Golfing with Cheryl

I hold the metal shaft in front of my nose and squint into the distance, the way skilled golfers do. In truth, I’m boggled as to what I’m supposed to be sizing up, but I conduct myself like a pro, nodding wisely as I assume my putting position. My left foot pigeon-toes inwards, just like Arnold Palmer’s used to do back in days of yore. Bending forward from the waist, I waggle the club back and forth—testing the theory that practicing in the air will help when I eventually attempt to tap the dimpled ball into the hole.

In my heart, I’m waiting for a sign—something that tells me to proceed. Maybe it will be a glint of sunshine on Lake Ontario, or the merry sound of a cardinal’s tweet—something that makes me smile and gives me hope.

Instead, a long-suffering sigh floats over my shoulder.

“Interference,” I mutter.  I hunch lower.

The face of my putter is pockmarked like an asteroid that’s been kicking around outer space too long. The grip is worn, the rubber too smooth, without a trace left of its vaunted Gecko-Tac grip. My partner likes to tell me, with unflagging persistence, that using substandard equipment will never win me any championships. His own clubs gleam with psychotic intensity. He polishes them between each shot.

“Why don’t you use your new gear?” He roots through my bag and brandishes a shiny club at me with the zeal of a villager waving a pitchfork at Frankenstein’s monster.

I grasp my ancient putter all the harder. “I will. Any day now.” I follow this up with more waggling.

He snorts in disgust, in the same instant that I actually whisper-touch the ball—molto adagio, pianissimo. It rolls to within inches of the cup and stops dead. I expel a breath.

He’s almost hopping in his agitation. “See? What did I tell you? How do you expect to improve when you insist on using that antediluvian apparatus?”

He’s a poster boy for big words—and technology. Anything bright and contoured and manufactured in a spotless laboratory appeals to him.

I, by contrast, cherish things that have been well used, maybe even loved. This putter, for instance, once belonged to a woman called Cheryl, who moved to town two years ago and became a friend faster than I can type out, “I suck at golf.” She signed up for everything, and became a regular on my spirited but lackluster trivia team. Perhaps she didn’t help us achieve higher scores, but she enlivened the pub with her booming laughter. When she entered any room, the lights seemed to brighten, and the party started swinging. At our book club, her eyes flashed as she trashed a pretentious piece of literature, and she didn’t stand down even when others questioned her taste. She pickle-balled and lawn-bowled and attended all the local fruit festivals, showing equal enthusiasm for the Roman Catholics’ peaches, the Presbyterians’ strawberries and the Anglicans’ cherries. She’d show up in the most unexpected places, including at a local writing award ceremony, where she clapped like someone possessed when I took my shy bow.

Then she got that most terrifying disease—pancreatic cancer. She pleaded with her family to keep it secret, and they did. Within mere weeks, she was gone. I never saw her looking anything but glowing, with pink cheeks and perfectly coiffed hair and the best pedicure in town—the very picture of health. That is how I’m sure she wanted to be remembered, but the news of her death came as such a shock, it knocked the air out of my lungs. Today, two years later, I still gasp at the memory.

My partner glowers. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing.” I replace Cheryl’s putter in my bag. I pat its pockmarked head.

Cheryl and I never did get to golf together. We planned it, but she died before the season began. Her son gave her clubs to one of her many friends, who in turn handed the putter to me. When I use it, I imagine Cheryl is playing right along beside me.

The old club may not help me improve my game, but the only person who cares about that is my competitive partner. For me, happiness exists in just pulling it out of the bag as I approach a new green. Each time, I feel Cheryl’s spirit. She lifts me on the rolling swell of her laughter. She challenges me to try my best. She reminds me that each moment is precious and that nothing —especially not golf—is more important than friendship.

I catch up to my partner and tap him on the back. He whips around, a suspicious scowl on his face.

“Sweetie?” I say, and lean in for a kiss.

He doesn’t disappoint. On the edge of a sudden breeze, I sense an approving nudge and, as a cloud zips across the sun, a ghostly wink.

The fairways roll out before us in militantly trimmed splendor. In the background the lake sports dainty whitecaps. The air feels charged, and zinging sensations run up and down my arms.

“Cheryl?” I whisper.

The red-tailed hawk answers with a screech, before lifting off from its perch on the old fort and soaring over our heads. The marsh grasses toss their maned heads. We’re the only golfers out here, but I’m sure we’re not alone.

As we walk to the next hole, my clubs rattle merrily in their case. I’m still goose-bumpy even though the day is warm, but as I take my partner’s hand he gives mine a reassuring squeeze. We are blessed to be here, healthy and alive and in love. Perhaps Cheryl beams down at us—I like to think she does—and if this is a haunting, it’s the gentlest, most benevolent one imaginable.