The Sand Trap (54 page)

Their evenings were slightly different. They
had decided, at least tacitly, that they were now a couple who
would try and build a future life together. With the huge amount of
historical baggage attached to each of their lives, which proved
more complicated than they thought. Their time in San Carlos had
helped, and the first thing they had discussed was the Agency and
Burt’s role. He explained what he did and why, and that it might be
years before he could be called on again. In the meantime he could
just go on with his life. To his surprise she seemed to accept this
with little argument. The only touchy part came when she asked,
“What is my role in this in the future?”

“That is more complicated.” He had talked to
Richard about this while they were still on the boat and he knew
the choices. “That depends upon you. Without getting into the
complications of each, you probably have three choices. You can
just ignore that part of my life and leave me to do my job when
called. You can insist that I stop this part of my life. Or you can
be a partner in whatever we are called to do.”

She didn’t reply quickly. “As your partner
would I have to kill someone?”

“Not necessarily. You would certainly be
complicit. And once complicit you are in the game forever. If you
want to go on with a different life you have to do it now, not
later.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” was her final
comment up to this point, and they left the conversation about the
moral privilege of determining who should live and die for another
occasion.

Discussions about what lay beyond the next
week or so were increasingly uncomfortable.

They had a final practice round on the
Tuesday before the tournament and the preparation took their minds
off other things. As his caddy for the event, Melanie focused
totally on the golf course, taking careful measurements and notes
of yardages, trap and tree locations and the quirks of the greens.
She had left the contact with the other golfers and the tournament
officials to Burt. They had played with some of the other golfers
over the last week or so and she had to admit they were good. There
were some club pros who never quite made it to the big time. Some
were ex-tour players past their prime but still competitively
capable. Some had made it previously, had lost their card and were
trying again. There was the collection of dreamers like Burt, most
with decent amateur careers who had led other lives but felt that
“with just a little practice” they could make the Champions Tour.
She had never admitted it to Burt, but it didn’t take her long to
realize he did not have a chance. He was good, but not in the
league of these guys and she was worried he would be embarrassed or
discouraged after the first day of play. She admired him for the
commitment to his dream and on occasion thought wistfully of the
thrill and focus of competition herself and was secretly enjoying
the small crowd, mostly seniors like themselves that was actually
following her, and not Burt. But this was his fantasy, not hers,
and her competition days were long gone so she continued to focus
on the character of the golf course and not the character of the
fans.

At the end of the final practice round, as
they came off the eighteenth hole, there was a small delegation
from the tour organizers waiting to greet them. One came forward
and offered his hand.

“Hi, I’m Jim Rockwell, from the Champions
Tour organizing committee.”

He shook each of their hands and introduced
the other three men he had with him. All were on the Champions Tour
Board.

“Could we have a word with you two?”

He beckoned to a table and chairs on the
outside lounge by the clubhouse and they walked over together.
Melanie gave Burt a questioning look but he just shrugged and led
her over to the table. Melanie noticed as well that one of the
couples who had followed them around the course that day was
standing near where they had dropped their clubs, holding pens and
a program obviously waiting for Burt’s autograph. They looked
vaguely familiar. She had seen many people over the past couple of
weeks so everyone was starting to look familiar. They would have to
wait.

After they sat down Rockwell pulled out a
collection of papers and put them on the table. “It’s concerning
the application you filled out for the tournament.” He seemed to be
talking more to Melanie than to Burt. “When you filled this out you
never indicated your gender.”

Burt answered. “There is no place on the
application to indicate your sex. I guessed you just assume that
all applicants would be men. Is this a problem?”

“Well…” again he looked at Melanie and
replied sarcastically. “You’ll have to excuse us for assuming that
the winner of the men’s NCGA national championship did not wear a
skirt to do it.”

“She didn’t,” a voice from behind the table
interjected. “She wore a great pair of madras pants that looked
like a pair Johnny Miller might have given to the Salvation
Army.”

Everyone at the table turned around and
Melanie could see the speaker was the woman half of the couple who
had been following them around. By this time Melanie was thoroughly
confused and the meaning of the conversation with the officials was
lost as she slowly started to recognize the woman. Melanie got up
from her chair and tears started to cloud her vision; she ran the
short few feet into the waiting arms of the woman, both alternately
laughing and crying.

“How the fuck are ya girl?” the woman
asked.

“Still the potty mouth, I see,” Melanie
hugged her again.

Rebecca pushed her away and looked over at
her partner. “Melanie,” she offered, “this is my husband
Horace.”

Melanie looked at him and the shock of
recognition hit her again. “Horace? Now I know why you only wanted
to be called Coach!” And she went over to him and gave him a
hug.

It was Melanie’s turn and she turned to
Burt. “Guys this is … my partner.”

Rebecca interjected. “We know who he is. Hi,
Burt. Good round today.”

“Thanks, Rebecca. But she’ll do better
tomorrow.”

Melanie just gaped at him with her mouth
open.

They had been ignoring the tournament
officials but Jim brought them back to the conversation.

“That was a touching reunion of some sort I
guess. But we are left with the fact that all hell will break lose
when the press catches on that the M. McDougal in this program,” He
picked up the program from the table and waved it at them, “is a
woman and she is trying to qualify for the Men's Champions Tour.
Before you ask, there is no rule against a woman giving it a go,
but we would only ask that you consider whether or not it is a good
idea. Look what happened to Michele Wie when she tried the regular
men’s tour.”

Rebecca took over and offered her hand to
Rockwell.

"Hi. I’m Dr. Rebecca Johnston and I am her
caddie. Look. You want to see hell in the press you just continue
this bullshit about women not belonging here or any thought
whatsoever of not letting her compete. This is 2013 friend. We even
let black men into the clubhouse at Augusta these days. One day
when hell freezes over they might admit a woman. This girl is going
to kick some old guy’s butt.”

She turned to a still very confused Melanie
and in the old Rebecca bossy way just ordered them all, “Let’s go.
We’ve preparations to make.”

They all stood up from the table and Burt
took Melanie’s arm and led her away from the dumbfounded officials
before she could say anything in front of them. When they were a
safe distance away she pulled her arm away. “You have some
explaining to do I believe,” she hissed.

“OK. But let’s wait until we’re back at the
condo. We can discuss this there.”

She looked at him with a narrow stare and
tightly clenched lips, nodded in agreement, got into the car and
slammed the door behind her. For a woman with secrets, she did not
like it when others had theirs.

Burt and Melanie drove together and Rebecca
and Horace followed as they headed back to the condo only a few
kilometers away. Melanie and Burt said nothing to each other on the
trip. Melanie just stared out the window and even when they pulled
into the parking lot she didn’t look at him and just slammed the
door and stormed up the stairs, the others close behind her. Burt
and Rebecca shared concerned glances as they entered the condo and
Burt gave everyone a beer. The three of them sat down on the living
room chesterfield except Melanie who stood in the middle of the
room with her arms crossed.

Rebecca broke the silence. “It was my idea
Melanie.”

“What was your idea?” Melanie shot back. “To
bring back every memory I have spent over thirty years trying to
erase?”

“We all learned after you left what happened
to you,” Rebecca offered. “Everyone involved has paid in their own
way; some are dead, others a living death. I’m a psychologist
Melanie, and one of my research areas has been the effects and
lives of woman like you who have experienced such an assault.
Unfortunately there is no shortage of a research sample. Some never
recover. They lead lives that are often shorter than they should
have been, often full of addiction and continued abuse. Some seem
to get past it and lead, at least on the surface, normal family and
professional lives. Some seem to use various forms of defense
mechanisms to parcel their bad experience into some distant and
remote part of their mind and vigorously avoid anything that
triggers the resurfacing of this memory. But whatever the coping
mechanism they use, every woman who has been the victim of such
sexual violence risks leading a life in an emotional void, never
being able, or maybe never succumbing, to close relationships.”

Melanie slowly moved over and sat on one of
the matching chesterfield chairs. Rebecca looked over at Burt and
he nodded for her to continue.

“Melanie I know it has not been easy for
you. Just the fact that you are able to be here back in California
and even back on a golf course tells me you are either incredibly
good at memory suppression or you are moving forward. The fact you
have, I presume, entered into a satisfying relationship with a kind
and loving man tells me it is more likely the later.”

Burt reached over from the end of the
chesterfield and took Melanie’s hand.

Rebecca finished. “Melanie we all know that
the act of competing will test the way you have coped in order to
live a normal life after an horrendous experience in your past. But
as your loving friend, and a psychologist, I am telling you that
the only way you can now move on to a normal relationship and life
with Burt, is to quit running from the past and to vigorously chase
your future. By playing in this tournament you are doing the
latter.”

Melanie was quiet while they looked at her
waiting for a response.

The first thought she had was that “normal”
might not be the most accurate description for life with a
“killer”. But Rebecca was correct. She was probably a mixture of
the caricatures that Rebecca described. She had escaped everything
and avoided anything that brought back memories of that night. For
over thirty years she had responded to normal sexual urges, but had
never, until now, established an emotional relationship with any
man. Most of all she had learned over the past few months the
healing power of her special relationship with both a loving
partner and with golf. Maybe after a life of suppressed emotions
and memories she was ready to move on.

“What do I have to do to ‘chase the future’
as you say?” she asked in a very quiet but resolute voice.

Burt resisted a fist pump and Rebecca
continued.

“Well, two things actually. The first you
are already doing. Face head on the part of your past that brings
back the memories and you are doing that by being back out on a
California golf course. Entering the tournament will bring full
circle to that attack on the devils in your past. Secondly, start
embracing the good memories and your wonderful talents. Melanie, I
may have selective recall, but I seem to remember we had some good
times in those days as well?”

Coach interrupted. “It seemed from my
perspective all you two did the whole time you were at Clapshorn
was have a good time – on the golf course and off!”

Melanie smiled ruefully for the fist time
since they had returned to the condo and admitted. “It is true. We
did cut a little bit of a swath through Billing’s high society if I
remember correctly!”

“And then there is your gift Melanie,”
Rebecca continued. “I’ve spent the last thirty-five years looking
for you and dedicated a significant part of my scholarly career to
the study of what explains your special talents. We’re all so sorry
you had to carry that burden yourself in those days, but there were
so many good things that happened back then as well Melanie.”

“It’s true,” Burt interjected. “When I had
someone do some research on missing persons and found your case, it
was Rebecca who had kept the file active and constantly bugged the
RCMP for any new information. As you’ve gathered, she is the Dr.
Johnston I told you about who is the Harvard specialist in spatial
relationship and awareness.”

Melanie just glared at Burt and turned her
attention back to Rebecca.

“Horace, Coach, and I were ecstatic when
Burt contacted me, and when he told me he was going to try for the
Champion Tour I cooked up the idea of you trying for it. I applied
for you and Burt had some friends somewhere who mysteriously helped
out and M. McDougal is now enrolled in the Champions Tour
qualifier. Much to the chagrin of the organizers as you have seen.
I wanted to contact you much earlier in Mexico, but Burt said that
would be dangerous for you so we waited until you were here in
California. What I was trying to do was to put you back into a
circumstance where your special abilities could be used. The
unhappiest people in the world are those with latent talents who
ignore them all through their lives. We wanted to put you in a golf
tournament where you will get the satisfaction of using your
ability.”