'And you?'
'I couldn't rebuild. I don't even think I wanted to rebuild. I was shattered and maybe it was best to keep me that way.'
'I'm not sure I follow.'
Her voice was soft now. 'I didn't think-check that, I still don't think-that I would like to see what my world would look like rebuilt. I don't think I would like the result.'
'Terese?'
She didn't reply.
'I want to help,' I said.
'Maybe you can't,' she said. 'Maybe there's no point.'
More silence.
'Forget I called, Myron. Take care of yourself.'
And then she was gone.
2
'AH,' Win said, 'the delectable Terese Collins. Now that's a top-quality, world-class derriere.'
We sat in the rickety pullout stands in the Kasselton High School gymnasium. The familiar whiffs of sweat and industrial cleaner filled the air. All sounds, as in every similar gymnasium across this vast continent, were distorted, the strange echoes forming the audio equivalent of a shower curtain.
I love gyms like this. I grew up in them. I spent many of my happiest moments in similar airless confines with a basketball in my hand. I love the sound of the dribbling. I love the sheen of sweat that starts popping up on faces during warm-ups. I love the feel of the pebbly leather on your fingertips; that moment of neo-religious purity when your eyes lock on the front rim and you release the ball and it backspins and there is nothing else in the entire world.
'Glad you remember her,' I said.
'Top-quality, world-class derriere.'
'Yeah, I got that the first time.'
Win had been my college roommate at Duke and was now my business partner and, along with Esperanza Diaz, my best friend. His real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, and he looked like it: thinning blond locks parted by a deity; ruddy complexion; handsome patrician face; golfer's V-neck burn; eyes the blue of ice. He wore overpriced khakis with a crease to rival the hair part, a blue Lilly Pulitzer blazer with a pink and green lining, a matching pocket hanky that puffed out like a clown's water-squirting flower.
Effete wear.
'When Terese was on TV,' Win said, his snooty prep-school accent sounding as though he were explaining the obvious to a somewhat slow child, 'you couldn't tell the quality. She was sitting behind the anchor desk.'
'Uh-huh.'
'But then I saw her in that bikini'-for those keeping score, that would be the Class-B-felony one I told you about earlier-'well, it is a wonderful asset. Wasted as an anchorwoman. It's a tragedy when you think about it.'
'Like the Hindenburg,' I said.
'Hilarious reference,' Win said. 'And oh so timely.'
Win's expression was permanently set on haughty. People looked at Win and would see elitist, snobby, Old- World money. For the most part, they'd be right. But the part where they'd be wrong… that could get a man seriously maimed.
'Go on,' Win said. 'Finish your story.'
'That's it.'
Win frowned. 'So when do you leave for Paris?'
'I'm not going.'
On the basketball court, the second quarter began. This was fifth-grade boys' basketball. My girlfriend-the term seems rather lame but I'm not sure 'lady love,' 'significant other,' or 'love monkey' really apply-Ali Wilder has two children, the younger of whom played on this team. His name is Jack, and he wasn't very good. I say that not to judge or predict future success-Michael Jordan didn't start for his high school team until his junior year-but as an observation. Jack is big for his age, husky and tall, and with that often comes lack of speed and coordination. There was a plodding quality to his athleticism.
But Jack loved the game, and that meant the world to me. Jack was a sweet kid, deeply geeky in the absolute best way, and needy, as befit a boy who lost his father so tragically and prematurely.
Ali couldn't get here until halftime and I am, if nothing else, supportive.
Win was still frowning. 'Let me get this straight: You turned down spending a weekend with the delectable Ms. Collins and her world-class derriere in a boutique hotel in Paris?'
It was always a mistake talking relationships with Win.
'That's right,' I said.
'Why?' Win turned toward me. He looked genuinely perplexed. Then his face relaxed. 'Oh, wait.'
'What?'
'She's put on weight, hasn't she?'
Win.
'I have no idea.'
'So?'
'You know, so. I'm involved, remember?'
Win stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.
'What?' I said.
He sat back. 'You're such a very big girl.'
The game horn sounded, and Jack pulled on his goggles and lumbered toward the scorer's table with that wonderfully goofy half-smile. The Livingston fifth-grade boys were playing their archrivals from Kasselton. I tried not to smirk at the intensity-not so much the kids' as the parents' in the stands. I try not to generalize but the mothers usually broke down into two groups: the Gabbers, who used the occasion to socialize, and the Harried, who lived and died each time their offspring touched the ball.
The fathers were often more troublesome. Some managed to keep their anxiety under wraps, muttering under their breaths, biting nails. Other fathers screamed out loud. They rode refs, coaches, and kids.
One father, sitting two rows in front of us, had what Win and I had nicknamed 'Spectator Tourette's,' spending the entire game seemingly unable to stop himself from berating everyone around him out loud.
My perspective on this is clearer than most. I had been that rare commodity-the truly gifted athlete. This came as a shock to my entire family since the greatest Bolitar athletic accomplishment before I came around was my uncle Saul winning a shuffleboard tournament on a Princess Cruise in 1974. I graduated from Livingston High School as a Parade All-American. I was a star guard for Duke, where I captained two NCAA championship teams. I had been a first-round draft pick of the Boston Celtics.
And then, kaboom, it was all gone.
Someone yelled, 'Substitution.'
Jack adjusted his goggles and ran onto the court.
The coach of the opposing team pointed at Jack and shouted, 'Yo, Connor! You got the new man. He's big and slow. Drive around him.'
Tourette's Dad bemoaned, 'It's a close game. Why are they putting him in now?'
Big and slow? Had I heard right?
I stared at the Kasselton head coach. He had highlight-filled, mousse-spiked hair and a dark goatee neatly trimmed so that he resembled an aging boy-band bass. He was tall-I'm six four and this guy had two inches on me, plus, I would guess, twenty to thirty pounds.
' ' He's big and slow'?' I repeated to Win. 'Can you believe the coach just yelled that out loud?'
