Written by Stephen F. Moloney
Ray came barging out through the doors of the clubhouse and thundered down off the porch. He hadn’t felt this kind of fury in a long time – and it was most certainly not a happy reunion. In an effort to try and calm himself down, Ray marched past the golf cart Reginald had been driving and began pacing back and forth in front of the clubhouse, his boots grinding hard against the gravel underfoot. He took sharp, deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. He balled up his hands into tight fists and then stretched them out as far as they’d go, repeating this process over and over again as if it would somehow purge the anger he was feeling out through his fingertips – but progress was slow in coming. As soon as he felt the red mist might just be clearing enough for him to regain control, the image of Mr. Denby’s and Truman’s grinning faces would pop back into Ray’s head and all but guarantee the mist wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not yet. Not while it still had plans for him.
Those people who’d been hanging around the clubhouse before he and Mustang had gone inside, had now started to take notice of how Ray was behaving, sitting up from where they were lounging on the grass and peeking out over the tops of their sunglasses in his direction, quickly followed with hurried nudges and whispered conversations of, ‘Hey, isn’t he that kid’s caddie?’.
Between the impromptu audience taking in his every move and the fact the grinning faces of Mr. Denby and Truman had now been joined by the gleeful manner in which the former had disqualified Mustang playing on repeat like a broken record, it all became too much for Ray. He’d tried to clear the red mist. Tried to fight his way through it. But this was beyond anything he’d ever gone toe-to-toe with before. This was a different kind of anger. It was more virulent. More destructive. Mustang had been wronged, anyone could see that – hence why Skip had tried to defend him. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Either way, Mustang had been robbed of his place in the final and there wasn’t a single thing Ray could do about it. And, at his core, that’s what was making him as angry as he was – in his mind, he’d let Mustang down, and, most frustratingly of all, he was now completely helpless as to try and do anything about it.
So, he submitted to the mist.
Audience or no audience, Ray turned around and, channeling all of that frustration and anger, drove the sole of his boot as hard he could into the hood of the golf cart.
CRRAAAACCCCKKKK!!!
As if it had all the structural integrity of a fortune cookie, the green fibreglass the hood was made from snapped under Ray’s boot, causing not only pieces of it to shear off into the air, but the entire body of the golf cart to shudder under the impact.
Having stopped into the pro-shop to pick himself up a can of soda, Bill walked out through the door just in time to see Ray booting the golf cart. “WOAH! WOAH WOAH!!” he shouted, utterly shocked as to what was happening, as he saw Ray wind up like he was going to deliver yet another blow to the cart. “RAY! STOP!”
Despite glancing in the rough direction in which it had come from, Bill’s voice was merely a temporary distraction for Ray, as the anger and injustice he was feeling was still rampaging unfettered throughout his body – and it wanted to be let out. After running faster than he had done in years, Bill covered the distance between the pro-shop and the front of the clubhouse in record time and skidded to a halt in front of Ray, blocking him from delivering the second kick to the cart his body was screaming at him to dole out.
“Get out of the way, Bill …” snarled Ray, his breathing fast and shallow.
“So you can do what?!” said Bill, steadfastly holding his position as a human barricade between Ray and the cart. “See if you can put your foot through the windshield next?!”
“Just move!” barked Ray, what little patience had survived the onset of the red mist now evaporating.
“No!” refused Bill, standing his ground. “Not until you tell me what’s goin’ on!”
Knowing full well from the look on his face that Bill wasn’t going to be moving from in front of the golf cart any time soon, Ray could only wheel away in frustration as he tried to force himself into speaking about what had transpired inside the Members’ Bar.
“They’ve disqualified the kid …” he growled, forcing the words out of his mouth.
“What?” replied Bill, such was his confusion it was as though Ray had just spoken in some bizarre alien language. “What do you mean they’ve disqualified him? Who has?”
“The damn Tournament Committee!” sniped Ray, frustratedly, as he whipped back around and gestured roughly off at the clubhouse. “That rat, Denby, just told us! Mustang’s outta the tournament! Gone!”
“But … why?!” asked Bill, the reality of why Ray was so angry now starting to sink in.
“Aw ‘cause I told Denby the kid had a scratch handicap to get ‘im into the tournament …” replied Ray, throwing out the explanation like it was completely irrelevant. “But then Truman Ballas decided to do a little diggin’, found out he didn’t have one, and that gave Denby the grounds he needed to disqualify him. And you should’ve seen him when he did it too – I mean, he was just lovin’ it! I’m tellin’ ya, if I see his smirkin’, grinnin’ face again?! I’m gonna-…”
“Well, let’s just make sure you don’t see his face then, alright?!” said Bill, sharply interrupting before Ray could start to wind himself up again. “Now, come on, keep talkin’ to me – what about the ten grand you paid to enter Mustang into the tournament? Tell me they’re, at least, givin’ you that back?”
“Yeah, they’re gonna give it back,” answered Ray, dismissively, as if they were talking about a measly ten dollars as opposed to ten thousand of them.“But this isn’t about the money! Ok, Mustang earned his right to be in that final – earned it! And now they’re just gonna take it away from him?! Over a goddamn technicality?! I mean, for cryin’ out loud, even Skip called Denby out on the fact it was bullcrap!”
“Woah, wait … Skip was there too?!” exclaimed Bill, the confusion he thought he’d gotten to grips with now returning with a vengeance. “What does he have to do with this?!”
“Well, ‘cause he was who the kid beat to get to the final …” replied Ray, still clearly agitated, but the red mist now, luckily, beginning to dissipate. “Now that Mustang’s been disqualified, the way they see it, the fairest option is for Skip to now play Byron in the final.”
“And Skip is actually alright with doin’ that?” asked Bill, sounding a touch judgemental.
“He wasn’t,” clarified Ray, sticking up for Skip as he had done for Mustang. “But when his reluctance was met with Truman offerin’ to take his place in the final instead, Skip said he’d rather play than watch Truman roll over for Byron.”
“Ugh, of course, Ballas would try to weasel his way into the final,” groaned Bill, ruefully. “Man, I’m sorry, Ray. This … well, this sucks – there’s no other way to put it.”
“I just feel bad for the kid, you know?” sighed Ray, the last of the red mist disappearing and being replaced, in its stead, with gut-wrenching disappointment. “He … he deserved more than to have it end like this.”
“I know …” said Bill, sympathetically, not really knowing what else he could say. “So, where’s Mustang now?”
“Uh, he left not long after Denby said he’d been disqualified – said he needed to get some air,” replied Ray, actually looking around to see if he could spot Mustang for the first time since coming out of the clubhouse. “But I guess he went back up to the workshop to tell Travis what had happened.”
Happy that the golf cart was probably no longer in any imminent danger from Ray, Bill began making a move towards heading back over in the direction of the pro-shop where his UTV was still parked.
“Alright, well, come on …” he said, now sounding far more relaxed, as he gestured at Ray to follow him. “I’ll give ya a ride up to the workshop – save you a walk.”
“Uh … you know what?” replied Ray, hesitantly, glancing off in the direction of the clubhouse. “I think I might actually stay here and try to see if I can have another word with Denby – maybe figure out if there’s any way to get him to change his mind. If you really wanna help me out, though, you could still run up to the workshop and check on Mustang for me – you know, just to see how’s he doin’? That would be great.”
“Are you serious?!” snapped Bill, a look of genuine anger suddenly spreading across his face like an out of control wildfire.
“What’s the matter with you?!” replied Ray, confused at seeing Bill react in such a manner. “If you don’t wanna do it, man, just say!”
“The problem isn’t that I don’t wanna do it!” explained Bill, still clearly agitated. “It’s the fact you’re askin’ me to do it at all! I mean, you’re meant to be Mustang’s guardian now, right?!”
“Yeah, bu-…”
“Then step up and be his guardian, then!” continued Bill, cutting across Ray. “Ok, he doesn’t need you stayin’ here and gettin’ into another row with Denby that, more than likely, sees you gettin’ fired! No, right now?! He just needs you to go talk to him and see if he’s alright – you, Ray … not me.”
Ray let out a sigh as he looked off at the clubhouse. He desperately wanted to march back inside, head down to the Members’ Bar, and have one more shot at talking to Mr. Denby – the remnants of the red mist urging him to not take ‘no’ for an answer this time. Deep down, however, Ray knew Bill was right. Mustang didn’t need him to be a hothead on his behalf. He didn’t even need him to be a caddie. He just needed Ray to be there for him. The problem, though, was that of those three things, the one Mustang actually needed right now was proving the most problematic for Ray to wrap his head around how exactly it looked.
“And what do I say to him?” he asked, sounding quietly lost.
“I dunno, Ray …” answered Bill, honestly. “But as long as it’s comin’ from you? I think that’s all that matters.”
Ray let out a heavy, tired-sounding sigh. “Alright …” he said, before looking at Bill. “Let’s go to the workshop.”
Relieved that Ray had listened to him – and that he wasn’t going to stay and confront Mr. Denby – Bill just nodded his head and smiled reassuringly before turning to continue on his way to the pro-shop.
“And hey, Bill?” said Ray, still standing where he had been.
“Yeah?” Bill replied, turning back around.
“Thank you for … you know … well, just thank you,” said Ray, genuinely.
“Anytime,” smiled Bill, before setting off walking once more. “Though, in reality, I’m the one who should be thanking you …”
“Thankin’ me?” said Ray, now taking his turn to be the confused one as he fell into step behind Bill. “Why?”
“Well, if it weren’t for you tellin’ me to stop …” he replied, his voice mischievously hinting that he was up to something. “I could have done a whole lot more damage to that cart than just cracking the hood when I ‘accidentally’ backed into it … right?”
“Yeah …” smiled Ray, recognizing that Bill was telling him he was going to cover for him. “Right.”
As they both smiled at one another, the high-pitched whine of a golf cart motor speeding towards them suddenly caught Bill’s and Ray’s attention.
“Travis?!” said Ray, in disbelief, as he shielded his eyes from the sun in order to see who was approaching them.
Sure enough, on a direct beeline for the clubhouse, Travis – with his cowboy hat, as usual, perched on top of his head – was hurtling towards Ray and Bill in a golf cart he’d, obviously, commandeered from the workshop.
“What the heck are you doin’?!” asked Ray, accusingly, after Travis had swung the cart around and brought it to a stop right in front of where he and Bill were standing. “You know you’re not supposed to be drivin’, man!”
“Aw, stop your worryin’!” scoffed Travis, dismissively, as he clicked the brake all the way down to the floor of the cart and stepped out onto the ground. “It was just from the workshop to here. Anyway, you two had been gone for so long I couldn’t just sit up there twiddlin’ my thumbs a second longer without knowin’ what was goin’ on – so, come on, out with it.”
Ray and Bill both looked at one another, the same sobering realization dawning on them at the exact same time – a look not lost on Travis.
“Aw, God …” he groaned, knowing whatever came next wouldn’t be good. “What is it? What’s that look about?”
“So, you’re sayin’ Mustang hasn’t been back to the workshop since he and Ray left earlier?” asked Bill, trying his best to remain calm, but his mind already beginning to race to the worst possible outcomes.
“No …” answered Travis, his mild irritation now starting to turn into full-blown panic. “Why?! What are you sayin’?!”
“He’s sayin’ …” said Ray, jumping in to shift Travis’ laser-like focus off of Bill and onto him instead. “We dunno where he is. And, given his history … that can’t be a good thing.”
*
Bill brought his UTV grinding to a halt outside the large, open doorway into the workshop and flicked off the engine. After clambering out as quickly as he could, he then ran inside to deliver the bad news.
“No sign of him anywhere on the course,” he said, his sense of urgency still managing to come through despite the fact he was now panting ever so slightly. “I went around to every one of the crew and no one’s seen him.”
“Yeah, he wasn’t up at the range either,” said Travis, who, on account of the all-encompassing worry he was now feeling, had taken to sitting back down at the table where, just a little while previously, he, Mustang, and Ray had been happily playing cards and eating lunch. “We even drove all the way down the avenue to see if he’d maybe set off walkin’ down that way, but that was a dead-end too.”
“Well, look, on the plus side,” replied Bill, trying to point out the silver lining amongst the storm clouds which had now rolled in over the workshop. “You know he has to be on foot ‘cause the Mustang is still here – so, he can’t have gotten all that far, right?”
“Possibly …” said Ray, sounding lost in his thoughts as he paced back and forth, racking his brain in an effort to try and think where Mustang might have disappeared to.
“Well, how ‘bout I go take a drive along the road back into town, then?” suggested Bill, still trying to be as positive as he could. “See if he’s walkin’ or … I dunno … tryna’ hitchhike or somethin’?”
Travis and Bill both looked over towards Ray to see what he thought of that idea. When all either of them was greeted with was the sight of him continuing to wear a hole in the concrete floor of the workshop, however, and looking as though his mind was a thousand miles away, Travis took it upon himself to take the reins.
“Uh, yeah, that would be great, Bill – thank you,” he said, managing to curl his mouth into an appreciative smile. “Though, you sure you won’t get in any trouble for leavin’ work?”
“Naw, there won’t be no trouble,” reassured Bill, dismissing such an idea out of hand. “Any work that has to be done, my crew’s already takin’ care of it; and, anyway, findin’ Mustang is a whole lot more important right now than cuttin’ holes in greens.”
“Well, in that case, thank you, Bill – again,” said Travis, gratefully.
“Hey, don’t worry ‘bout it,” he replied, waving off the need for any appreciation as he made for the door of the workshop once again. “Now, I’ve got my cell on me, alright? So, if I find him, I’ll give Ray a call.”
Now alone – and with the sound of Bill jumping into his car parked off to the side of the workshop filtering in through the walls – Ray said quietly, “I should’ve gone after ‘im.”
“What?” said Travis, looking over at him.
“Mustang …” answered Ray, now turning his ire on himself as he continued to pace back and forth like a caged animal. “When he left the Members’ Bar – I should’ve gone after ‘im. But I didn’t. Instead, while I was busy off poundin’ my head against a brick wall tryna’ get Denby to change his mind, he was outside needin’ me and I wasn’t there.”
“No, no way – not happenin’,” said Travis, adamantly, as he pushed himself up out of his seat. “Alright, I’m not gonna let you start beatin’ yourself up over this. Ok, you were inside that clubhouse stickin’ up for Oscar and tryna’ defend him – the exact same as I woulda’ been doin’. This is just what Oscar does – what he’s always done. Sometimes when things go wrong, he gets overwhelmed and just needs to go off somewhere and work his way through ‘em. Our savin’ grace this time, though, is like what Bill said, at least he didn’t take the car – otherwise, we’d be right back to square one of where this whole thing started.”
And, just like that, it hit Ray. From the moment he’d realized that Mustang had run off somewhere, he’d been pushing himself to try and figure out where that ‘somewhere’ could possibly be. Between the panic and the worry, however, Ray just hadn’t been able to get his brain firing the way he’d needed it to. It was like someone had killed the lights and he’d been left scrambling around in the dark searching for answers. But now? Thanks to Travis, someone had found the circuit breaker and flicked the lights back on, illuminating the answer he’d been looking for in the process.
“What is it?” asked Travis, the sudden change in Ray’s demeanour almost palpable.
“I can’t be sure,” said Ray, siphoning off just enough attention to reply as his brain kicked back into overdrive. “But I think I know where he is …”
*
After making his way through the thick, overgrown trees as quickly as he could, Ray – with little mind for the series of small, hair-like scratches now covering his arms after getting on the wrong side of some brambles – reached the spot he’d been looking to get to and came to a stop. Needing a moment to collect himself and catch his breath, Ray took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his t-shirt. Despite insisting that he wanted to come with him, Ray was glad, in the end, that he’d managed to convince Travis to stay behind in the workshop, for, knowing the sort of terrain they’d have to be covering, he knew all too well that his physical limitations on account of the Parkinson’s would just slow them down – and, given what was at stake, ‘time’ just wasn’t a luxury they had at their disposal.
With his brow clear of sweat – for a few seconds, at any rate – Ray popped his hat back onto his head and took a deep breath. ‘Please be here,’ he thought, pulling back the curtain of foliage hanging before him and stepping through into the clearing beyond. ‘Please … please …’
After taking no more than a couple of steps into the clearing, though, a feeling of pure relief quickly washed over Ray; for, there, sitting on an old tree stump outside the ‘LaFleur Cabin’ – just as he’d hoped – was Mustang.
Once he’d afforded himself a second or two to let out a deeply relieved sigh that made his legs feel, momentarily, weak, Ray began to walk across the clearing towards the cabin.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked, gently, as he arrived behind Mustang.
“Sure …” he replied, quietly, his eyes not leaving the fallen leaf he was idly playing with in his hands.
Having been given his invitation, Ray stepped over the stump rooted into the ground alongside Mustang’s and lowered himself down onto it. When he’d gotten himself as comfortable as he could manage – which wasn’t all that much considering he was perched on top of a slab of oak with his knees practically up around his ears – Ray went to speak … but realized he still had no idea what to say. In all the panic and worrying about where he’d disappeared to, then the tentative hope brought about by figuring out where he might be, Ray’s mind had been, understandably, preoccupied with just trying to find Mustang, not what words would come out of his mouth if he actually did.
The problem was, though, is that now Ray had found Mustang; and, as Bill had so bluntly put it, now was the time for him to step up – whether he was prepared or not.
“I’m sorry, kid …” sighed Ray, deciding to just let his gut take the wheel and say whatever came to mind first.
“What are you saying sorry for?” replied Mustang, confused, as that was most certainly not how he’d seen this exchange opening up. “It’s not your fault Denby disqualified me.”
“Yeah, I know that,” said Ray, still beating himself up. “But, still, if I hadn’t lied about you havin’ a handicap then-…”
“Then I wouldn’t have even gotten in the tournament at all,” said Mustang, flatly interrupting Ray and looking over at him for the first time since he’d sat down. “Alright, playing in the Memorial was my idea, remember? Mine. You just did what you had to do to make that happen. So, if anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”
“And how exactly did you get to that conclusion?!” replied Ray, reeling at the absurdity of such a statement. “I mean, if this is about the money, they told me I’m gettin’ that back. So, I’ll just go and pay off Greely like I said I would, your Grandpa’s slate will be wiped clean, and everythin’ will be all good.”
“Yeah, but if I’d won the tournament you wouldn’t have to do that and …” argued Mustang, looking as though he knew what he wanted to say next, but was struggling to actually make himself say it.
“And what?” asked Ray, sensing that whatever was on Mustang’s mind was troubling him to quite a degree.
Mustang let out a sigh and craned his neck upwards towards the dense canopy covering the clearing. The very tops of the trees were swaying gently in the breeze as their leaves were being dramatically backlit by the hot, afternoon sun sitting overheard, the light making their various shades of green appear all the more bright and vibrant. It reminded him of the very first morning he’d walked into the clearing after the Mustang had broken down. How bright it had been. The same deep, earthy smell from the undergrowth wafting up into his nostrils. The cool breeze blowing across his face. The silence. It all felt like another lifetime ago now.
“Well, it’s just …” said Mustang, finally speaking again, but not looking at Ray. “I thought if I could win the tournament and, you know … all that money … then I could show you that I’d be worth having around. But, now, there’s no way I can do that, and so you’re gonna end up giving away all of your savings to help Grandpa and …” He trailed off for a moment and let out a heavy sigh before continuing. “And before you know it .. you’ll realize taking me in was more trouble than what it was worth and … and you’ll send me back to Florida.”
Ray couldn’t believe what he was hearing. When Mustang had gone missing after what had gone down at the clubhouse, he had presumed that, like him, it was just because he was feeling cheated or angry at being disqualified on such tenuous grounds. But to hear that the reality of the situation was that he’d left because he felt as though he’d lost the one chance he thought he needed to ‘pay his way’, as it were, well, that near-broke Ray’s heart.
“Now, you listen to me, and you listen good,” said Ray, turning on his stump so that he was facing Mustang. “You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me. Alright, when I put myself forward to have you come stay with me, it wasn’t ‘cause you were good at golf or ‘cause I thought you’d make me a load of cash. I did it because you’re a good kid who’s been dealt a rough hand and who deserves, at least, a shot at having as normal a life as possible – even if that ‘normal life’ is with some dude in his 30s who lives in a trailer in the middle of a swamp.”
A watery smile broke across an emotional Mustang’s face as he let out the tiniest of laughs and wiped at his face with his sleeve.
“So, don’t you ever feel like you have to prove your worth or … that you owe me anythin’, alright?” continued Ray, himself, too, fighting hard to keep it together. “Cause payin’ off Greely? That’s my choice. I want to do it. Cause you and me? We’re family now – and that means Travis too. And just like I said to him, ‘family helps family’. So, if, in the mornin’, you decide that you don’t wanna play golf no more? That won’t change a thing for me. Cause I’m in this for the long-haul, kid. For however long you need me, I’m gonna be right here.”
Just like he would if they were out on the golf course, Ray balled up his fist and held it out towards Mustang for a fist-bump.
“I got your back, man.” he said, solemnly, as if almost swearing a vow.
Mustang looked at Ray’s outstretched fist and then up at his face. There wasn’t even so much as a flinch of doubt in his eyes. He meant every word of what he was saying – so, Mustang stretched out his fist.
“No matter what?” he asked, earnestly, as he held his fist against Ray’s.
“No matter what …” repeated Ray, smiling warmly. “I promise.”