The funeral of Reginald Darby Hays took place at noon the following day at the Trinity United Methodist Church of Homewood, a suburb of Birmingham. I arrived fifteen minutes early and immediately noticed Charlotte at the front of the sanctuary. At thirty-four years old, Charlotte Hays was six years younger than me and a decade Darby’s junior. She and Darby had met at a tour stop in Naples, Florida, about ten years earlier. “Randolph, Ms. Charlotte is the most striking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Darby had told me afterward, and he hadn’t been lying. Even now, at the funeral of her husband and wearing a long black dress fit for mourning, Charlotte Hays stood out with her auburn hair, fair skin, and tall, athletic frame. I strode down the aisle, hoping to give her a hug before the ceremony began. When she caught my eyes, she stepped around a couple of people and fell into my arms. “Oh, Randy. He loved you so much.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Mary Alice would have been here, but she is home with a terrible stomach bug.” I paused. “I’m really going to miss him.”
She nodded and bit her lip. “You know you were his best friend. He . . . really didn’t have that many friends.”
I snorted. “Darby was the pied piper, Charlotte. He never met a stranger. He had more friends than I could ever count.”
Charlotte’s hazel eyes glistened, and she shook her head. “No. He didn’t.”
Before I could respond, the preacher pulled her away. “We need to go over the final details, Mrs. Hays,” he said.
Charlotte looked at me. “Find me afterward. I . . . hope you will do something for me. Please?”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything.”
The ceremony was short and sweet. The Lord’s Prayer was recited; Darby’s niece sang “Amazing Grace”; the pastor said a few words of greeting to “celebrate the life of Reginald Darby Hays”; and, finally, Darby’s younger brother, Cliff, did the eulogy, telling some old family stories and providing the general theme, also echoed by the minister, that Darby Hays was a man people looked up to and respected. A fun-loving man who was always the life of the party. A man who would be sorely missed by his family and friends.
I thought Darby would have been proud of his brother’s speech and the turnout. There must have been two hundred people in the church. As the ceremony ended with the singing of “Jesus Loves Me,” which Cliff said was his brother’s favorite hymn, I couldn’t help but think of the ghost of Darby Hays that I had seen in my dream two nights earlier. Of sitting in my friend’s ruined Jaguar. Of hearing how little he had thought of his own life.
I wasn’t going to burden Charlotte with any of it, if indeed Darby’s ghost had told me the truth.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore, I thought, wondering what I had done all day yesterday while I was supposedly playing golf with Bobby Jones and a Scottish caddy named Johnnie. Had I been parked in front of the old Monrovia clubhouse trailer the whole time? Had I really been transported to East Lake and to St. Andrews yesterday?
Am I losing my mind?
It was a fair question. I was seeing visions of dead people. I was blacking out for long periods of time. And, before and during these hallucinations, I was contemplating suicide.
Perhaps it was more than just a fair inquiry. It’s an easy one. I am losing it, there’s no other explanation. I’ve decided to kill myself, and my body and soul are in self-preservation mode. They have jumbled my mind to keep me from going through with it.
As I hummed the closing hymn, I tried to shake off the thoughts. I was grateful that Charlotte would give me a task to occupy my time.
I peered toward the coffin at the front of the church, and my thoughts drifted to the last funeral I had attended. Dad’s service was held graveside with only family and close friends in attendance. I had sat next to my mother, whose demeanor remained stoic throughout the brief sermon and at the reception at my house afterward. She had never let any of us see her cry, thinking, as always, of other people’s feelings instead of her own. Only when I drove her home that night had she finally released a few long-suppressed sobs.
I hadn’t cried at my father’s death or his funeral. The cancer had slowly eaten up his pancreas over the course of nine months and moved into his bones. By the end, he’d lost eighty pounds and was almost unrecognizable as the roughneck bricklayer he’d been during his working life. By then, even Mom, if she’d been given a truth serum, would have said she was relieved when he passed on.
Did I love my father?
I took in a deep breath and rubbed my eyes. The answer was yes. I worshipped him.
Did he love me?
One of my fondest memories of Dad was watching the 1975 Masters together at my house, almost exactly eleven years ago. He had come over to help me finish installing a fence in the backyard, and we had caught the back nine together. There were no mushy moments. No “I love you, son” or “I’m so proud of you, Randy.” We had merely sat on the couch in my living room and watched Jack Nicklaus win his fifth and likely final Masters title together. We were both rooting for Jack, me probably harder than Dad. We had made small talk about the swings of the different players, the beauty of the course, and, of course, Jack’s forty-foot snake of a putt on the sixteenth hole, which won him the championship. We had both risen to our feet to watch that putt. When it went in, I remembered screaming “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. I turned to my father, who had a wide smile on his face. He hadn’t said anything, but he had pumped his fist once.
I bowed my head as the preacher gave the benediction and again rubbed my eyes. When I did, I felt the wetness on my fingers and realized that I had shed a few tears. Most of my memories of Dad were a blur of instructions, admonitions, and orders. But in April 1975, we had shared an experience. It had only been a moment, but sometimes, I guess, maybe that’s all we have in life. Moments . . .
Did he love me?
Yes, I thought. That was probably why I had so much resentment built up inside me. My father loved me, but his way of showing it left a lot to be desired. Why couldn’t he have supported me? A pat on the back after a bad round? Some encouraging words before a big tournament? Anything? All I could remember was the criticism of my shortcomings. When Dad provided encouragement, there was always a hard lesson behind it. Get up and work to support your family. Give up golf and turn to law because it is practical and responsible. Be strong for your family after Graham’s passing because you’re the head of the household and your wife and daughter will look to you to set the example.
He wasn’t a hugger and he didn’t talk in flowery words. His world was black and white. Right was right. Wrong was wrong. And if you weren’t good enough, you weren’t good enough. It was that simple. And when the person who wasn’t good enough happened to be his own son, he didn’t sugarcoat the sad reality of life.
There comes a point in every man’s life when he realizes that he’s not going to be Joe Namath.
I gave my head a jerk and set my jaw, tired of my own thoughts. I opened my eyes and looked past the praying congregation to the closed casket directly behind the pastor. I thought about my deceased friend, whom I hadn’t known as well as I thought.
Darby Hays was a frustrated and sad man.
Weak. I heard my father’s rough voice in my head. Over the years, Dad’s hard way of talking had become ingrained in my subconscious. I hated the thoughts it provided, but they were there nonetheless.
Darby was weak. If he’d had someone who kicked him in the butt a few times, then maybe he wouldn’t have turned to drugs and other women.
I closed my eyes tight, hating myself for thinking in such harsh terms about my best friend.
Then hating my father and his harsh way. I loved the man. I hated the man.
I worshipped the man. And I was perpetually tormented by him, even from the grave.
As everyone filed out of the church, I followed suit. I waited under the shade of an oak tree for Charlotte. As I leaned my back against the thick trunk, my mind drifted back to the hotel room at St. Andrews and the blank, depressed eyes of Bobby Jones. He recovered. He came back from picking his ball up and quitting a major championship. He came back and redeemed himself . . . and became a legend.
I shook my head and gazed down at the roots that tunneled out from the tree. He wasn’t facing a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar hospital bill. His son didn’t die of cancer. He came back, but he wasn’t as far gone as me.
“Randy?”
I glanced up and saw Charlotte Hays standing in front me. She regarded me with red-rimmed eyes and touched my arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I wondered if I had blacked out again. I hadn’t been taken anywhere else—no sudden flashbacks or anything—but by the worried expression on Charlotte’s face, I must have looked out of sorts. “Yeah,” I said. “Just . . . thinking about Darb.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but I still felt guilty for saying it. My guilt increased when I saw fresh tears forming in Charlotte’s eyes. I pulled her in for an embrace, and for a few seconds, she cried into my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just can’t believe he’s gone, you know?” She squeezed my shoulders and I could feel her hands clenching into fists. “And I’m so mad at him. Drinking and driving. Throwing his life . . . and our whole future away.”
She pulled back, holding my forearms tight with her fingers. “And everyone is wrong about him. Cliff, the pastor . . . everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Darby may have acted happy-go-lucky and been a barrel of laughs around his friends and family, but . . .” She wrinkled her face and fought back more tears.
“But what, Charlotte?”
“He wasn’t happy,” she said, speaking now through clenched teeth. “He was miserable. He hated that he couldn’t putt well enough to play the tour anymore, and he was filled with regrets for not winning more tournaments and being a better player.” She let go of my arms and wiped her nose. I reached into my suit jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which she took without asking. She blew her nose and looked up at the sky. “He wanted other things too . . . but we couldn’t . . .” She trailed off. “Here.” She tried to give me the handkerchief, but I held up my palms in protest.
“Please. Keep it,” I said, feeling a new rush of sorrow. Darby had never shared any of his problems with me.
She nodded and then, for a few moments, we both stared at the ground. I felt the wind on the back of my neck and realized for the first time that it was a pretty day. A good day for golf, I thought, and smiled, knowing that the pleasant weather was appropriate for my friend’s burial and hoping he was getting a round in on that big country club in the sky. Maybe with Bobby Jones and Johnnie . . .
I felt Charlotte’s hand grasp my own, and I looked at her.
“Can you do something for me, Randy?”
I gave her hand a squeeze. “Yes, what is it?”
She took a deep breath. “Darby spent a lot of time out at Shoal Creek. It was literally his favorite place in the world. He had a locker out there, and I think he kept some things there that were special to him. With everything that’s happened since he died, I haven’t been able to make it out to Shoal. Part of it is I don’t want to have to drive the same road where Darby was killed . . .” She paused, and I could tell she was fighting hard not to cry again. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I also don’t think it should be me that cleans out his locker. Shoal Creek was . . . sacred to him. Golf, in so many ways, was Darby’s church. He probably has some things in his locker that were very important to him, and I wouldn’t understand the significance of them. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
She peered up at me. “I trust your judgment. If you think there is something I should see, then please bring it by the house. If you don’t, then keep the item or throw it away. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “What about Cliff?”
“I thought about asking him, but I think it would be better if you did it.” She sighed. “I’m also worried there may be some things in there that Darby wouldn’t want me or his family to see.”
“Like what?”
Her gaze narrowed to a glare. “Like his girlfriends’ phone numbers. A pair of stray panties from a romp with one of the cart girls or one of his playing partners’ wives.”
The intensity of her eyes caused me to lower mine to the ground. “I see,” I said.
“You knew my husband better than anyone. Am I wrong to suspect those things?”
Still gazing at the roots coming out of the bottom of the oak tree, I shook my head. “No,” I said, realizing I should have been able to anticipate why Charlotte had levied this request. “I’m sorry,” I added.
“Don’t be, Randy. I loved that man. I knew he messed around with other women, but I loved him all the same. We were a good team, and let me tell you a little secret.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Darby wasn’t the only one who strayed.”
My eyes darted up from the ground. I couldn’t believe my ears.
She chuckled bitterly. “Oh, don’t be such a prude. Darby and I had problems, and we dealt with them in our own ways.” She paused. “Not everyone can have a marriage like you and Mary Alice, Randy.”
I again cast my eyes downward and began to wish I could unhear what Charlotte had just shared. “Mary Alice and I aren’t perfect,” I managed, thinking about how distant my wife and I had become since Graham’s death and the utter uselessness I felt at not being able to do anything to help us get over the loss of our son.
All I can do to help is jump.
“None of us are,” Charlotte said. “But you guys come as close as you can. You give her a hug for me when you get home.”
I again peered down at the ground, feeling guilt begin to saturate my being as I thought of my wife, whom I had last seen curled up in the fetal position in bed, still suffering from the effects of her mother’s meat loaf.
“Will do,” I whispered. Sucking in a short breath, I raised my eyes and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I should probably head to Shoal,” I said, and she gave me a nod.
I started to walk away, but Charlotte’s voice stopped me. “Randy?” There was a crack in the last syllable.
“Yeah,” I said, turning back to her.
“Thank you for doing this.”