The Club

The Club

Hair golden-red in the early morning sunlight, a little long perhaps, brushing the collar of his Polo shirt, he thought to himself Must get a cut when I return to The Club.

The breezes picked up just enough to gently sway the grasses and palm fronds surrounding the artificial waterfall, a pond gently murmuring near the 13th hole. Seagulls floated in clear blue skies crying hauntingly over the beach a quarter of a mile away. He could smell the salt of the ocean nearby. It was a glorious day.

The greens, like emeralds, shone as he nudged the ball, white on greensward, toward the red flag in the 13th hole, a carefully, cautious, controlled stroke. He turned to look behind him at the loveliness of the morning, heard the soft clock as the white ball sank into the cup. I did it! I won! I got a hole in one!

He felt complete elation at this small victory. Taking out a narrow, chamois-soft black Moleskine notebook from the inside pocket of his red jacket, he carefully noted the number of strokes he had taken with the small pencil he kept in his pocket for that exact purpose. Eight only, all told, on the last two holes. He’d make his best score yet this season, and par, and be finished before ten-thirty. At this rate he’d be ready for lunch early: steak, fries, an iceberg salad, and later, afternoon meetings at The Club starting at 2:00. Planning for the future…his future…the Party’s future. Same thing, really, he thought. All was good. A Good, Good, Day!

Today’s Gonna Be A Good Day, A Good, Good Day the chorus by Black Eyed Peas, wormed, winding through his mind, a constant loop accompanying his languid stride towards the golf-bag, as he replaced the putter, just so, back precisely where it belonged. He felt supremely happy, in control, ahead of his game, even, waiting only for… What?

The ineffable familiar feeling accompanied the song as it wound through his mind…something else, but what was it he desired? Something indefinable that he wanted beyond the beauty of the morning and the blue-sky overhead.

He loved the game. All of it. The greens, the sun, the clarity, the sense of control he felt when he hit the ball just so, and it went exactly as planned to the designated spot on the links, as he had envisioned it would. Perfectly, irredeemably, exactly as he had imagined—so little else in his life was this way. So little else was quite as perfect a moment in his long days and many years. He placed the small black Moleskine notebook back in his inside pocket, where the softness of the cover formed a rectangular shape just filling the inner pocket above his heart, the golf pencil fitting precisely beside the secret treasure the notebook held. Careful to fold the bills inside the back cover, just so, beneath the leaf, hidden, his secret. Twenty bills in new, fresh $1000 bank notes. His to do with what he would and when, later that day or in days to come. He smiled a secret self-satisfied smile, picked up the bag of clubs, striking off towards the next drive, just ahead.

Looking up, he frowned suddenly. There was a figure in the near distance, approaching the run-up to the next shot. Hmmm… this could change his morning completely, he realized. Being who he was, he would have to stop and chat a little, or be thought less than polite, something that would not do in his position. Always aware of how he appeared to others, and in his own mind, he thought carefully before deciding on his next course of action.

Walking casually, now, leaning slightly forward to the right, into the freshening breeze, he began pulling the cart after him, white leather gloves warm in the sunshine, as he strode in a studiously unhurried manner to the next height to tee off.

Drawing nearer, in the slight distance, he spied a slim form in white walking steadily after her ball. The sun dazzled on a sheer white sillhouette, leaving no doubt that she was spectacularly fit and trim. She appeared truly driven, this woman, intent on completing a mission, not simply hitting a small, white ball in a game played against herself.

Her concentration was complete. She did not acknowledge him or notice as he approached behind her quietly. How had she come to be here without him seeing her before now along the various holes and links of the course?

As he watched, her swing came up, solidly hitting the ball a hard drive a few hundred feet towards the 14th hole. She strode off, cleats, wide white palazzo pants encasing long slim legs, arms browned by the sun, a sleeveless white cotton blouse showing an ample bosom, hair tucked beneath the visor shading her face.

Shadows and light played over her splendid features, a strong face, jaw-line and straight nose. Unusually tall as well. He approached faster.

”Hello there!” he called, waving. She turned and stopped short, waiting for him to catch up to her position. Just waiting, standing in the morning light, exquisite.

He noticed her eyes right away—a startling almost peacock blue, hair dark brown, cut short, a side part with bangs just grazing her brows: a Jordan Baker in the flesh. Golden bangles gleamed in the sunlight as she aimlessly swung the driver slowly back and forth, stretching her arms out longingly in the warmth, awaiting his approach.

“Well, hello to you, too,” she replied. “Is this your Club?”

“Yes, it is.” he laughed happily, “ but I’m delighted to share it with only you on such a lovely morning”.

He smiled, as only he could smile, radiating warmth, and charm,and strength, in one glance assessing what he saw and how she might be of use to him that morning.

“Well, I guess it’s only polite to let the owner tee off before I play on through“, she said, her voice a low-toned, even hum competing with the song in his mind, now fading swiftly into the past.

“Your shot” she smiled at him, brightly, encouraging him to step up to drive.

He took out a tee, placed the ball carefully, bent towards the green to check the slant of the grass in the morning’s light, took a step backward, then turned to smile at her in return.

“Perhaps you’ll come to The Club after we finish playing and have lunch with me? My treat,” he offered.

“Why of course, I’d be only too enchanted to do so,” she agreed, her smile spreading to include her eyes.

He turned, took the heavy driver out of his bag. She stood to one side, slightly behind, remaining out of his sight line and concentration, not wishing to disturb his lay-up and swing.

He hit it hard, a tight shot which bounced hundreds of feet away, down the long green hillock before them both. Probably the best shot he had made in weeks.

“Wow” he said, “What a drive! My best today! You must be my lucky star!” he chortled.

Just then, the unknown spoke again.

“Look” she said, “What’s that in the sky, there, heading out towards the 14th flag? Is that an eagle? A hawk?”

He shaded his eyes with his gloved hand, peering toward where she pointed. Swiftly, she raised her own driver. Neatly, precisely, and perfectly, she sliced a stroke behind his head, making contact, knocking him to his knees. As he moaned, she used the club to beat the man’s left temple to a mash, pulpy, until she was satisfied that he would not be rising again on that morning. She smiled a secret smile as she bent to examine her work.

Calmly reaching into his pockets, methodically sorting through tees, receipts, a wallet, handkerchief, keys, an elastic, and then, in the inner pocket of the cardinal-red jacket with the black collar tabs, she came upon a small black Moleskine notebook, its rectangular shape firm to the touch. Out came the 20 $1,000 bank notes, falling into her hand from the back cover. She flipped through the rest of it. Neat dates with times, the number of swings for each hole, going back weeks, months maybe. She placed the book back where she had found it, in the inside pocket next to his heart, with a soft and lingering touch. She smiled gently to herself, glanced at her work for the day, and stood up.

Sharply, she peered around the links, saw that no one else was on the course. It was still very early in the morning, she realized. Careful not to get blood on her white palazzo pants and sleeveless cotton blouse, she pulled out a small magenta notebook identical to the 3.5” x 5” rectangular pocket notebook he kept his golf scores in, tucked the 20 $1,000 bank notes deliberately inside the back cover of her own bright pink book, wrote the time and date with her own golf pencil, a single careful entry. All it contained.

Bending down once more, she placed his red baseball cap, with the four embossed words in white, almost tenderly over his face, a sign of belated respect, perhaps.

“Sleep well”, she softly murmured.

Striding quickly to the golf-cart behind the magnolias a few feet away, she loaded her clubs, started it and drove back toward the rentals where she had left her car, smiling her secret smile and glancing back not at all at the emerald links she had left behind. Her mission was indeed accomplished for that day.

As she reached the black car parked in the lot, leaving the golf cart with the others, she looked at the time. 7:30 a.m. Too early for most golfers in paradise. That last shot had indeed been his best, she thought. A good, good day indeed.

Starting the car, she turned on the radio. The song from long ago, now, played brightly, beginning most peoples’ early morning in the paradise which was The Club. Today’s Gonna Be A Good, Good, Day by Black-Eyed Peas.

On the seat next to her a hot-pink hat with small feline ears sat, exactly the color of her pocket notebook. She had not worn it since the demonstration years before yet carried it like a talisman to this job.

She smiled tapping her toes to the song, feeling the magenta Moleskine, a smooth firm rectangle in her own pocket, thinking of the future for herself… and for the Party as well.

By Catherine Poynter

Text Content: 1755 words

Photo Credit: https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1602646402064-0a820f0340ac?ixid=MXwxMjA3fDB8MHxwaG90by1wYWdlfHx8fGVufDB8fHw%3D&ixlib=rb-1.2.1&auto=format&fit=crop&w=1000&q=80 Photo Credit: Christina Ann Costello - Unsplash Round Hill Golf Club, Alamo. Ca