“Shit, I’ve been trying my best for an hour to get your mind off that, now I bring it up. Sorry.”
But Scott’s thoughts had already returned to his perfect life sixty-two stories above them. He now knew that Mack McCall was not going to beat Scott Fenney senseless with brass knuckles. He was going to do something much worse. He was going to take Scott’s perfect life away.
That feeling of impending doom enveloped Scott Fenney.
If she made this putt, Rebecca Fenney would finish with a 74, her lowest score ever. She stood behind the ball and took two practice strokes, then walked over and assumed her putting stance, carefully placing the putter behind the ball and adjusting her weight until she was comfortably balanced. She knew Trey, the young golf pro whom she was paying $500 for today’s playing lesson, was watching her closely, but he wasn’t eyeing her putting stroke. He was eyeing her butt. He always managed to stand directly behind her when she putted.
Trey had already holed out for a 62. He was twenty-six, gorgeous, and a former All-American golfer. He had just received notice from the PGA that he was eligible to play in the remaining tournaments that year. This was his last week at the club.
She made a smooth stroke, sending the ball on a true line six inches outside the cup, and watched as the ball broke left and rolled into the hole.
“Yes!”
Trey walked over to her. They high-fived on the eighteenth green of the country club. He looked at her like he always did, and she saw the need in his eyes: he needed her more than life itself. They had been having sex for the last seven months.
They turned and walked up the grassy slope to their cart and climbed in for the short drive to the clubhouse. Trey parked the cart, and the black bag boy appeared.
“Your car be the black Mercedes coupe, Miz Fenney?”
“What?”
“Your car, it the black coupe?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Make sure I take your clubs to the right car.”
“Don’t take my clubs to my car. Put them in the clubhouse, like always.”
“Mr. Porter, he tell me take them to your car.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, ma’am.”
Rebecca turned to Trey. He shrugged. She walked inside the clubhouse, into the golf shop, and directly to the head pro’s office, where Ernie Porter was sitting. Ernie couldn’t make it on the pro tour, so he had spent the last twenty years giving golf lessons, running tournaments, and pocketing a percentage of every club, golf ball, and pair of shoes sold in the pro shop.
“Ernie?”
He looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Fenney?”
“The bag boy, you told him to take my clubs to my car?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“If that’s inconvenient, Mrs. Fenney, I’ll have them delivered to your house.”
“I don’t want my clubs at my house. I play here every day.”
Ernie suddenly appeared sick. “Mrs. Fenney, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Ernie shuffled some papers, squirmed in his chair, then said, “Your husband, Mr. Fenney…Well, he’s…He’s, uh…He’s no longer a member here.”
“ What? We’ve been members for four years.”
“Well, technically, Mrs. Fenney, your husband is the member. You have playing privileges as his spouse. Since he’s no longer a member, you no longer have privileges. It’s in the bylaws.”
“Since when isn’t Scott a member?”
“Since today.”
She found her husband sitting at the kitchen table, their daughter cradled in his lap and sobbing into his shoulder as he stroked her braids. Pajamae was sitting across the table, her face glum, her chin resting on her hands on the table.
“Mother, Consuela’s gone and she’s never coming back!”
Rebecca put her hands on her hips and tried not to scream.
“Didn’t Sue pay our club dues this month?”
Scott raised his eyes to her. He nodded blankly.
“Ernie said you’re no longer a member.”
His hand slowly came up and fell on a piece of paper on the table. She recognized the club’s letterhead. He pushed it her way. She picked it up and read:
Dear Mr. Fenney:
The Membership Committee believes that your continued presence at the club will detract from the collegial social atmosphere of the membership. Therefore your membership has been revoked effective this date. Please do not return to the premises. Your personal belongings will be delivered to your residence, along with your final bill.
“It’s McCall,” he said. “He got me kicked out of the Downtown Club and the athletic club, too. He’s trying to pressure me to drop our defense.”
“Goddamnit, Scott, I told you!” Her arm dropped and the letter floated to the floor. The Scott Fenney ride was coming to an end. The only question now was whether the end would be a soft landing or a fiery crash.
The girls were sitting up in Boo’s bed when Scott picked up the book and sat down in the chair next to the bed. All the strength had drained out of his body. In one day, he had lost his maid and his memberships at the dining club, the athletic club, and the country club. Just the idea of it, that Mack McCall possessed that kind of power, that he could sit in Washington and pull strings in Dallas, make a few phone calls and affect Scott’s perfect life, made Scott realize his relative place in the world. Maybe 193 yards against Texas didn’t make Scott Fenney so special after all.
“You broke your promise,” Boo said, her voice stern, “and now Consuela’s gone.”
Scott had suffered all manner of physical pain, but none compared to the pain he felt now for letting his daughter down.
Scott removed his glasses. “I’m sorry, Boo.”
“Get her back.”
“I’m trying to.” Scott replaced his glasses and opened the book. “Where were we, the Thirteenth Amendment?”
Boo said, “We want to talk about something else.”
Scott shut the book. “Okay. What?”
“What’s a will?”
“A will is a legal declaration evidencing a testamentary intent to dispose of one’s property upon one’s death.”
Boo had a blank expression. “In English,” she said. Pajamae was nodding.
“A will says who gets your stuff when you die.”
The girls glanced at each other and nodded. Boo said, “So who gets your stuff if you die?”
“Your mother.”
“Who gets her stuff if she dies?”
“Me.”
“Who gets your and Mother’s stuff if you both die?”
“You.”
“Who gets me?”
“Oh.”
“My grandparents are dead, I don’t have any uncles or aunts or older brothers or sisters…and now I don’t even have Consuela.”
