Mulligan Read online

  Mulligan

  OCTOBER 1998

  " SO IF BETTY is three times as old as her daughter Jane, and

  four years ago, she was four

  times older, how old is Jane now?"

  The teacher scanned the room to

  assess the expected confusion on

  the faces of those in her algebra

  class. Quadratic equations were

  always tough at first, even for the

  brightest students. "Who wants to

  try to write that formula on the

  board?"

  Sophomore Michelle Sanders

  worked feverishly to sort out the

  problem. Math hadn’t interested

  her much - until the day she

  entered Miss Stevens’ class. Truth

  be told, it wasn’t quadratic

  equations that piqued her interest

  at all; it was Miss Stevens. The

  algebra teacher was beautiful - tall

  and graceful, and with the bluest

  eyes Michelle had ever seen. Who

  cared if she was 60 years old!

  "Mr. Stempel?"

  All eyes turned toward Mike

  Stempel in the last row. The young

  man’s arms were folded across his

  desk, his face buried in the crook

  of his elbow. Mike was sound

  asleep.

  "Alright, someone else," she

  encouraged, her voice lower as

  she walked quietly toward the

  slumbering student. Any other

  teacher in the school might have

  shouted at Mike, or perhaps

  dropped a book loudly next to his

  desk to startle him awake. But

  Miss Stevens wasn’t like other

  teachers; without a sound, she

  lifted his jacket and draped it

  around his shoulders.

  Michelle had almost worked it out.

  Tentatively, she raised her hand

  to volunteer.

  A knock at the door interrupted

  the lesson, as Westfield High

  School’s principal Theodore

  Myers poked his head in and

  gestured for the teacher to come

  into the hallway.

  "Have a look at the problems on

  page 68. Miss Sanders, why don’t

  you go to the board and see if you

  can write that equation?"

  The student beamed with pride

  that she had been recognized by

  the teacher she adored.

  Louise Stevens stepped into the

  hallway with her boss, glancing one

  last time over her shoulder to

  verify that her students had

  understood her instructions.

  "What is it, Ted?" The man’s face was uncommonly grave. Without

  doubt, he was bringing bad news.

  "I need you to come with me,

  Louise," he answered, placing his

  hand gently on her elbow.

  "Rhonda," she whispered, starting immediately toward the stairwell.

  Myers hurried behind her, but the

  stout man couldn’t keep up with

  her long legs and urgent gait. By

  the time he reached the stairwell,

  Louise had turned the corner at

  the landing, dangerously skipping

  steps as she barreled toward the

  band room.

  On a dead run, the tall teacher

  passed a dozen students gathered

  in the hallway outside the band

  director’s office. They were

  somber; a few in tears.

  Inside the band room, Rhonda

  Markosky lay on her back, her

  beautiful face swollen and purple.

  Rick D’Angelo, the physical

  education teacher, straddled her

  waist, frantically pumping her

  chest in a mechanical rhythm.

  After every fifth compression, he

  would pause to allow another

  teacher to blow a deep breath into

  the dying woman’s lungs.

  Louise hurried to kneel alongside

  the still form, clutching the

  twisted hand tightly. "Rhonda,"

  she implored the motionless

  woman to respond, rubbing the

  hand vigorously. "Rhonda."

  Sweetheart. My darling. My love.

  FEBRUARY 2002

  "I hadn’t planned on doing this by

  myself, Petie."

  The Boston terrier, intent on

  proving that his tall mistress

  wasn’t in this alone, whimpered

  until she pushed back from the

  table to allow him access to her

  robe-clad lap. Petie sensed that

  she needed an extra dose of

  affection this morning, and his

  only purpose for living was to dole

  those out. Oh, and to eat. And

  sleep.

  Louise Stevens sat on her lanai

  with her morning coffee; her

  piercing blue eyes watching a small

  boat navigate the narrow canal

  behind her home. This was her

  first winter in Florida, where she

  and Rhonda had always planned to

  live when they retired from

  teaching high school in

  Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Were it

  not for Petie, the loneliness of her

  new home would be almost

  unbearable.

  "You’re such a good boy, you know

  that?" she asked, delivering a

  loving scratch behind his ears.

  Yeah, he knew. Theirs was a bond

  of mutual adoration.

  The 3-year-old pooch had been a

  gift from her sophomore

  homeroom class the spring after

  Rhonda had died. Louise was very

  touched by the gesture, knowing

  that her students had read the

  quiet desolation on her face every

  day since the loss of her

  companion. When she opened the

  box on her desk and found the 8-

  week-old puppy, she fell in love on

  the spot. Accessing the Internet

  from her classroom, the teacher

  quickly located a picture of the

  infamous Petie of Our Gang fame

  to show her students the similar

  markings around the eyes. She and

  her class settled right away on the

  AKC designation Rhonda’s Spartan

  Petie, the middle name to

  commemorate their high school

  moniker. The puppy was a

  godsend, and the only dog allowed

  in their home stadium during high

  school football games.

  Though the nature of Louise’s

  relationship with fellow teacher

  Rhonda Markosky was never

  formally discussed by either the

  faculty or students, it was common

  knowledge that the two had

  shared a home for 30 years. On

  those rare occasions when a poor

  test score or a scolding after a

  missed homework assignment had

  prompted a slur from a

  disgruntled student, fellow

  students were quick to squelch the

  disparagement of two of their

  favorite teachers.

  Louise had briefly contemplated

  staying on until she turned 65, but

&n
bsp; when that special group of

  sophomores graduated two years

  later, she thought it a good time

  to leave as well. The memories of

  her departed lover dogged her

  both at home and in the hallways

  of Westfield High School, and

  Louise finally decided that she

  needed a change. Now here she

  was, 63 years old, living alone in

  Southwest Florida.

  "Got to get that, Petie," she said, nudging the dog from her lap to

  grab the phone in the kitchen.

  "Hello."

  "Hey, Lou! Listen, we’ve got a tee

  time at 11:30 if you want to join us.

  Think you’re up for a round?"

  It was longtime friend Shirley

  Petrelli, who, along with her

  partner Linda, had retired two

  years ago and moved here to Cape

  Coral, a fast-growing suburb of

  Fort Myers… as if a place as small

  as Fort Myers actually warranted a

  suburb. With its inexpensive tract

  housing, Cape Coral had been

  dubbed a perfect community for

  the "newly wed and nearly dead."

  Louise had been looking forward

  to playing golf this winter, but

  those plans were thwarted when

  she had clumsily broken her left

  wrist over the Thanksgiving

  holiday. "That sounds really

  tempting, Shirl, but I’m not sure

  my arm’s up for that just yet."

  She’d only gotten her cast off a

  couple of weeks ago.

  "Maybe you ought to go hit a

  bucket of balls, Lou. You know, get

  your swing back."

  "Now that’s not a bad idea. I might

  just do that this afternoon." It

  would be a great excuse to get out

  of the house.

  "Oh, and don’t forget. Linda’s

  making lasagna on Friday."

  "Sounds good. What can I bring?"

  "Just Petie. Angel needs a

  playmate." Angel was a greyhound

  they had rescued last year when

  he was deemed unfit for racing.

  The sight of the two dogs - so

  disparate in size - playing

  together always made them laugh.

  Louise jotted a note on her

  calendar to remind her about the

  Friday night dinner. Old habits die

  hard, she thought. She had always

  kept a calendar to note the various

  high school sporting events, plays,

  and band concerts, trying as hard

  as she could to get to all of them.

  It was important to support the

  kids in their endeavors, and in

  return, they gave her their best in

  her math class.

  With a sigh, Louise noted that the

  Friday night dinner was the only

  event on her February schedule.

  Shirley and Linda had invited her

  to a dance on Valentine’s Day, but

  it was unlikely she would go. Those

  things just weren’t much fun as a

  third wheel.

  After cleaning up her breakfast

  dishes, the tall woman retreated

  into her master suite and pulled on

  a teal nylon jogging suit with her

  Rockport Pro-Walkers. Petie

  twirled and yipped, bouncing back

  and forth to the closet where his

  leash was kept.

  "Wanna go for a walk, Petie?" Silly question. He was ready as soon as

  he saw the shoes.

  The terrier yipped and twirled

  some more, finally settling himself

  while she clipped the leash into

  place. There would be bushes, and

  tall grass, and mailboxes, and even

  a fire hydrant in the next block!

  Two long blocks from her home,

  Louise and Petie turned right. This

  was Louise’s favorite part of their

  route. On the left, far across a

  wide canal, was the fence that

  surrounded West Cape High

  School. From this vantage point,

  she could see the kids gather at

  tables and benches on a broad

  shaded patio. It made her miss

  her teaching days, but it was

  satisfying to see the young people

  laugh and joke with one another.

  This veiled connection to her past

  life was a comfort.

  She’d been thinking of late that

  she might go in someday to

  introduce herself; perhaps even

  offer her services as a volunteer

  or a substitute teacher. In her 39

  years at the front of a classroom,

  teenagers may have changed, but

  not much, she thought. Louise

  enjoyed being around them, and

  they could tell.

  "You ready to go home, Petie?"

  The short-legged terrier worked

  himself ragged to keep up with his

  tall mistress, taking six steps for

  every one of hers. This one-mile

  loop always left him tuckered out;

  he would sleep for two hours when

  they got home.

  Louise unclipped the dog’s leash as

  they walked in the door, and Petie

  went straight for his water bowl.

  His mistress detoured into a small

  study off the living room, where

  she booted up her computer.

  It was a quarter to 10, and all that

  comprised Louise Stevens’ daily

  routine was almost complete:

  breakfast, two newspapers, an

  extra cup of coffee, Petie’s walk,

  and now a check of her email and

  the weather report for

  Greensburg. After her shower,

  she would settle in to read. And

  probably fall asleep again.

  "I need to get out of this house,

  Petie!"

  The startled dog cocked his head,

  trying to understand the source of

  his mistress’ consternation. They

  had napped, had lunch, and taken

  another short walk, just as they

  always did. But for some reason

  she was cross.

  When Louise spent too much quiet

  time in her new home, she grew

  melancholy or "self-pitying" as she would say. Closing up the lanai -

  okay, so it was a screened-in back

  porch, but lanai sounded so much

  more tropical - the tall woman

  slipped into the master bedroom

  to change. She had decided to

  take Shirley’s suggestion and go

  hit a bucket of balls so that she

  could ready herself to start

  playing again.

  Perhaps if she got back into

  playing golf, she could meet some

  new friends. Shirley and Linda

  were great, always trying to

  include her in the things they did;

  but it wasn’t fair to tag along with

  them all the time. No, Louise knew

  that she needed to develop her

  own circle of friends.

  The warm-up suit she’d had on

  earlier would suffice for just

  going to the range, she reasoned.

  Though it was uncharacteristic

  for the striking woman to leave

  her home underdressed, she was

  trying to adapt to this casual


  retirement thing. Still, a light coat

  of base makeup improved her

  complexion a bit and protected

  her from the sun.

  Passing the full length mirror

  beside the bedroom door, the tall

  woman had second thoughts about

  it all, turning back to her dresser

  to extract the proper attire for

  going out: a white shirt with a

  beige collar and trim that matched

  her knee-length golf shorts. A

  light blue v-neck vest completed

  the outfit. Just because she could

  be more casual didn’t mean she

  had to be.

  The closet held two sets of clubs,

  her own and those of her late

  partner. Rhonda had so loved golf

  that Louise couldn’t bring herself

  to get rid of either the clubs or

  the dozens of accessories,

  accumulated over the years at

  Christmas, birthdays, even

  Valentine’s Day.

  Exiting through the garage, she

  loaded her clubs into the trunk of

  her silver Mercury Sable and

  activated the automatic door.

  "This will kill a couple of hours.

  Only about…” she did the math in

  her head, "… a quarter of a million

  to go."

  Smack!

  Louise grimaced as she watched

  her drive take a sharp right turn

  only a hundred yards out in front

  of the tee. She’d never had a

  problem with a slice before;

  what’s more, she usually got at

  least 140 yards out of her driver.

  Sure, she hadn’t swung a club

  since mid-October, but this was

  quite an unwelcome result.

  Smack!

  She and Rhonda had taken up golf

  nearly 20 years ago, joining a

  modest country club near their

  home. Summers off from teaching

  afforded lots of time to practice,

  and over the years, both women

  had become quite adept at guiding

  the "stupid little white ball" into the cup. Louise’s long game had

  peaked about 10 years ago; these

  days, her drives were shorter,

  but her chipping and putting had

  improved.

  Smack!

  Again, her shot sliced viciously,

  this time clearing the fence and

  falling onto the adjacent fairway

  on Number Nine.

  "There’s a 50-cent surcharge for

  every ball that leaves the driving

  range."

  Embarrassed that someone was

  witness to this horrible display,

  Louise chose to ignore both the

  remark and the remarker, fishing

  in her bag for a nine-iron. Leveling

  her hips, she positioned her

  hands slightly in front of the ball

  that sat on the bristled tee.

  Smack!

  Louise frowned as she watched it

  fall well short of the 75-yard