Mulligan
OCTOBER 1998
" SO IF BETTY is three times as old as her daughter Jane, and
four years ago, she was four
times older, how old is Jane now?"
The teacher scanned the room to
assess the expected confusion on
the faces of those in her algebra
class. Quadratic equations were
always tough at first, even for the
brightest students. "Who wants to
try to write that formula on the
board?"
Sophomore Michelle Sanders
worked feverishly to sort out the
problem. Math hadn’t interested
her much - until the day she
entered Miss Stevens’ class. Truth
be told, it wasn’t quadratic
equations that piqued her interest
at all; it was Miss Stevens. The
algebra teacher was beautiful - tall
and graceful, and with the bluest
eyes Michelle had ever seen. Who
cared if she was 60 years old!
"Mr. Stempel?"
All eyes turned toward Mike
Stempel in the last row. The young
man’s arms were folded across his
desk, his face buried in the crook
of his elbow. Mike was sound
asleep.
"Alright, someone else," she
encouraged, her voice lower as
she walked quietly toward the
slumbering student. Any other
teacher in the school might have
shouted at Mike, or perhaps
dropped a book loudly next to his
desk to startle him awake. But
Miss Stevens wasn’t like other
teachers; without a sound, she
lifted his jacket and draped it
around his shoulders.
Michelle had almost worked it out.
Tentatively, she raised her hand
to volunteer.
A knock at the door interrupted
the lesson, as Westfield High
School’s principal Theodore
Myers poked his head in and
gestured for the teacher to come
into the hallway.
"Have a look at the problems on
page 68. Miss Sanders, why don’t
you go to the board and see if you
can write that equation?"
The student beamed with pride
that she had been recognized by
the teacher she adored.
Louise Stevens stepped into the
hallway with her boss, glancing one
last time over her shoulder to
verify that her students had
understood her instructions.
"What is it, Ted?" The man’s face was uncommonly grave. Without
doubt, he was bringing bad news.
"I need you to come with me,
Louise," he answered, placing his
hand gently on her elbow.
"Rhonda," she whispered, starting immediately toward the stairwell.
Myers hurried behind her, but the
stout man couldn’t keep up with
her long legs and urgent gait. By
the time he reached the stairwell,
Louise had turned the corner at
the landing, dangerously skipping
steps as she barreled toward the
band room.
On a dead run, the tall teacher
passed a dozen students gathered
in the hallway outside the band
director’s office. They were
somber; a few in tears.
Inside the band room, Rhonda
Markosky lay on her back, her
beautiful face swollen and purple.
Rick D’Angelo, the physical
education teacher, straddled her
waist, frantically pumping her
chest in a mechanical rhythm.
After every fifth compression, he
would pause to allow another
teacher to blow a deep breath into
the dying woman’s lungs.
Louise hurried to kneel alongside
the still form, clutching the
twisted hand tightly. "Rhonda,"
she implored the motionless
woman to respond, rubbing the
hand vigorously. "Rhonda."
Sweetheart. My darling. My love.
FEBRUARY 2002
"I hadn’t planned on doing this by
myself, Petie."
The Boston terrier, intent on
proving that his tall mistress
wasn’t in this alone, whimpered
until she pushed back from the
table to allow him access to her
robe-clad lap. Petie sensed that
she needed an extra dose of
affection this morning, and his
only purpose for living was to dole
those out. Oh, and to eat. And
sleep.
Louise Stevens sat on her lanai
with her morning coffee; her
piercing blue eyes watching a small
boat navigate the narrow canal
behind her home. This was her
first winter in Florida, where she
and Rhonda had always planned to
live when they retired from
teaching high school in
Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Were it
not for Petie, the loneliness of her
new home would be almost
unbearable.
"You’re such a good boy, you know
that?" she asked, delivering a
loving scratch behind his ears.
Yeah, he knew. Theirs was a bond
of mutual adoration.
The 3-year-old pooch had been a
gift from her sophomore
homeroom class the spring after
Rhonda had died. Louise was very
touched by the gesture, knowing
that her students had read the
quiet desolation on her face every
day since the loss of her
companion. When she opened the
box on her desk and found the 8-
week-old puppy, she fell in love on
the spot. Accessing the Internet
from her classroom, the teacher
quickly located a picture of the
infamous Petie of Our Gang fame
to show her students the similar
markings around the eyes. She and
her class settled right away on the
AKC designation Rhonda’s Spartan
Petie, the middle name to
commemorate their high school
moniker. The puppy was a
godsend, and the only dog allowed
in their home stadium during high
school football games.
Though the nature of Louise’s
relationship with fellow teacher
Rhonda Markosky was never
formally discussed by either the
faculty or students, it was common
knowledge that the two had
shared a home for 30 years. On
those rare occasions when a poor
test score or a scolding after a
missed homework assignment had
prompted a slur from a
disgruntled student, fellow
students were quick to squelch the
disparagement of two of their
favorite teachers.
Louise had briefly contemplated
staying on until she turned 65, but
&n
bsp; when that special group of
sophomores graduated two years
later, she thought it a good time
to leave as well. The memories of
her departed lover dogged her
both at home and in the hallways
of Westfield High School, and
Louise finally decided that she
needed a change. Now here she
was, 63 years old, living alone in
Southwest Florida.
"Got to get that, Petie," she said, nudging the dog from her lap to
grab the phone in the kitchen.
"Hello."
"Hey, Lou! Listen, we’ve got a tee
time at 11:30 if you want to join us.
Think you’re up for a round?"
It was longtime friend Shirley
Petrelli, who, along with her
partner Linda, had retired two
years ago and moved here to Cape
Coral, a fast-growing suburb of
Fort Myers… as if a place as small
as Fort Myers actually warranted a
suburb. With its inexpensive tract
housing, Cape Coral had been
dubbed a perfect community for
the "newly wed and nearly dead."
Louise had been looking forward
to playing golf this winter, but
those plans were thwarted when
she had clumsily broken her left
wrist over the Thanksgiving
holiday. "That sounds really
tempting, Shirl, but I’m not sure
my arm’s up for that just yet."
She’d only gotten her cast off a
couple of weeks ago.
"Maybe you ought to go hit a
your swing back."
"Now that’s not a bad idea. I might
just do that this afternoon." It
would be a great excuse to get out
of the house.
"Oh, and don’t forget. Linda’s
making lasagna on Friday."
"Sounds good. What can I bring?"
"Just Petie. Angel needs a
playmate." Angel was a greyhound
they had rescued last year when
he was deemed unfit for racing.
The sight of the two dogs - so
disparate in size - playing
together always made them laugh.
Louise jotted a note on her
calendar to remind her about the
Friday night dinner. Old habits die
hard, she thought. She had always
kept a calendar to note the various
high school sporting events, plays,
and band concerts, trying as hard
as she could to get to all of them.
It was important to support the
kids in their endeavors, and in
return, they gave her their best in
her math class.
With a sigh, Louise noted that the
Friday night dinner was the only
event on her February schedule.
Shirley and Linda had invited her
to a dance on Valentine’s Day, but
it was unlikely she would go. Those
things just weren’t much fun as a
third wheel.
After cleaning up her breakfast
dishes, the tall woman retreated
into her master suite and pulled on
a teal nylon jogging suit with her
Rockport Pro-Walkers. Petie
twirled and yipped, bouncing back
and forth to the closet where his
leash was kept.
"Wanna go for a walk, Petie?" Silly question. He was ready as soon as
he saw the shoes.
The terrier yipped and twirled
some more, finally settling himself
while she clipped the leash into
place. There would be bushes, and
tall grass, and mailboxes, and even
a fire hydrant in the next block!
Two long blocks from her home,
Louise and Petie turned right. This
was Louise’s favorite part of their
route. On the left, far across a
wide canal, was the fence that
surrounded West Cape High
School. From this vantage point,
she could see the kids gather at
tables and benches on a broad
shaded patio. It made her miss
her teaching days, but it was
satisfying to see the young people
laugh and joke with one another.
This veiled connection to her past
life was a comfort.
She’d been thinking of late that
she might go in someday to
introduce herself; perhaps even
offer her services as a volunteer
or a substitute teacher. In her 39
years at the front of a classroom,
teenagers may have changed, but
not much, she thought. Louise
enjoyed being around them, and
they could tell.
"You ready to go home, Petie?"
The short-legged terrier worked
himself ragged to keep up with his
tall mistress, taking six steps for
every one of hers. This one-mile
loop always left him tuckered out;
he would sleep for two hours when
they got home.
Louise unclipped the dog’s leash as
they walked in the door, and Petie
went straight for his water bowl.
His mistress detoured into a small
study off the living room, where
she booted up her computer.
It was a quarter to 10, and all that
comprised Louise Stevens’ daily
routine was almost complete:
breakfast, two newspapers, an
extra cup of coffee, Petie’s walk,
and now a check of her email and
the weather report for
Greensburg. After her shower,
she would settle in to read. And
probably fall asleep again.
"I need to get out of this house,
Petie!"
The startled dog cocked his head,
trying to understand the source of
his mistress’ consternation. They
had napped, had lunch, and taken
another short walk, just as they
she was cross.
When Louise spent too much quiet
time in her new home, she grew
melancholy or "self-pitying" as she would say. Closing up the lanai -
okay, so it was a screened-in back
porch, but lanai sounded so much
more tropical - the tall woman
slipped into the master bedroom
to change. She had decided to
take Shirley’s suggestion and go
hit a bucket of balls so that she
could ready herself to start
playing again.
Perhaps if she got back into
playing golf, she could meet some
new friends. Shirley and Linda
were great, always trying to
include her in the things they did;
but it wasn’t fair to tag along with
them all the time. No, Louise knew
that she needed to develop her
own circle of friends.
The warm-up suit she’d had on
earlier would suffice for just
going to the range, she reasoned.
Though it was uncharacteristic
for the striking woman to leave
her home underdressed, she was
trying to adapt to this casual
retirement thing. Still, a light coat
of base makeup improved her
complexion a bit and protected
her from the sun.
Passing the full length mirror
beside the bedroom door, the tall
woman had second thoughts about
it all, turning back to her dresser
to extract the proper attire for
going out: a white shirt with a
beige collar and trim that matched
her knee-length golf shorts. A
light blue v-neck vest completed
the outfit. Just because she could
be more casual didn’t mean she
had to be.
The closet held two sets of clubs,
her own and those of her late
partner. Rhonda had so loved golf
that Louise couldn’t bring herself
to get rid of either the clubs or
the dozens of accessories,
accumulated over the years at
Christmas, birthdays, even
Valentine’s Day.
Exiting through the garage, she
loaded her clubs into the trunk of
her silver Mercury Sable and
activated the automatic door.
"This will kill a couple of hours.
Only about…” she did the math in
her head, "… a quarter of a million
to go."
Smack!
Louise grimaced as she watched
her drive take a sharp right turn
only a hundred yards out in front
of the tee. She’d never had a
problem with a slice before;
what’s more, she usually got at
least 140 yards out of her driver.
Sure, she hadn’t swung a club
since mid-October, but this was
quite an unwelcome result.
Smack!
She and Rhonda had taken up golf
nearly 20 years ago, joining a
modest country club near their
home. Summers off from teaching
afforded lots of time to practice,
and over the years, both women
had become quite adept at guiding
the "stupid little white ball" into the cup. Louise’s long game had
peaked about 10 years ago; these
days, her drives were shorter,
but her chipping and putting had
improved.
Smack!
Again, her shot sliced viciously,
this time clearing the fence and
falling onto the adjacent fairway
on Number Nine.
"There’s a 50-cent surcharge for
every ball that leaves the driving
range."
Embarrassed that someone was
witness to this horrible display,
Louise chose to ignore both the
remark and the remarker, fishing
in her bag for a nine-iron. Leveling
her hips, she positioned her
hands slightly in front of the ball
that sat on the bristled tee.
Smack!
Louise frowned as she watched it
fall well short of the 75-yard