Tuesday's Caddie Read online

  She was a very bright and happy child, although a bit headstrong. School was easy. She read everything she could, especially poetry. She also was something of a tomboy, climbing trees, playing baseball with the boys. She liked to tag along with her father when he played at the Rock Island Arsenal Golf Course just across the river and eventually took up the game herself. In high school she started to take an interest in acting. Always a bit theatrical, she liked the attention and her command of the dialogue made her a natural.

  When she graduated from high school she enrolled in Coe College in Cedar Rapids. After two years, though, she’d had enough. She was restless. She had dreams of acting. They were making motion pictures in Hollywood. Why couldn’t she do that? Why should she wait? Over strenuous objections from her parents, she moved to California in 1925.

  She took a part-time job in a bookstore in downtown Los Angeles and rented a small apartment there. She spent what she thought a small fortune on photographs for a portfolio that she then shopped around to studios, agencies, in fact everywhere she could. Unfortunately there were several thousand other young pretty girls doing the same thing. She didn’t even get a hint of a break.

  Annie knew she had to do something different. So she did. She quit her job at the bookstore and found a job as a waitress with a catering company that did work for the film studios. On the bookings she was sent to at the studios she played the vamp: flirting, cajoling, talking with everyone and anyone who looked important. It paid off. She started getting invited to parties.

  The parties were a frightening ballet. Invited because she was young, pretty and available, she had to endure pawing, groping, rude jokes, drunken advances and scary moments when she thought herself in real danger. But like a ballerina she was able to pirouette away again and again and dance through the room looking for a friend. Finally, she found one.

  It was at a party at the home of Oliver Gadsden, a producer who had turned out a series of successful silent movies for MGM. Having met him at an earlier event, Annie engaged him in conversation when she arrived. He told her he had someone he wanted her to meet and pointed out through French doors to two men standing on a veranda occupied in what looked like an earnest conversation. One was shorter than the other, middle aged, good looking; the other younger and quite handsome. She had hoped he meant the younger one, but it turned out to be the other, Franklin Burke.

  He was eighteen years her senior. But he was charming and moneyed and extremely well connected. He had made his mark in Hollywood as a screenwriter during the silent movie era. Even though writers held limited clout in the industry, he seemed to know everyone who was anyone and immediately got her a string of auditions. Unfortunately, the business was in the midst of a transition to talkies. Her alto voice and Midwest accent with its hard flat vowels were at odds with her delicate look. She received no offers for parts. All this would have been disappointing had she not found herself in the middle of a whirlwind courtship.

  Burke had quite the flamboyant streak: nights of revelry at the Cocoanut Grove rubbing elbows with Hollywood luminaries, cruises to Santa Catalina Island, bullfights in Tijuana, skiing in Big Bear, galas galore. Somewhere along the way she decided that if she couldn’t be a star at least she could marry someone who led the life of one.

  Annie had wanted to wait to give her parents a chance to come out for the wedding but Franklin was too impatient. The Justice of the Peace married them at Los Angeles City Hall in September 1926.

  His home in the Hollywood Hills was a bit incongruous. Not quite a mansion, it was still rather large – a two-story mission-style structure with tiled roof and palm trees clustered about the expansive front lawn. But inside it was odd, Annie thought. Instead of mission, craftsman or art deco décor that was so popular at the time, it was done mostly in French provincial with antique furniture and oriental carpets spread about the Spanish tile floor. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from timbered ceilings. Somehow it just didn’t fit. Neither did she.

  Happily married life there lasted two months. The same revolution that had cost Annie any chance at acting was now eating away at Franklin. He had been contracted to write his first screenplay for a talking movie and it was going very badly. Draft after draft was rejected. Writing scenes had never been difficult. Writing dialogue to go with them was. He started drinking even more. On the verge of losing the assignment, he passed out drunk at his typewriter late one night.

  Annie found him there when he hadn’t come to bed. She pulled him from the chair, laid him on the floor and found a blanket to cover him. Then she sat down at the typewriter. She read what was in the typewriter then ripped the page out and tossed it on the floor. She rolled in a fresh sheet and started typing.

  The draft she finished over the next three weeks was accepted immediately. Franklin spent the time drinking or sleeping. And thus their roles reversed. But their reality stayed their secret. It was his name that kept the assignments and the money coming. As long as Annie could produce, their lives could continue as before.

  Annie was torn. She was exhilarated to be writing and to be writing movies that were actually being made, but she chafed at the anonymity. “A ghostwriter,” she thought. “That’s what I’ve become. And living a ghostly life, lying about who I really am… who he really is. But it’s all I can be… a ghost”

  She counseled herself that it was still living the life she dreamed. So she went on. And the assignments kept coming.

  Over the next three years she not only became prolific, but accomplished. A screenplay she had written in 1927 became a movie in 1928 that even earned Franklin an Academy Award nomination for screenwriting in the first such awards ever presented. They didn’t win, but it meant the work, his work, her work, would be worth more than ever.

  In time they developed a routine. When she was writing he would disappear. Which was just fine by her, she liked the isolation when she worked. Their love life had ebbed to virtually nothing, so it wasn’t like she needed him in her bed. He told her he was staying in Malibu or up in Santa Barbara. When she wasn’t writing they did many of the things they had done before – socializing, parties, going to clubs. When he – she – won the nomination for the Academy Award, he rewarded her by taking out a weekday membership at the Biarritz Country Club.

  She liked the idea of playing golf again. Getting out into the fresh air and walking the course appealed to her. It would be a nice break from the typewriter and, for that matter, painting the town as often as they did.

  Franklin had not speculated in real estate or the stock market so the crash of 1929 had little effect on their lives. That there were no investments might have concerned Annie, but she had given all responsibility for finances over to Franklin from the beginning. All she knew was they had money.

  Then one day, in April 1930, they didn’t. She was writing and he was away. She had called the local grocer to have some food delivered. But she was told that could not be accommodated because their account was past due. They were very sorry but three months was too long. They hoped she understood. She put the phone back on the receiver, stunned. She didn’t know where to reach Franklin, so she went looking through his desk, through his dresser drawers, anywhere for a bank statement or something that might explain what was going on.

  In his nightstand, under a book and two bound drafts of her screenplays was an envelope addressed to Franklin in a graceful hand. She began to tremble. It was postmarked the week before. She opened the envelope, took out the single sheet inside, slowly unfolded it and read.

  My Love, my Dearest Love. You must know all that you mean to me. You are my world, my sun, my moon, my every breath. The days and the hours I am blessed to spend with you are never enough to fill the ache in my soul when we are apart. I know why you are still with her and I understand. Or I try to. I’m sending this to you there so you will know how I’m feeling when you are there with her. I want you inside me right now, your body on mine, my mouth on you. Until then know that I am touching myself
and thinking of you. I want you, I want you, I want you. Yours always in the desire and love we share, L.

  Annie gagged. She ran to the bathroom where she vomited. She came back and collapsed on the edge of the bed, the letter still clutched in her hand, her mind spinning in ever faster circles trying to grasp the enormity of the truth, the betrayal. She began shaking then crying. Finally exhaustion plummeted her into sleep.

  (back to top)

  Chapter 5

  First Round

  Tuesday, April 22, 1930

  It had been a slow morning in the caddie yard and, for Conor O'Reilly, a costly one. Unlike the week before, he’d not picked up even one bag much less a double. And to top it off he just lost the five dollars he won on the golf course the day before in a game of gin rummy.

  “Thieves and scoundrels!” he sputtered in mock anger as he rose from the bench and tossed his cards on the table. “This is the punishment I’m to be served for dealing with a band of blackguards the likes of you.”

  Pissquick narrowed his eyes against the smoke from the stub of a stogie he was working on. “Serves you right, Irish, for fleecing us like that yesterday. In my book you’re the bandit. There ain’t no way you’re giving less than six a side next week.”

  Dogface jumped in, “Six a side? More like a stroke a hole! You nearly matched par yesterday. You’re a hustler, Mick, pure and simple. I tell ya, I don’t mind losing a bet, but I hate gettin’ robbed.”

  “Bah. Well you got your revenge today, boys. Happy with that you should surely be.”

  Conor ambled over to the Dutch door. The top was open and he leaned on its shelf and looked down at Gino sitting at his desk looking through the tee sheet that listed the players who had booked times in advance for the day.

  “So, Cap’n,” Conor asked, “what’s the chances of any work this fine day?

  Gino immediately covered the page with his arms. The tee sheet was sacrosanct. The list of players booked for the day was his domain, and his domain only. It was the schedule from which he decided what caddie was caddying for what member. Nobody in the caddie yard could be privy to its contents. He swiveled his head to Conor, startled.

  “Get back out’ a there. Back off!”

  Conor stepped back, palms pushed forward. “Sorry, Cap’n, just was asking.”

  “Well, you don’t ask. I tell. So here’s what I’m tellin’ you. You got a loop coming up in fifteen minutes, eleven-forty, just ahead of the ladies. Mr. and Mrs. Burke. It’s a double so don’t give me any lip. They’re sorta new members. Haven’t played much. So I wanna send them out with somebody who knows their way around a little. But don’t get a big head. Your regulars this afternoon are gonna miss their pretty boy. And I have to deal with that, thanks to you. Now go fetch their bags.”

  Conor never disobeyed a direct order of that kind from Gino. He left the yard and went up to the drive in front of the entrance to the clubhouse looking for the bags at the bag drop where people who didn’t keep their clubs at the course dropped them off. He found them. One was a large leather bag full of balls and shoes and too many clubs. The other was a smaller canvas bag, almost a Sunday bag, the kind you might use if you were carrying the bag yourself. He hefted the bags on his shoulders and wished they balanced better. Then he walked down to the first tee to wait for his loop.

  Mr. Burke came out first. He looked like most of the other members at Biarritz. And he dressed the part – sport jacket, tie tucked into his shirt, trousers, wool cap on his head. He didn’t acknowledge Conor; instead he walked over to the leather bag, took out his driver and began making practice swings taking clods out of the sod as he did so. “Utter hacker,” Conor thought.

  Watching Burke, he didn’t notice the wife walking down the path to the tee. Then he happened to look over and saw that face. Her eyes met his for an instant and in that moment there was a flash of recognition for them both. She looked down immediately and walked to her bag. She turned her back to the caddie and addressed her husband.

  “Franklin, I think we should have a wonderful, glorious day on the links today. Would you care to make it a game?”

  “Well, my dear, whatever would please you. I can say, though, that I’m feeling in fine fettle today. I think I should need but six shots from you to give you a run for your money."

  “Challenge accepted, then. Three a side it is.”

  Conor was stunned. Hers was the face in the window of the Packard that had almost run him down last week. He didn’t know what to make of this, but he was suddenly intrigued by this loop.

  Burke walked over to Conor and handed him his driver. Conor took the towel from his shoulder and wiped the dirt from the sole and face, then handed it back and introduced himself.

  "Good morning, sir. I’m to be called 'Mick' around here and I’ll be your caddie today."

  Burke gave a grunt then held out his hand for Conor to give him a ball and a tee. Conor was ready with them and Burke walked onto the tee and prepared to hit. He took two practice swings again taking divots out of the turf, then addressed the ball and swung. It was as much a lunge as a swing. Compensating for his bad practice swings, he hoisted his entire body mid-swing and topped the ball dribbling it just off the front of the tee box.

  "Mulligan," he muttered to no one in particular and turned and motioned for Conor to toss him another ball. Conor did and Burke re-teed. His next swing was more deliberate but the result wasn't much better; a low screaming slice that rattled among the trees immediately to the right.

  "Another," Burke announced. His next shot was yet again low, but this time pulled into the rough on the left. Apparently it was good enough. "That should do," he pronounced as he handed the club back to Conor.

  The three walked up to the forward tee, Conor retrieving the first ball along the way.

  Annie approached Conor. "Good morning," she said, giving him a direct look. "The caddie master says your name is Mick?"

  "Yes Ma'am," he smiled.

  "Well, Mick, my name is Annie. Let's have some fun today, shall we?"

  "Yes Ma'am, it's surely a fine day to be golfing the ball," he said as he pulled her driver from the bag.

  He watched as she teed her ball and prepared for her shot. She wore a long gray skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse with ruffles framing the placket. Her blonde hair was pinned up under a hat with a rounded crown, the front brim turned up. She moved with purpose and ease, taking a couple of relaxed practice swings. Then she stepped to her ball, glanced twice down the fairway and swung. Conor couldn't remember ever seeing a woman swing with such grace. Instead of just flailing her arms like she was chopping wood, she turned her body through the ball to a full finish in perfect balance. The ball responded accordingly, arcing straight down the middle. "Ah, a golfer," Conor thought. And so they were off.

  * * *

  Annie had reached an understanding with Franklin. They would stay together in the house, but in separate bedrooms. She would continue to write the screenplays his name drew and he would continue to cultivate the contacts that kept the work coming. He was free to be or go wherever he wanted while she was writing. When they were together they would keep up appearances socializing and portraying the roles of happy husband and wife.

  Annie had been firm, though, that she wanted time for her herself, including playing golf again. She needed room to breathe freely and be her own woman. It wasn't the life and the hard work she objected to, it was only the company. Of course, she would need Franklin to accompany her until she was introduced and made friends at the club. But after that, golf was to be her province.

  There was also the issue of money. Why were they past due on so many bills? What was the status of their finances? She demanded that accounts be set up in her name with a balance that would at least let her support herself, if necessary. In that regard she also demanded he buy a substantial life insurance policy. After all, her livelihood depended on his life.

  Burke agreed to everything, although the money demands were trou
bling. The appearance of a marriage was all he had ever really wanted in the first place. That the marriage had turned into a successful collaboration, at least collaborative in his mind, was only to the good. He hated golf. But if golfing would keep her happy, then he would be happy to play with her until she found some friends.

  * * *

  By the fourth hole, Conor had pegged Burke for who he was. It wasn't just that he cheated – most of the players Conor caddied for didn't play strictly by the rules. No, it was the way he cheated; rolling the ball to a better lie with his toe when he thought no one was looking; dropping a ball from his pocket then claiming he found the original; asserting a whiff was only a practice stroke; lying about the number of strokes he had taken. He wasn't just a cheater; he was a sneaking, lying cheater… and on his wife no less in what was just a friendly game!

  Annie, in the meantime, played golf, real golf. And Conor began to love watching her. She carried herself with a degree of confidence and assertiveness he’d never quite seen before in a woman golfer. Not every shot was perfect, but then they never are. Good or bad, she accepted the results without recriminations or complaints just as she did not overly celebrate her best. She simply let the game and its outcomes wash over her, all the while enjoying every moment.

  Still, Conor was troubled that her husband was cheating and he found himself feeling a bit protective. He resolved to do whatever he could to make sure she won that day. When they came to the eleventh hole, Annie was faced with a difficult shot. She had pushed her approach shot wide right. It left her a shot to the green of perhaps fifteen yards with a sand bunker next to the green in the way and the hole not that far beyond that. She asked for her niblick, her most lofted iron, intending to pitch the ball all the way to the green and Conor handed it to her.