I woke up the next morning sluggish and thirsty. I had arrived home the previous night at nine thirty and slept on the couch in the den, since Mary Alice was still under the weather. Before attempting to sleep, I had watched the Masters highlights on CBS. Seve Ballesteros from Spain, a two-time Masters champion and probably the best player in the world, had vaulted to the lead with a second-round sixty-eight. That didn’t bother me, because I liked Ballesteros and his bold brand of play. Jack had played better, firing a seventy-one, and was now one over for the tourney. He had made the cut, so he’d be around for the weekend. But he was still six shots behind Ballesteros, and based on the highlights, it was hard to imagine Seve faltering.
I barely slept a wink all night, haunted by the silhouetted image of Ben Hogan leaning against the tree and lighting his cigarette, whispering over and over again, Is that what you want? Is that what you want?
I poured myself a tall glass of ice water and drained it in one gulp. I had driven home from Shoal Creek in a daze and had forgotten to eat or drink anything.
After downing a second glass of water, I noticed an open box of Cap’n Crunch that Davis must have left on the counter after coming home late. I normally ate Raisin Bran, but what the heck? I fixed myself a bowl of the sweetened corn concoction and splashed a little milk on top.
“Breakfast of champions, I see?”
I looked up to see my wife dressed in her white bathrobe with the initials MADC embroidered in red across the front.
“Mary Alice Davis Clark,” I said, winking at her. “Aren’t you a sight?”
Her hair was a tousled mess and her skin was pale, but her tired smile and soft touch on my shoulder sent a tingle of warmth through my body. “How was Charlotte?” she asked, sitting down next to me.
After another spoonful of cereal, I said, “She’s holding up okay. I think she’s more angry than sad.”
“The stages of grief,” Mary Alice said, shaking her head. “Want me to make you some coffee? My stomach is too weak, but—”
“No, I’m good. I’ll make some in a minute. Here, sit down. Why don’t you let me fix you something?”
She sat heavily in the seat next to mine and began to rub her knuckles over her temples.
“You might be dehydrated,” I said. “Do we have any Gatorade?”
She shook her head and winced. “No, but I think there’s a Sprite in the fridge.”
I grabbed the last remaining Sprite from a six-pack in the refrigerator and poured it over ice in a glass. Then I took the box of Cap’n Crunch and emptied out a few pieces of the cereal into a bowl, forgoing any milk. “Here, why don’t you try to eat a little of this? Should be pretty bland without the milk.”
She smiled up at me and picked up one of the small, square morsels between her fingers, hesitated for a moment, and then stuck it into her mouth. She chewed slowly and took a tiny sip of her drink. “Well, it’s official. I’m never eating my mother’s cooking again.”
I laughed, and it felt good to laugh. Here we were, a woman whose mother had almost killed her with meat loaf and a man contemplating suicide who’d just buried his best friend, sharing a breakfast of Cap’n Crunch. It wasn’t necessarily a Hallmark card, but it felt good. The best I’d felt in a long time.
“I think I’d like to go see Graham today,” she said. Her voice was hoarse from all the vomiting, but there was also the ever-present despair that I heard every time she mentioned our son’s name.
The stages of grief, I thought, echoing my wife’s words from a moment ago. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance. The last one, at least for my wife and me, seemed beyond all reach.
Any good vibes that had begun to sprout died. “Okay,” I whispered. “When?”
“After I take a shower,” she said.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I felt obligated to ask. In the first few months after Graham’s death, we had always visited his grave site together. We both would cry and hold each other. Mary Alice was inconsolable in those days, and it was all I could do to get her to leave. She would plant kisses on the marker and get down on her knees and give it a hug. Over time, I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. Eventually, Mary Alice started visiting the cemetery alone.
“No,” she said. “Unless you want to.”
The words hung in the air for several seconds. Finally, I rose from the table and stuck my empty cereal bowl in the sink. “I should probably swing by the office. No telling what was dumped on my desk yesterday while I was gone.”
She nodded and lifted another piece of Cap’n Crunch to her mouth. I saw a lone teardrop slide down her cheek, which she made no move to wipe away.
I washed out the bowl with soap and water and turned to leave. I kissed her cheek where the tear had now dried. “I hope you feel better.”
As I walked away, her hoarse voice called from behind me. “Randy.”
She was looking up at me with a question in her brown eyes. She was beautiful in the morning light that was now cascading in from the window above the kitchen sink.
“What?” I asked.
After a second’s hesitation, the question in her gaze dissipated. “Nothing.”