My mouth was dry, the only indication that my mind acknowledged death. I didn’t believe it. How could I assess reality? How when so many questions have gone unanswered. Which friend killed me? Which friend betrayed me? Which friend set me up as the fall guy? Were they all in it? I rubbed my face wishing the act would clear my brain.
“Any last words, Mr. Lineman? “
A hole opened inside my belly. Hope or emptiness? I nodded. But what to say?
While the attendant strapped my legs and arms to the chair, I wondered who watched from beyond that dark one-way mirror. The media? The traitor? The Vice-President?
“Sir? “
I cleared my throat. “I am a man of honor.” I paused to swallow the waver in voice. “My honesty is a quality friends could count on, better than a blank check.” Tears stung my eyes at the bestiality of my quandary. How could I place into words the crime committed against me, when the President of the United States lay dead?
“It began with that God-accursed golf ball. Yep. That’s right. Demonic-hah…” The laugh barked out of my throat. I couldn’t believe my own story. Would anyone else fill it? Would it matter? But telling my tale wouldn’t hurt, couldn’t hurt when it brought me precious seconds of life.
“Are you finished? ” The attendant avoided my gaze.
A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead. My body knew death waited. I felt his presence like a dark cloud by my side.
“Two weeks before the Iron Man Chills Classic, I bought a bucket of balls at the driving range, as was my normal pregame practice. Like Tiger Woods says, once you have an established routine, you shouldn’t ever break it. It will only raze your game. You’ll have to start all over again, finding your natural rhythm. I’ve always been known for my legendary straight drive. “
#
The bucket filled, then the machine gave a rumbling urp from inside like it had eaten something raunchy. One last ball paused at the spout exit glowing eerily then dropped toward the green plastic pail.
A shiver ran up my wait on at the dim stain on the ball’s side. Even my golfing buddies in A1-Flight, former buddies from Vietnam, Bowman, Charlie, and Davis noticed. Davis’ eyes flashed green as he snatched for the ball but my fingers closed over it first. “Hey, is this what I think it is? ” I held it up to the light just underneath the contest notice that explained the finder of the skull & crossbones golf ball would win $500.
“Arnie, you are so darned lucky.”
“Hey, bet you double that you can’t play three games on that ball before collecting.”
“Yeah, I’m in.”
“Yeah.”
I don’t remember which of them suggested the bet, no matter how many times I have scratched my head over the matter. In the end we all jumped on it. “Men, you got a deal.” Chance at $3500 instead of $500 on the luck of the diagram? A cinch. I always drove straight so I rarely lost a ball. Warmth spread through my belly like the first chocolate trick or treat. Hoo-wee, I was in the money.
The game that day went snappy and easy. I couldn’t stop laughing at every birdie I made. Later I’d remember, practice wasn’t the same as the true game.
#
A storm blew in that night and knocked the oak tree against the house, while I drank my gin and tonic. It’s only at night I remember how gnarled my hands have grown, how composed the house gets without my dearly departed Wilma. The pitchfork lightning probed for entry inside. A worthy prove, I thought at the time.
Exhausted finally, I stumbled towards bed to part the wintry sheets. As I entered the hallway, my foot set down on something hard, my ankle twisted and I fell, grabbing for the door handle I missed.
When the pain rocketing up my hip diminished enough to feel the hard object poking me in the back, I rolled over. There it was. The skull & crossbones golf ball. I walked downstairs and do it in my golf bag. Again.
Then I went to bed.
When I awoke, certain enough, the skull & crossbones golf ball was nestled up against my belly button. I’m sure I put it in my golf bag, didn’t I? Cold shivers ran down my spine
I was stiff for the rest of the week after the fall.
#
As I putted the golf ball on the thirteenth green that next Saturday, the ball glowed for a minute before curving away from the hole. I gritted my teeth, set up again and missed a foot-long putt. I noticed Bowman or was it Charlie smirking and clenched my fists, somehow stemming the curses that sprung to mind.
Davis poked me in the arm. “Never seen you putt quite so badly, Arnie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Cursed ball. But I don’t have to win to collect.” I smiled. Then the rain began. Only five more holes, I told myself, then this round could be history. I missed the putt on the next green too with two feet to spare.
Bowman blew his nose. “I’ll give you this one.”
“You know I don’t cheat.”
“Sheesh, give a little just once. Be human.”
Ha, not me. I set up at the next tee. When I took my practice swing, my arm extended down the edge of the lake, I noticed them for the first time. Secret service I guessed by the metal detectors sweeping the fairway and trees before them and the dark suits. I paused. Then took my swing and out sailed my ball, flashing UFO green under the autumn sun and then it curved toward the lake for a heart stopping moment before curving back toward my drive line and falling at the banks edge.
“Lucky you are, Arnie Lineman, I thought I was going to see a chop out of you.”
When I met the faces of the A-1 Flight cold bit into my belly because definite enough, they all looked smug.
When we finished the 18th, I don’t remember who packed up my golf bag while I was in the restroom and I don’t remember who dragged me off to the electronics store with the excuse their garage door needed a fix. I don’t even remember going into the store, even if the clerk identified me.
#
The day of the Iron Man Chills Classic had my nerves on edge. My normally straight drive was unpredictable with the skull & crossbones golf ball. The crowd of professional golfers ready to take us amateur stiffs out gathered outside the pro shop. Because the United States President was playing we’d all been through who knows how many searches and interviews. The course was abuzz.
But not as abuzz as my nerves. The sensation of something wrong dwelling my teeth grinding every time I touched that cursed golf ball. I found my hands shaking every time I went to drive. But my straight drives returned.
By the time we reached the dogleg on number 15, I was hyped. I don’t know which round I played with which of my partners. Their faces remained serene and they never once joshed me. It made the hair on my neck stand up, but that was better than their smirks.
I teed up and took my practice swing. Then someone grabbed my arm. “Wait Arnie, wait, there’s someone in our fairway.” Sure enough. I waited. And waited. Finally the course marshal shooed the secret service man into the trees. I took another practice swing, then reached benefit and swung through. The ball soared straight and determined. But on the downward arc, the ball flashed green. Belly feeling like a ton of lead, I watched the ball slice, straight over that secret service man.
“Fore,” I yelled, with a sinking sensation. I knew I yelled too late.
A roar went up.
I choked, closing my eyes. Praying no one got hurt.
Secret Service men drew their weapons and all headed straight for me.
My driver slipped out of my hands as I backed into someone. I shoved to get away but hands grabbed me and next thing I knew, my mouth pressed dirt and my arms pulled taut behind my back. My hands wore icy cool handcuffs.
“What happened,” croaked out of my mouth as I was tugged to my feet.
Someone patted me down, taking a plastic box with a dial out of my pocket and holding it in the sunlight.
That’s when I met my friend’s faces. All pale. Upset faces with no hint of smile.
“He’s got a timed controller in his pocket.”
That shook me. Because whatever the court proved, I didn’t.
Charlie smirked first. “Your straight drive was nothing but a cheat.” He spat at my feet. Bowman’s nose scrunched and he turned away. “You’re sick.” Davis laughed, shoulders shrugging up and down. “A cheat. Probably done it for years.”
I opened my mouth to argue but no words could arrive out. How could they treat me this way? It wasn’t true. I stumbled. “No, just this once.”
Voices said, “It was an accident and no, it wasn’t,” and “The President’s stupid.”
Every word drove me into the ground like a stake. Me, lie? Me, cheat? At golf? No bloody way.
#
I must have stopped speaking for awhile, turning my memories over and over. Sweat dripped down the insides of my prison garb. I hated that.
“Have you finished, sir? “
No, I haven’t I wanted to yell. I’m not a liar. I’m not a cheat. I managed to croak out no.
“Explain the ball”, the attendant replied and when I looked up, I saw his face recognized me.
This time I turned my face away to wipe it against my shoulder. My heart beat recant, recant, you don’t have to die. But, oh, you see. My friends really knew me well. Knew I would never recant. Knew that a man that believed more in his contain honor would sooner lie about impossibilities like killing a president with a golf ball then live through lies about his honor.
“The lab cut into the golf ball, found metal beads, a receiver and a battery. Depending on the signal, the beads would shift position and alter the moment of inertia for the golf ball. When skewed to one side, a drive would slice. That battery magnetized it so it wouldn’t miss the steel plate in the President’s head.”
“And the fingerprint on the controller? “
I shook my head, facing the guilty verdict in the attendant’s face. Never touched the controller, but then I had confessed.
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