I don't understand.
Dad put a hand on Myron's arm. We're tired, Myron.
Myron felt two giant hands press down on his chest.
We're also buying a place in Florida.
Florida?
Yes.
You're moving to Florida? Myron's Theory on East Coast Jewish Life: You grow up, you get
married, you have kids, you go to Florida, you die.
No, maybe part of the year, I don't know. Your mother and I are going to start traveling a little more. Dad paused. So we'll probably sell the house. They'd owned that house Myron's entire life. Myron looked down at the table. He grabbed a wrapped Saltine cracker from the bread basket and tore open the cellophane.
Are you okay? Dad asked.
I'm fine, he said. But he wasn't fine. And he couldn't articulate why, even to himself.
The waitress served them. Dad was having a salad with cottage cheese. Dad hated cottage
cheese. They ate in silence. Myron kept feeling tears sting his eyes. Silly.
There's one other thing, Dad said.
Myron looked up. What?
It's not a big deal really. I didn't even want to tell you, but your mother thought I should. And
you know how it is with your mother. When she has something in her mind, God himself
What is it, Dad?
Dad fixed his eyes on Myron's. I want you to know this has nothing to do with you or your
going to the Caribbean.
Dad, what?
While you were gone Dad shrugged and started blinking; he put down his fork, and there
was the faintest quiver in his lower lip I had some chest pains.
Myron felt his own heart sputter. He saw Dad with the ink-black hair at Yankee Stadium. He saw
Dad's face turning red when he told him about the bearded man. He saw Dad rise and storm off
to avenge his sons.
When Myron spoke, his voice sounded tinny and far away. Chest pains?
Don't make a thing of it.
You had a heart attack?
Let's not blow it out of proportion. The doctors weren't sure what it was. It was just some chest pains, that's all. I was out of the hospital in two days.
The hospital? More images: Dad waking up with the pains, Mom starting to ciy, calling an ambulance, rushing to the hospital, the oxygen mask on his face, Mom holding his hand, both their faces devoid of any color .
And then something broke open. Myron couldn't stop himself. He got up and half sprinted to the bathroom. Someone said hello to him, called out his name, but he kept moving. He pushed open the bathroom door, opened a stall, locked himself in, and nearly collapsed.
Myron started to cry.
Deep, bone-crushing cries, full-body sobs. Just when he thought he couldn't cry anymore. Something inside him had finally given way, and now he sobbed without pause or letup.
Myron heard the bathroom door open. Someone leaned against the stall door. Dad's voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper. I'm fine, Myron.
But Myron again saw Dad at Yankee Stadium. The ink-black hair was gone, replaced with the gray, fly-away wisps. Myron saw Dad challenge the bearded man. He saw the bearded man rise, and then he saw Dad clutch his chest and fall to the ground.
Chapter 29
Myron tried to shake it off. No choice really. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. And he couldn't stop worrying. Worrying had never been his style in the past, even when a crisis loomed. All of a sudden he had the worry-queasies in his stomach. It was true what they said: The older you become, the more you are like your parents. Soon he'd be telling a kid not to stick his elbow out the car window or he'd lose it.
Win met him in front of the auditorium. He was in classic Win pose, eyes level, arms crossed, totally relaxed. He wore designer sunglasses and looked ultrasleek. GQ casual.
Problem? Win said.
No.
Win shrugged.
I thought we were going to meet inside, Myron said.
That would mean I'd have to listen to more of Sawyer Wells.
That bad?
Imagine, if you will, a Mariah Carey-Michael Bolton duet, Win said.
Eeuw.
Win checked his watch. He should be finishing up now. We must be brave.
They headed inside. The Cagemore Center was a sprawling facility that featured oodles of concert and lecture halls that could be cut to any size by sliding walls back and forth. There was a summer camp for young children in one room. Win and Myron stopped and listened to the children sing Farmer in the Dell. The sound made Myron smile.
the farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho-the-dairy-o, the farmer in the dell
Win turned to Myron. What's a dell? Win asked.
No idea.
Win shrugged and moved on to the main auditorium. There was a table out front selling Sawyer Wells paraphernalia. Cassettes, videos, books, magazines, posters, pennants (though what one does with a Sawyer Wells pennant went beyond Myron's capacity to imagine) and yep, T-shirts. Groovy titles too: The Wells Guide to Wellness, The Wells Rules for Wellness, Key to Wellness: It's All About You. Myron shook his head.
The auditorium was packed, the crowd so silent they'd put the Vatican to shame. Up on the stage, jittering to and fro like Robin Williams in his stand-up comic days, was the self-help guru himself. Sawyer Wells was resplendent in a business suit with the jacket off, shirt cuffs turned once, fancy suspenders cutting into his shoulders. A good look for a self-help guru: The expensive suit makes you reek of success while the jacket off and rolled-up sleeves give you the air of a regular guy. A perfectly balanced ensemble.
It's all about you, Sawyer Wells told the enraptured audience. If you remember nothing else today, remember that. It's all about you. Make everything about you. Every decision is about you. Everything you see, everything you touch is a reflection of you. No more than that it is you. You are everything. And everything is you.
Win leaned toward Myron. Isn't that a song?
The Stylistics, I think. Circa early seventies.
I want you to remember that, Sawyer continued. Visualize. Visualize everything as you. Your
family is you. Your job is you. When you're walking down the slreet, that beautiful tree is you.
That blooming rose is you.
Win said, That dirty commode at the bus terminal.
Myron nodded. You.
You see the boss, the leader, the breadwinner, the successful, fulfilled person. That person is
you. No one can lead you because the leader is you. You stand in front of your opponent, and
you know you can win because you are your opponent. And you know how to beat you.
Remember you are your opponent. Your opponent is you.
Win frowned. But don't you know how to beat you too?
It's a paradox, Myron agreed.
You fear the unknown, Sawyer Wells ranted. You fear success. You fear taking chances. But
now you know that the unknown is you. Success is you. Taking chances is you. You don't fear
you, do you?
Win frowned.
Listen to Mozart. Take long walks. Ask yourself what you did today. Do that every night.
