seem happy to you, Mama?â
Looking over her motherâs shoulder, the daughter noticed a mistake in the rows of cards, bent down to the table and began correcting it. A silence followed. Both looked at the cards and imagined how Tiger Woods, utterly forlorn, was sitting now in Texas in the large, empty ranch, or driving balls into the hot afternoon sun, hungry, exhausted, yearning for his family. . . .
âDo you know what, Mama?â said Elin Nordegren suddenly, and her eyes began to shine. âIf the weather is the same tomorrow, Iâll take one of the other planes and go to see him at the ranch! At least I could find out how he is, have a look at him, and make him a meal or two.â
And both of them began to wonder how it was that this idea, so simple and easy to carry out, had not occurred to them before. It was only twenty minutes to the airstrip, and then two hours to the ranch. They said a little more, and went off to bed in the same room, feeling more contented.
âOh, Lord,â sighed the old lady when the clock in the hall struck two. âThere is no sleeping.â
âYou are not asleep, Mama?â the daughter asked in a whisper. âI keep thinking of Tiger. I only hope he wonât ruin his health in Texas. Where does he eat without a cook? Bars? Fast food? Pancake houses?â
âI have thought of that myself,â sighed the old lady. âMay the Lord save and preserve him. But the rain, the rain!â
In the morning the rain was not pattering on the panes, but the sky was still gray. The trees stood looking mournful, and at every gust of wind they scattered drops. The footprints on the muddy path, the ditches and the ruts, were full of water. Elin Nordegren made up her mind to go.
âGive him my love,â said the old lady, wrapping her daughter up. âTell him not to think too much about tournaments. And he must rest. Let him wrap his throat up when he goes out: the weatherâGod help us! And take him the Cornish hen; food from home, even if cold, is better than at a restaurant.â
The daughter went away, saying that she would come back that night or else next morning.
But she came back long before dinnertime, when the old lady was sitting in her bedroom and drowsily thinking what to cook for her son-in-lawâs supper.
Going into the room, her daughter, pale and agitated, sank on the bed without uttering a word or taking off her coat, and pressed her head into the pillow.
âBut what is the matter,â said the old lady in surprise, âwhy back so soon? Where is Tiger Woods?â
Elin Nordegren raised her head and gazed at her mother with dry, imploring eyes.
âHe is deceiving us, Mama,â she said.
âWhat are you saying? Christ be with you!â cried the old lady in alarm. âWho is going to deceive us? Have mercy on us!â
âHe is deceiving us, Mama!â repeated her daughter, and her chin began to quiver.
âHow do you know?â cried the old lady, turning pale.
âThe ranch is locked up. The man who lives down the road tells me that Tiger has not been there once in these five days. He is not living at home! He is not at home, not at home!â
She waved her hands and burst into loud weeping, uttering nothing but: âNot at home! Not at home!â
She began to be hysterical.
âWhatâs the meaning of it?â muttered the old woman in horror. âHe texted you the day before last to say that he has been practicing hard. Where is he sleeping?â
Elin Nordegren felt so faint that she could not take off her hat. She looked about her blankly, as though she had been drugged, and clutched at her motherâs arms.
âWhat a person to trust: the man down the road!â said the old lady, fussing round her daughter and crying. âWhat a jealous girl you are! He is not going to deceive you, and how dare he? We are not just anybody. I have held public office. You