.

  “Then you know the deal. My father never believed in me. Never said one word of encouragement my whole life.”

  “Mine shot himself in the chest.” Hogan’s voice was just above a whisper. “Every person has to deal with stuff, Randy. You aren’t going to hurt your father by jumping off that bridge. He’s dead. The only folks that get hurt are your wife and daughter, and anyone else you might have helped with your God-given talents. Is that what you want?”

  I blinked, but no words would come.

  “Is that what you want?” he repeated, his words now louder. So loud that my eardrums hurt. He shook me again, and I felt my feet lifting off the ground. I looked down at him, and he had a scowl of fury on his face.

  “Get out of my sight,” he said, and let go of my arms. I braced for impact with the ground, hoping I didn’t separate a shoulder, but I landed on my back. I felt the wind go out of me, and I struggled for breath. When I was able to let out a few ragged breaths, I rolled over to a sitting position and looked up at the figure who had just thrown me down like a rag doll.