Simple Tragedy

SIMPLE TRAGEDY by Barbara Smith He had been there all day, since before full light, and now it was almost dark again. He was tired. "See you, Tom," someone called, and he turned. "Yeah," he called back, and then he added, "Better luck next time!" He had beaten Lou at both golf and poker. It had been a profitable day. Tom propped the bag of clubs against the rear fender, then moved around to open the trunk. The car was new—twotoned Skylark he'd bought right off the dealer. He played golf with Fred, too, and had gotten a good buy on this floor model. Tom didn't want to go home. He pulled a rag from the corner of the trunk, then reached around for the clubs. First the putter—though there was really no need to wipe it. Wedge—clotted with divot from the pitch onto the seventeenth green—a par. Then the nine-iron—just a few blades of grass. Probably wasn't taking enough turf—no wonder the ball wouldn't hold. Eight, seven. He skipped the six—never used it. There were few shots on this course that ever called for a six-iron. "Don't you ever quit?" It was Jerry. "Just about to," Tom smiled. "Coming out tomorrow?" "Yeah—tomorrow I'll get even." Jerry was big, too, but thinner than Tom. He had money—evidenced by the matching slacks and sweater he wore. Nobody else around here dressed like that. Tom was satisfied with jeans and a knit shirt. He had money, too—but maybe not enough for two households, like Jerry with one 40 wife and one would-be wife. The five-iron did need cleaning. He'd been trying long shots—longer and longer shots with it, and it was working for him. Funny how one day one works, another day another. He checked the four and three, but they were clean. Another car started on the other side of the clubhouse, then came around. Tom waved. He didn't particularly like Paul—freeloader and big mouth. But he did play good golf—and poker. There was nothing left to do. Tom lifted the heavy bag and laid it in the trunk. It would be easier to keep it in his locker, but the golf course was located on a back road, and there'd been a lot of theft from time to time. Nobody could afford to lose a good set of clubs. He slid onto the seat, ducking his head. Then he checked himself in the rearview mirror, smoothing his silvering hair as if he were about to go in to see a customer. The habits of the traveling salesman were still with him, though now he stayed in the office. He was getting old. Well, older. But still, he looked good—healthy, masculine. And he felt restless—an uneasiness that reminded him of when he had been a teen-ager. Maybe that was related to being fifty. He had to go home. Maybe, if he was lucky, Tom, Jr., would have come home from college for the weekend. Maybe Sarah would have invited someone for supper. But she never did. She would wait until he got home. Then, unless young Tom was there, she would throw together some leftovers or she would tell him to fix his own because she'd already eaten. Not that he could blame her— he'd left her to her own devices a lot lately. For three or four years, in fact. He'd never gotten her interested in golf or hunting or pro football, and he'd always been bored to death with gardens and antiques. They'd ended up living separately in the same house. He had to go home, so at the end of the long driveway, he turned left onto the narrow asphalt road. It was almost dark, winding down through the valley, the sunlight catching only the tips of the trees on the tips of the hills. There were scattered lights in the scattered houses, and Tom realized that his brown car was practically invisible to oncomers. He reached to pull on his headlights. Then he...