After everything he’d experienced since coming to live with Ray, Mustang had come to the conclusion that he had reached a point where it would be quite difficult for him to be left lost for words. And between his exploits on the course; the places he’d been fortunate enough to visit; not to mention those more unique experiences he’d had like hitching a ride to and from Crescent Creek in Dallas’ plane, one couldn’t really blame Mustang for thinking he’d built up something of an immunity to surprises, as ‘the extraordinary’ had become something of a default setting for him.
Yet, if there’s one thing we can be guaranteed, it’s that no matter how long we’ve been on this planet, just as we start to think we’ve seen everything it can throw at us, life will always find a way to drop our jaws and leave us struggling to form even the most simple of sentences.
And for Mustang that was the exact state he was left in when, after being picked up from their house early Saturday morning in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, as opposed to being dropped off at the terminal as they’d expected when looking at the itinerary Desmond had emailed a few hours previously, he and Ray, instead, were driven out onto the actual tarmac at Louis Armstrong airport.
Because whilst they were, indeed, going to be flying to New York in anticipation of catching a non-stop flight to London first thing Sunday morning, they were going to be doing so not on a commercial flight.
No.
Desmond had arranged for them to fly to the Big Apple in the only way he deemed appropriate – that, of course, being in a fully-stocked private jet.
And to see New York City coming into view as their jet slowly descended out of the clouds en route to Teterboro Airport? The gravity-defying skyscrapers of Manhattan? The millions of windows gleaming in the mid-morning sun? The sprawling mass of Brooklyn and Queens lying off beyond the shimmering expanse of the East River? It was one of those moments where, as he stared out through the small window next to his seat, Mustang just knew he was always going to remember that view.
Because, sure, it was the first time he’d seen New York’s world-famous skyline in person, a sight no one ever forgets – though, for most people, their memories of it are formed out the windows of taxis coming from JFK, not those of a private jet.
But this? This was something more than just a case of ‘tourist goggles’.
From the second he found out that he’d be playing in the Open thanks to Ray and Desmond’s successful negotiations, Mustang had been overcome with this restless sense of excitement at the prospect of what adventures lay in store for him and Ray across the Atlantic. Thinking about what it was going to be like playing at Royal St. George’s. Thinking about how it would feel to share a course with the very best players in the world. He’d even allowed himself to indulge in imagining what the look might be like on Fletcher’s smug face when he found out that he’d actually managed to snag a place in the field.
But in that moment where New York’s concrete jungle finally came into view, his face pretty much pressed right up against his window in order to drink in every last detail his brain could possibly process, Mustang wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not the course. Not the field. Not even the idea of Fletcher throwing the mother of all hissy fits at knowing he now stood between him and his precious Grand Slam.
None of it.
Instead, between the high-pitched drone coming from the engines outside the jet, and the not-so-faraway sound of the flight attendant stealing a few hushed words with the captain creating an oddly peaceful atmosphere inside the cabin, what that view did for Mustang was remind him, in a very deep and profound manner, just how far he and Ray had come together. Because they had made this happen. The pair of them staring out the windows of a private jet as they flew over New York City of all places? None of it would have happened without the both of them taking that leap of faith into the great unknown the previous year – though, in truth, Mustang knew that, of the two of them, it had been Ray who’d had to make the biggest jump.
Because he’d changed absolutely everything about his way of life to accommodate Mustang. Everything. And as he settled back into his plush, leather-covered seat once the jet began to bank ever-so-gently off to the left and away from Manhattan in search of the runway at Teterboro, the view he’d just basked in still burning bright in his memory, Mustang had just felt this overwhelming sense of gratitude for everything Ray had done for him. Of how, true to his word, he’d continued to have his back. Through thick and thin. Good times and bad. No matter what.
So, when he’d spied the flight attendant returning from the cockpit, the smile on her face still as warm and inviting as it had been when they’d first boarded the jet back in New Orleans, Mustang had made a promise to himself in the few seconds it had taken her to tell him and Ray to buckle their seat belts in anticipation of making their final descent. One in which he vowed that, no matter how long it took him, he was going to pay Ray back for everything he’d done for him. For believing in him. For supporting him. But, most importantly, for giving him the first feeling of having an actual “home” since his mom died. And though he knew he’d never take a penny off him, Mustang knew the one thing he could do was try to make sure that not only would this not be their last time flying in a private jet, but neither would it be their final trip to a Major either. Because as far as Mustang was concerned? He still owed Ray the chance to caddie at the Masters and the U.S. Open.
So, whatever it took, Mustang was going to make that happen.
Obviously, as he was more than already well aware, Mustang knew that he could make good on that promise by just simply finishing second in the U.S. Amateur when it rolled into Oakmont come August. But ever since the prospect of going to Q-School and possibly turning pro in Europe had reared its enticing head the previous night, Mustang had been able to think about little else. He knew focusing on the U.S. Amateur made the most sense technically. But to know that he was just two good rounds away from being allowed to try his luck at Q-School and possibly earn a Tour card? To get his spot at the Masters and U.S. Open – heck, all four Majors – by grinding out good finishes at tournaments (or maybe even winning them) throughout the course of a season? And all with the added benefit of having the chance to earn big money every step of the way? It was simply too tempting a proposition to ignore.
So much so, in fact, that from the minute they actually touched down at Teterboro and found themselves swapping out the luxurious confines of the jet for those of yet another chauffeur-driven Mercedes that had been waiting on the tarmac for them to arrive, Mustang had set about using his phone to learn everything he could about what Q-School actually entailed. The format. The courses and countries where the different events were usually held. What the winning scores tended to be. Anything he could lay his eyes on, basically.
Noticing that he’d had his head buried in his phone since they landed, however, Ray, having finally had enough, reached across the back seat of the car and snatched Mustang’s phone out of his hand.
“Hey! I was reading something!” said Mustang, protesting at having his phone confiscated.
“I don’t care,” replied Ray, locking Mustang’s phone and tucking it inside the pocket of his jeans. “You can get it back later when we get to the hotel. Right now, though, we’re almost at our stop and I need you tuned into the real world, not starin’ down at your phone.”
“Yeah, about that …” said Mustang, taking a hot second to look out through his tinted window in an effort to try and familiarize himself with where exactly they were. “Where did you say we were going again? Cause I’ve seen Manhattan in movies and … well, this don’t look anything like it.”
“That’s ‘cause we left Manhattan twenty minutes ago, kid …” said a smiling Ray, shaking his head despairingly as he did so. “We’re in Brooklyn now – Flatbush, to be specific.”
“Oh, right …” replied Mustang, now feeling a touch embarrassed – perhaps a break from his phone wasn’t the worst idea in the world after all. “Well, it looks nice enough.”
“Yeah, it’s a good neighborhood,” agreed Ray, as memories of the last time he was this side of the river ran through his head – admittedly, not all of them good. “Quiet. But nice. It’s changed a lot since I was here last, though.”
“When was that?” asked Mustang, the endless number of restaurants and take-out places he was seeing reminding him that he and Ray had yet to have lunch.
“Nine years and two months ago …” said Ray, the answer rolling straight off the end of his tongue without a second’s thought or hesitation.
Realizing right away that he had to be referencing something quite important for him to remember exactly how long it had been since it had happened, Mustang tore his attention away from the window and, instead, shifted it across the backseat onto Ray. Just before he could try to delve further into what Ray was talking about, however, Mustang’s plans were interrupted by their driver, suddenly, pulling the car smoothly into the side of the street and bringing it to a stop.
“Here you are, sir” he said, looking into the rearview mirror and using its reflection to lock eyes with Ray. “Holy Cross Cemetery.”
“Thank you,” replied Ray, meeting the driver’s gaze with a polite smile. “We won’t be too long, I promise.”
“Take your time,” said the driver, quickly dismissing the idea of there being any inconvenience with him having to wait. “Wherever you need to go, and for however long you need to be there? I’m at your disposal until I drop the pair of you off at the airport tomorrow morning – Mr Finch’s direct orders.”
“I see …” said Ray, not quite knowing how to respond to the idea of knowing he now had a personal driver for the next eighteen-plus hours, but appreciating it nonetheless. “Well, still … we’ll try not to keep ya waitin’ all the same.”
“Of course, sir,” said the driver, recognizing that it was probably for the best to just yield to Ray’s desire to not feel as though he was being a hindrance.
With the driver now turning his attention back out through the windshield, Mustang – feeling free to actually speak again – quickly piped up. “So, uh …” he began, choosing his words carefully given where they were parked. “Why are we here?”
Looking out his window at the entrance to the cemetery, Ray let out a contemplative sigh. “Cause …” he said determinedly, the mere act of saying the words sounding as though they were lifting a tremendous weight from his conscience. “It’s about time I visited an old friend …”
He turned back from his window and looked over at Mustang, a warm – if slightly watery – smile now creasing his, as usual, heavily stubbled face. “And I don’t think he’d forgive me if I didn’t introduce you two …”
*
Mustang had always felt comfortable in cemeteries. He knew people probably thought that he wouldn’t be, given what had happened to his mom. But in trying to come to terms with the fact that she was no longer around – something, in truth, he was still having to work on day-to-day – one of his biggest sources of comfort, when he was still living in Orlando, had been to actually go to the cemetery where she’d been buried and visit her grave. Sometimes he’d talk to her, fill her in on everything that had been happening. More times he’d just sit there and enjoy the peace and quiet.
Either way, whichever one he chose on a particular day, whenever he hopped on his bike and began to ride the short distance back to Louis and Rachel’s place, Mustang just always remembered feeling good. Sure, in the beginning, it was tinged with sadness on occasions. Other times, even a little bit of guilt that he was leaving his mom there on her own. But, on the whole, as time wore on, his visits there just began to feel like a means of ‘resetting’. A way to work through whatever problems he was having and prepare himself to go deal with them – even if, ultimately, he knew it meant facing them alone.
And as he and Ray navigated their way through the cemetery – opting to just walk down the small road cutting through it as there wasn’t a car in sight – Mustang could feel that same sense of calm descending on him. Because, yes, they may have been in a cemetery, but that didn’t change the fact the afternoon sun was beating pleasantly down on their backs. It didn’t change the fact that what little breeze he could feel was gently rustling through the trees surrounding them, ruffling their canopies that were hungrily gorging themselves on the feast of sunlight they were being treated to. And it didn’t change the fact that the perfumed smell of freshly-cut grass was hanging densely in the air thanks to the strips of ground in-between each row of headstones having received haircuts in the hours before their arrival.
“Right, I think this is us …” said Ray, suddenly bringing their stroll to an abrupt stop as he looked down the length of one of the rows in an older section of the cemetery they’d wandered into, carefully examining it through narrowed eyes as if trying to check what he was seeing corresponded with the memories he had in his head.
As he’d seen dotted throughout the cemetery, Mustang looked up at the large statue guarding the entrance to the row. Though his religious knowledge had only minorly expanded beyond knowing Christmas Day was Jesus’ birthday after his year at St. Nick’s, what it had done was get Mustang used to seeing statues of various Catholic saints. And with the crozier, hat, and beard this one was sporting looking extremely similar to the statue he’d used as a marker for remembering where his locker was located in his first week at St. Nick’s, Mustang was pretty sure this particular statue was that of St. Patrick.
“Ok, cool,” said Mustang, tearing his eyes away from those of the blank, weather-beaten ones St. Patrick was staring down at the ground with and making a move towards walking down the row.
After taking but a few steps into the grass, however, Mustang quickly realized that something wasn’t quite right. There was something missing from his side – or, more specifically, someone. And, sure enough, upon turning back around to see what was going on, there was Ray, still standing on the road, frozen to the spot as though trying to do his best St. Patrick impression.
“You alright?” asked Mustang, unsure as to what the problem was. “You think it might be in a different row?”
“Naw, we’re definitely in the right spot …” Ray answered, now abandoning his statue impression as he took to shifting rather uncomfortably on his feet.
“Ok …” said Mustang, still none the wiser as to what the issue was. “So, what’s the problem?”
“That we’re in the right spot,” replied Ray, allowing himself the smallest of wry grins.
“Oh … right …” said Mustang, finally cottoning on to what was happening. “Well, uh … do you wanna come back later, then? Maybe go get some lunch and try again after?”
“Naw, naw …” said Ray, his face scrunching up as if he’d just caught a whiff of a particularly unpleasant smell, a telltale sign that he wasn’t a fan of conceding defeat to the discomfort he was feeling. “I’m good. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” asked Mustang, not buying Ray’s bluster for a second. “Cause it’s fine if you’re not. I know this kinda thing can be hard – believe me.”
“No, I get that …” said Ray, appreciating Mustang’s efforts to help him. “But, really, though … I’ve got this. Let’s go.”
With that, Ray stepped into the grass and set off walking past Mustang, confidently leading the way in search of the headstone they’d come all this way to find. Even though he knew this show of confidence was primarily for his benefit, an attempt to reassure him that he really was fine and that, momentary blip aside, he was the same old unphasable Ray, Mustang also knew that it was just as much a way for Ray for himself to get through what was coming next. Because, obviously, this was difficult for him – the fact it had been just over nine years since he’d darkened the gates of the cemetery was testament enough to that. But what Ray clearly hadn’t accounted for was that it would be as difficult as he was finding it to be. And, thing is, given they’d yet to even find the headstone of whomever it was they’d come to visit, chances were, things were only going to get more difficult before the afternoon was out.
Still, regardless of his worries, Mustang dutifully followed Ray down the row, the neatly-cut grass muffling his steps as he idly took in the sight of the headstones flanking them on either side. Given they were in one of the older sections of the cemetery, the majority of the headstones had, obviously, all been there for quite some time and were now showing their age accordingly. Spotted with patches of white and mustard yellow lichen. The carved names and dates of who they belonged to, now almost illegible after decades of getting relentlessly battered by the elements. Long-since forgotten ornaments and rotted bouquets of flowers from one-time visitors who never returned again – either by choice or because they themselves had gone the same way as those who’d they’d once spent a dreary Sunday afternoon visiting.
On a dark winter’s day, with a bitter wind biting at your neck and yet another squall of cold, diagonal rain just beginning to sting your face, Mustang could easily imagine such a sight making for a rather grim excursion. But on a day like today? With the warm sunshine? The sound of chirping grackles and whistling robins filling the air? It just made for an all-around quaint experience.
Having fallen somewhat behind with all his examining of the headstones and trying to see which one was the oldest (Margaret Clow’s from 1931 wound up taking the gold medal) Mustang hadn’t noticed that Ray had come to a stop at the very end of the row and was now looking down at one of the headstones, standing incredibly still as he did so.
Clearly, he’d found who he’d come looking for.
After quietly covering the remaining distance between them, Mustang came to a stop alongside Ray. Though still showing the tiniest hints of aging, what with the odd spot of lichen here and there, going on how generally clean the headstone looked – not to mention the small wreath of still reasonably fresh-looking flowers that had been carefully leaned up against the front of it – unlike its neighbours, this was obviously still a frequently visited grave. After taking in the general condition of it, however, Mustang finally zeroed in on the epitaph that had been carved into the headstone and filled in neatly with black paint. It read:
FRANK LAWSON
BORN OCTOBER 27th, 1979
DIED IN COMBAT MAY 22nd, 2012
PROUD SOLDIER. LOYAL FRIEND. LOVING HUSBAND & FATHER.
HE DID HIS DUTY.
“So, this is who you wanted me to meet, huh?” asked Mustang, not knowing whether or not he should actually say something, but deciding to go for it nonetheless.
“Yeah …” replied Ray, his response somewhat muted as he continued to stare solemnly down at the headstone. “This is, uh … this is Frank.”
“And I’m guessing you were in the army together?” said Mustang, trying his luck to keep Ray talking by asking him another question.
“That we were,” Ray answered, a nostalgic look softening his face. “Met in Basic Training at Fort Sill, and became pretty much inseparable from then on. Got deployed to Afghanistan together. Were in the same squad together. Everythin’. We even got a place together when we got back from our first tour – this crappy little apartment in Harlem that was barely big enough for one person, let alone two guys the size of me and Ray. But it was cheap, so we made it work.”
“Why New York?” asked Mustang, now almost forgetting that they were standing in the middle of a cemetery, such was his interest in hearing about Ray’s past life – something which, now that he thought about it, was something he knew little to nothing about.
“As in, why live here?” replied Ray, looking to make sure he’d properly understood Mustang’s question.
“Yeah,” confirmed Mustang. “I mean, ‘cheap rent’ in New York City could have gotten you a pretty nice place in a cheaper city, right?”
“It could’ve …” said Ray, accepting Mustang’s point while quietly noting how surprisingly mature he could be when it came to adult matters such as ‘paying rent’ – a holdover, undoubtedly, from his time with his mother. “But we were both a pair of twenty-somethins’, you know? Both from small towns out west. Both after puttin’ down twelve hard months in the desert gettin’ shot at every other day. So, the way we looked at it, we wanted to go where the action was – and what better place to get that than in the city that never sleeps. Or, at least, that was the plan at any rate.”
“What d’ya mean?” asked Mustang, his curiosity suitably piqued at the intrigue in Ray’s voice.
“Well, when we moved here, we were both single, right? A year in the Afghani desert tends to ensure that,” explained Ray, flashing a rueful grin at Frank’s headstone. “But about a month into movin’ here, we’re out at a bar one night, and Frank ends up meetin’ this girl who’s studyin’ to be a teacher up at Columbia; a girl by the name of Ruby. Anyway, we get to the end of the night, Frank has somehow managed to snag Ruby’s number, and as we’re walkin’ back to our place, he turns to me and says, ‘I’m gonna marry that girl’. Now, given we’re both pretty drunk, I don’t pay him much attention – mainly, ‘cause I was primarily focused on findin’ a McDonalds that was open at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday night. But, wouldn’t ya know, after six years of datin’ and a few more tours in the Middle East, ole’ Frank here proved that it wasn’t just the beers talkin’ that night …”
“So, he did marry her?” asked Mustang, surprising himself with just how riveted he was by this story.
“That he did,” smiled Ray. “I was best man, obviously. And it was just one of those ‘perfect days’, you know? Where everythin’ just went exactly how it was supposed to. And they deserved it – especially after everythin’ they’d been through.”
“You mean dealing with the whole ‘long-distance’ thing with you two going off on tours?” asked Mustang, taking a stab at what he thought Ray was referencing.
“Yeah. I mean, relationships are hard. Long-distance relationships are even harder. But a long-distance relationship when you’re in the military?” Ray answered, shaking his head at the mere thought of trying to keep something like that going whilst overseas. “That’s on another level. But Frank and Ruby? They made it work. And when they finally tied the knot? Well, you just knew that was them done, you know? No matter what. Nothin’ was gonna break ‘em …”
Suddenly, Ray fell silent. Mustang had been waiting for this. From the moment Ray had started reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ with Frank, it was inevitable that he’d wind up at this point in the story – which, in Frank’s case, was where his ended.
“But, uh …” said Ray, valiantly attempting to steel his voice as he forced himself into finishing what he’d been saying. “Well, unfortunately, they didn’t get the happy endin’ they should’ve.”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” said Mustang, trying to spare Ray some pain as he could tell all of this was, clearly, opening up some quite significant scars for him.
“I know. I want to, though …” replied Ray, each word sounding as though it was on the cusp of breaking what little resolve he had left. “See, uh, we were back on tour in Afghanistan; based outta Asadabad up in the northeast of the country – Kunar Province, so pretty hostile. Now, uh … before we deployed? I knew that it was gonna be Frank’s last tour. He’d put in ten-plus years. Done multiple tours. And havin’ been married for a few years at that point, he and Ruby were in a solid enough position to start movin’ onto the next stage in their lives. They’d bought a place here in Brooklyn – needed a lot of work, but they’d made good headway with it. And, really, they just wanted to finally be able to do ‘normal’ married couple things, you know? So, the plan was, Frank would get this tour done; get home; retire, and start workin’ for Ruby’s old man – he was a contractor over in Queens.”
Ray paused for another second to gather himself. The last time he’d spoken about what happened next was after he’d flown back from Afghanistan with Frank’s coffin and, at her behest, told a devastated Ruby what Frank’s final moments had been like in a hangar at Stewart International Airport, the main depot for service members in New York.
“So, uh … we get to May …” said Ray, trying his best to not think of Ruby’s tear-soaked face on that unseasonably stormy and windswept day in 2012. “We’re about a month out from headin’ back to the States – after, admittedly, what had been a pretty routine tour – and we’re both feelin’ good; the finish line was in sight, you know? Anyway, the 22nd arrives – a Tuesday – and word comes through to the base that some intel has been received about a possible Taliban stronghold up in the mountains. Now, we’d gotten a lot of reports like this durin’ that particular tour, and every single time they’d been nothin’, so we weren’t overly concerned. Either way, though, me, Frank, and the boys suit up, load into the trucks, and roll out to go investigate this supposed ‘stronghold’. And, unsurprisingly? It’s a bust – I mean, the biggest threat we come across when we get there is a goddamn goat with an attitude problem. So, after quietly cursin’ out our superiors, we load back into the trucks and start makin’ our way back to base. And after about an hour of the two it’s gonna take us to get back, everythin’ is goin’ fine … until we rumble into a dead zone.”
“What’s that?” asked Mustang, now falling on Ray’s every word.
“Dead Zones are places where it’s impossible – or extremely difficult, at least – to pick up any communication signals,” answered Ray, realizing that he probably should’ve explained that from the get-go. “So, when you’re goin’ through one, you just hope nothin’ happens ‘cause, otherwise, you’ll have a hard time callin’ for reinforcements or … as it turned out that particular day, an emergency evac.”
“For Frank?” asked Mustang quietly.
“Yeah,” replied Ray with a heavy sigh. “See, that intel our superiors had gotten? About the stronghold? We found out later that it had been nothin’ but a set-up; bait to lure us into the mountains. And once we were on the way back? And hit that dead zone? Well, that’s when the trap was sprung.”
“How so?”
“Well, in the time since we’d passed through the zone on the way up into the mountains …” Ray answered. “The insurgents who’d been watchin’ us came along and buried a few IEDs in the road. So, when we came trundlin’ back through – with no reason to believe that there was anythin’ amiss – we rolled straight over those same IEDs and they went up. I’m talkin’ two, three explosions.”
Mustang could only stare back at Ray, eyes wide and mouth agape in sheer shock at what he was hearing. He’d, of course, known that Ray had been a soldier before becoming a caddie. But to hear him go into detail about what it was like? To know he’d actually seen such intense live combat? It just made Mustang see Ray in a whole new light.
“The problem, though …” said Ray, unaware of what was currently running through Mustang’s head. “Was that the IEDs weren’t as strong as the insurgents had hoped they’d be. So, instead of just straight blowin’ us up, all they managed to do really was wreck our trucks. Once they saw that their original plan had failed, however, that’s when they started lightin’ us up with bullets. Now, I’ll spare you the exact details of how we managed it – ‘cause, honestly, it all happened so fast that it’s hard to actually remember everythin’ – but once me and the boys clambered our way outta the trucks? Well, a few grenades and some concentrated counterfire on our part quickly showed the dudes shootin’ at us that they didn’t wanna any part of us when it was a fair fight, so they turned tail and ran. Once the dust had settled, though? Well, uh … that’s when I saw Frank wasn’t in a good way.”
Again, Ray paused. This time, however, Mustang didn’t say anything. However long Ray needed to take? That was for him to decide. Mustang wasn’t going to rush him.
“Turned out he’d gotten hit by a stray bullet when we were still trapped inside our truck …” said Ray, now removing as much emotion as he could from recounting the details to stop himself from breaking. “And uh … well, again, I’ll save ya the details but … given where he’d been shot and where we were located … even with us tryna’ help him … it was never gonna be enough. So, uh… yeah, sadly, Frank passed away at the side of that road.”
Mustang didn’t know what to say. In reality, he knew there wasn’t much he could say. “That must’ve been really hard …” he uttered, deciding to go with the only thing he could think of.
“Yeah, it was …” said Ray, before clearing his throat and sniffing his nose. “I mean, to get within a month of headin’ back home, everythin’ he had waitin’ for him. The new job. The new house. A new baby? And for it all to just be ripped away like that? On the side of some dirt road halfway up a goddamn mountain? Thousands of miles away from his wife? It was just unfair. Frank deserved better than that.”
“So, him and Ruby were after having a baby at this point too?” asked Mustang, trying to get the timeline of events straight in his head.
“Oh … no, sorry,” said Ray, now realizing what was causing Mustang to look so confused. “I probably should have mentioned that. About a month into that same tour, Frank got word from home that Ruby was expectin’ their first kid. So, throughout the tour, Frank was gettin’ updates all the time ‘bout how things were goin’ – you know, with all the doctor appointments and that stuff. And, man, he was so excited; like, you wouldn’t believe. Cause Frank was always one of those dudes that wanted the big family, you know? And with Ruby due to actually go into labour the same week we were due to fly back to the States? Well, the whole thing was just ‘written in the stars’ as far as he was concerned but … well, apparently, ‘the stars’ had somethin’ else in mind.”
Mustang just nodded his head. Hearing how Frank had died had been sad enough in itself. But to now know that he’d passed away without ever meeting his kid? That just took it to a whole new level. Because Mustang knew what it was like to lose a parent, but at least he had memories of his mom. But Frank’s kid? They didn’t even get the chance to have those.
“So, what did they end up having?” Mustang asked, a shared sense of loss making him feel as though he needed to know.
“A little girl,” said Ray, a warm smile lighting up his face at the mere mention of her. “Maggie …”
“Maggie Lawson …” said Mustang, saying her full name out loud to see how it sounded. “It’s a good name.”
“Not only is it that,” said Ray, rather cryptically, as he turned and looked at Mustang. “But it’s actually a clue as to why I wanted to bring you here. See, Frank? He was a golf fanatic – I mean, completely obsessed. And had he gotten the chance to see you play? He’d have just been pepperin’ you with questions about what you were doin’ and how you were doin’ it – you wouldn’t have gotten a second’s peace!”
Relieved to see Ray looking somewhat back to his normal self, if only momentarily, Mustang smiled warmly. “So, where does Maggie’s name come into this?” he asked, looking to get Ray back on track.
“Well, ‘Maggie’ is actually short for ‘Magnolia’,” replied Ray, now glancing back down at Frank’s headstone as if he were directly sharing this moment with him. “After ‘Magnolia Lane’.”
“As in, the one at Augusta?!” said Mustang, eyes widening once again, except this time in disbelief. “Are you serious?!”
“I told ya Frank was crazy ‘bout golf, didn’t I?! ” said Ray, smiling. “And just in case your wonderin’: yes, he had a suitably golf-related name all picked out for a boy too.”
“It wasn’t ‘Tiger’, was it?” asked Mustang, a wry grin on his face.
“No – though, funnily enough, that was exactly what I guessed when he first said he’d thought of it,” quipped Ray. “It was Andrew – as in, after the Old Course. And the reason why he picked those names, as much as it was about how much he loved golf, it was also because the one thing Frank always talked about us doin’ – and this was even before he met Ruby – was that, someday, me and him were gonna save up enough money and go to the Masters and the Open …”
Suddenly, everything became crystal clear for Mustang.
The reason for the detour to Brooklyn.
Visiting Frank’s grave.
This was simply Ray making good on a promise to an old friend.
“So, now that we’re actually going to the Open …” said Mustang, thinking out loud. “You couldn’t leave without seeing Frank.”
“Nope,” said Ray, agreeing with Mustang. “I mean, I’ve stayed in touch with Ruby over the years and helped her out with money whenever I can ‘cause I know were the roles reversed Frank woulda’ done likewise for me. But to actually come here and see his name on a headstone? For a long time, that just seemed like a step too far – like it would make things too … real, you know?”
Mustang nodded his head. He knew exactly what Ray was talking about. Because when someone close to you dies, you, of course, know that they’re gone. But it’s the little things like seeing their grave or finding something that once belonged to them that really makes that feeling of loss hit home. And that? Well, that can be difficult to take – regardless of if you’re a kid or a war vet.
“But once I knew we were goin’ to the Open?” Ray continued, looking again at Frank’s headstone. “Well, like you said … I knew it was time to come see him and tell ‘im the good news … even if he won’t get to be there himself.”
“Nah, I think he’ll be there, alright …” said Mustang, as he, too, now took to staring at Frank’s headstone.
“Ya think?” replied Ray, sounding like he truly wanted to believe what Mustang was saying.
“Yeah, I do …” said Mustang, before turning and looking confidently up at Ray. “And if you ask me? He’s gonna be in for one hell of a show too.”
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