WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (81 - 85)

81

Ty Hamilton

I had no idea who it could be. One of Mulligan’s relatives? A friend? The cops? I pondered the notion of not answering the door but decided against it. The house was lit up. It was obvious that someone was at home. I peeked through a slit in the blinds at the living room picture window. All I could see was the top of a head of platinum blonde hair. I took a deep breath, opened the door partially. “Yes?”

I guessed the woman at the doorstep to be several years older than me, but still quite attractive. She got right to the point. “Where is Mr. Welch?” “He’s not here at the moment,” I replied, a bit too quickly. Immediately I regretted it. This woman might figure out that something was not right and call the police I could be in jail before dinnertime.

“You must be his . . . friend,” she said. “Mr. Welch told me all about you.” It sounded like an accusation, perhaps a judgment. “He said that you might be coming here soon.”

“Really?” I said, hoping that she would bring me up to speed on this friend, whoever he might be. I waited. And waited. Finally, to break the silence, I said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name . . . Whom should I say came by to see him?”

“Rhonda,” she softened her expression and smiled. “Rhonda Gates,” she said.

I offered my hand. She hesitated, then shook it. “Where is Mr. Welch?” she repeated. “It’s important that I speak with him.”

“He’s out of town on business, Ms. Gates.” I knew that to be true. Of course, he had been killed on the job, but I saw no need to mention that minor detail. “I’m house sitting while he is away.” Again, a mistake. Too much information, and possibly contradictory to what she expected, or maybe had been told previously.

“Oh!” her head snapped back slightly, as if surprised. “Really?” Apparently, I failed to avoid raising suspicion. She raised an eyebrow.

I tried to slide the door shut, saying, “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

She put her hand on the door and leaned forward as if she wanted to come inside. “His rent is due today. And he promised that he would serve as a judge for the Miss Polecat pageant. That’s this coming Thursday! What am I supposed to do? He said he would be a judge!” Only then did she notice my bandage. “What happened to your arm?”

Before I could formulate a response, she went on, “I was Miss Polecat, back in 1970!” It was impossible not to detect the pride that she felt in the telling of it. “I was 26 years old. I had just finished college and gotten my teaching certification. I was engaged at the time to a young man who was overseas. Viet Nam.” She sighed heavily. “But he never came home.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Shit happens.” She shrugged, brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You can fill in for him.” It was more a directive than a request.

“Fill in?”

“I’ll put you down to take his place as judge.”

“Whoa, wait … I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It will only take up a couple hours of your time. The pageant is Thursday at 7 o’clock. You need to be there by Six.”

“Ummm … Okay, I guess …”

“Here’s the itinerary,” she stuck an envelope toward me, through the narrow opening in the doorway. “It gives you a schedule … everything that you need to know.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said. What was I thanking her for? I didn’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

She started to go, then hesitated. “Your name,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I never did get your name.” She said. “I’ll need it for the program.”

“Program?”

“For the pageant. We always like to acknowledge the judges by including their names on the programs that we pass out to the audience. It goes to the printer tomorrow morning.”

“Just call me …” I hesitated a second, thinking. “TC,” I said, using the first and middle initials from my recently abandoned previous life. At least that way I could keep it straight.

“What’s that stand for?”

“Hmmm?”

“I assume TC’s not your actual name. What does it stand for?”

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, giving her my initials like that. Especially if she was going to print my name. Quit being so paranoid!

“Curtis,” I said. “T. Curtis.” I brought a hand up to the side of my mouth and leaned toward her conspiratorially, “I just go by TC. So, if you’ll just print it that way, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.” There, problem solved. I’d managed to maintain an abundance of caution without being overly paranoid. I mean, really, would anyone read Tyler Curtis on the Miss Polecat pageant program and say, ‘Hey! Wasn’t that fellow they’re looking for over in Indiana named Tyler Curtis Hamilton? I didn’t think so.

“Okay, TC. Thank you for helping us with the pageant. One other thing,” she hesitated, just a second or two, then continued, I want you to know that I will be sure to include you in our prayer circle this morning. The Lord still works miracles every day, you know. Not just in the olden Bible times.”

I had no clue what the former Miss Polecat was talking about. I just assumed she was grateful to have a judge for the pageant. “That’s very kind of you,” I said, smiling as I closed the door.

82

The doorbell rang again. Rhonda Gates. Again. “Hello,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Sorry to keep bothering you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?” I said, “Was there something else?”

“Well, I know it’s nothing to do with you, but Mr. Welch usually has his rent check for me on the first of the month, and here it is the second already . . . so I was wondering if maybe he had left it with you to pass along to me?”

“Rent?”

“Yes,” she said. “I own this house. He likes to pay cash.” She leaned in and said in a hushed tone, “which is just fine by me, if you know what I mean.” She put a hand to her mouth, as if to stop herself before she said too much. “You’re not with the IRS, are you?” she giggled.

I thought it might be fun to mess with her. “No. Illinois Department of Revenue,” I said, with no hint of amusement in my voice or expression.

Rhonda Gates gasped. “Oh my! I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea. I . . . I . . . I certainly didn’t mean to imply that I . . .”

“Relax, Ms. Gates,” I said with a smile. “I’m just goofing with you.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she let out her breath in relief. “My God, but you scared me. Don’t ever do that again to an old lady.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “But no, I haven’t seen any cash lying around.”

“He always puts it in an envelope. I don’t suppose you’ve seen one anywhere around have you?”

“No,” I shook my head, “Can’t say that I have.”

Rhonda Gates stiffened. Sniffed. “I see. Well, then if you speak to him remind him that his rent is past due.”

83

Ty Hamilton

I don’t know what came over me. I needed to get moving, get out of town as soon as possible, but within seconds of Rhonda Gates leaving, I became immobilized. Maybe it was PTSD after having a couple different people—professionals both—try to kill me. Maybe it was the whole changing identity thing. Or maybe it was grief for the loss of my old life. Of all things, I faced indecision over the request to serve as a Miss Polecat judge on Thursday evening.

Maybe I could stay a few days and do the Miss Polecat pageant thing, I supposed. It might not be so bad. Probably wouldn’t lead to disaster, but then again, you never know. In a small town like Masterton everyone knows everyone, and people like Rhonda Gates made it their business to know everything about everyone. And tell everyone else about it. She made me nervous. Not to mention, I had just killed a sheriff from Indiana, and I kind of wanted to get the hell out of there before someone found the body.

I felt a tightness in my chest, and my breath was shallow, rapid. I didn’t think it was a heart attack. The pressure in my head was so great it felt as if it might explode. Without willing myself to do it, I closed my eyes and held them tightly shut. I’d had this before, many times. And then, when I opened them again, the blindness had come over me. Again.

84

It had been a while—months, maybe—and I’d pretty much forgotten about it. Figured it to be just one of those things. Periphery vision loss can be caused by any one of a number of things, ranging from migraines to glaucoma to a brain tumor, and anything in between. Back when it was happening more frequently, I did a little research and reached the conclusion that most likely I was experiencing ocular migraines. They always happened when I was under a lot of stress. Since I refused to entertain the thought of a brain tumor, I chose ocular migraines.

It was my leg to fly, and everything was progressing normally. The weather was good, and we had just begun our descent from cruising altitude. Without warning, I began experiencing what I guess you would call tunnel vision. My peripheral vision clouded up, all around, with just a small circle in the center where I could actually see. Kind of like on television or in the movies when they are showing a dream sequence.

The little tunnel through which I could see kept getting smaller and smaller. And the airport was getting closer and closer. “Ed,” I said to the first officer, “I’m not feeling well. Why don’t you do this landing?” And at that moment, I had this feeling, like the future had been changed. Not maybe in a big way, but maybe like we both were going to live because Ed did the landing instead of me. I’ve only had that feeling a few times in my life. So, Ed did the approach and landing, and I read the checklists.  Actually, I held the checklist up and verbally recited from memory. The landing was uneventful, and I called in sick for my outbound flight.

I was under a tremendous amount of pressure, so I figured it was just a matter of time until everything cleared up. It did, for a while. Then it came back again. It was intermittent, completely unpredictable. It happened a couple of times when I was flying my seaplane, and there was no first officer there to land it for me. 

The doorbell rang again. I glanced at the clock. My vision had returned, enough so that I could read it. Had I really been sitting there for two hours?

85

Rhonda Gates again? Or maybe a cop, come to take me away? I grabbed the gun I’d taken from the sheriff’s car. I wouldn’t shoot a cop come to arrest me, but I wouldn’t be taken alive, either.

I looked through the peephole and saw a middle-aged man in the dark blue suit and red and white striped tie. His graying hair was immaculately groomed, kind of like that former NFL football coach I see on television every Sunday in the fall—you know, the one who does the pre-game and halftime shows. I couldn’t think of his name, but it didn’t really matter. He appeared to be alone, but there could be others around back, ready to nab me if I made a run for it.

I mentally rehearsed what would happen if he flashed a badge or made any attempt to apprehend me. I would use my left arm—the injured one—to keep him away. It would be painful, sure, but only for a moment. With my right hand I would put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. I kept the man at the door waiting as I ran through it again, rehearsed the move a couple of times. The doorbell rang again, and he knocked. I took a deep breath and opened the door, holding the gun behind my back.

“Good morning!” The man at the door greeted me with a little too much enthusiasm for so early in the morning. “You must be TC!” he said. “I’m Pastor Don!” He smiled benevolently and extended his right hand. In his left, he held a worn Bible close to his heart. “Your neighbor, Rhonda Gates, asked me to drop by.”

I hadn’t rehearsed what I would do if the visitor turned out to be someone other than a cop. “Nice to meet you,” I said, moving my left hand behind my back, wincing with the pain of the movement, to take the gun, allowing me to shake his hand with my right. Otherwise, I would look like an asshole.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Pastor Don broke it by asking, “Do you mind if I come in?”

Again, not wanting to be an asshole, I stepped back, opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter my abode. “Ms. Gates asked you to come by?”

“Yes. Yes, she did.” Without my offering it, Pastor Don took a seat at the kitchen table. “I always like to meet new people who have moved into our community. Especially those who might have special prayer needs or concerns.”

That kind of took me by surprise. “What are you talking about, pastor?” I went to the refrigerator for some orange juice, then took a chair opposite him at the table. I didn’t bother to offer him anything.

He smiled, and changed the subject. “How do you like Messerton, TC?” Obviously, he knew that I was new in town. Rhonda Gates had probably told him as much.

I took a sip of juice. “So far, so good.”

“What happened to your arm?” he pointed to my home-made bandage.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just a minor scrape, that’s all.”

“Where are you from originally, TC?

Whoa! That was getting a little too close. “Is where I’m from really important?” I asked. Probably a mistake to be so defensive. “Ohio,” I said before he could reply. “Dayton.”

Pastor Don leaned forward. “I understand. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past. It’s more important where we are going than where we have been. ” He looked out the window, took a deep breath. “Messerton’s a good town. Good people.”