'That's his old stuff,' Francine Rennart said without looking down.
'Thank you.'
She tried, but she could not make herself look at the boxes. 'I'll be upstairs,' she said. Myron watched her feet disappear from view. Then he turned to the boxes and squatted down. The boxes were taped shut. He took out his key-chain penknife and slit the packing tape.
The first box had golf memorabilia. There were certificates and trophies and old tees. A golf ball was mounted to a wooden base with a rusty plaque that read:
HOLE IN ONE 15TH HOLE AT HICKORY PARK
JANUARY 17, 1972
Myron wondered what life had been like for Lloyd on that clear, crisp golf afternoon. He wondered how often Lloyd had replayed the shot in his mind, how many times he'd sat alone in that BarcaLounger and tried to recapture that pure, cold rush. Had he remembered the feel of the club's grip, the tightness in his shoulders as he began the backswing, the clean, solid stroke of the ball, the floating follow-through.
In the second box, Myron found Lloyd's high school diploma. He found a yearbook from Penn State. There was a picture of the golf team. Lloyd Rennart had been captain. Myron's finger touched upon a large, felt P.
Lloyd's varsity letter. There was a recommendation letter from his golf coach at Penn State. The words bright future jumped out at Myron. Bright future. The coach may have been a great motivator, but he made a lousy soothsayer.
The third box started off with a photograph of Lloyd in Korea. It was a casual group photo, a dozen or so boys/
men in unbuttoned fatigues, arms dangling loosely around neighboring necks. Lots of smiles, seemingly happy smiles. Lloyd was thinner there, but he saw nothing gaunt or drawn in the eyes.
Myron put the picture down. In the background, Betty Buckley was not singing 'Memory,' but maybe she should have been. These boxes were a life a life that in spite of these experiences and dreams and wants and hopes had chosen to terminate itself From the bottom of the box Myron pulled out a wedding album. The faded gold leaf read: Lloyd and Lucille, November 17, 1968, Now and Forever. More irony. The fake-leather cover was crusted with what looked like drink ringlets. Lloyd's first marriage, neatly wrapped and packed away in the bottom of a box.
Myron was about to put the album to the side when his curiosity got the better of him. He sat all the way down, his legs splayed like a kid with a new pack of baseball cards. He placed the photo album on the cement floor and began to open it. The binding made a cracking noise from the years of disuse.
The first photograph almost made Myron scream out loud.
Chapter 40
Myron's accelerator foot never eased.
Chestnut Street near Fourth is a no parking zone, but that did not even make Myron pause. He was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, ignoring the chorus of honking homs. He hurried through the Omni's lobby and into an open elevator. When he got off on the top floor, he found the right room number and knocked hard.
Norm Zuckerman opened the door. 'Bubbe,' he said with a big smile. 'What a nice surprise.'
'Can I come in'?'
'You? Of course, sweetheart, anytime.'
But Myron had already pushed by him. The suite's outer room was to use hotel brochure lingo spacious and elegantly appointed. Esme Fong sat on a couch. She looked up at him with the cornered-rabbit face. Posters and blueprints and advertisements and similar paraphernalia carpeted the floor and cascaded off the coffee table.
Myron spotted blown-up images of Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. Zoom logos were everywhere, inescapable, like vengeful ghosts or telemarketers.
'We were just doing a little strategizing,' Norm said.
But hey, we can always take a break, right, Esme'?'
Esme nodded.
Norm made his way behind a wet bar. 'You want something, Myron? I don't think they have any Yoo-Hoo in here, but I'm sure '
' 'Nothing,' ' Myron interrupted.
Norm did the mock surrender thing with his hands.
'Sheesh, Myron, relax,' he said. 'What's twisting your nipple?'
'I wanted to warn you, Norm.'
'Warn me about what?'
'I don't want to do this. As far as I'm concemed, your love life should be personal. But it's not that easy.
Not anymore. It's going to get out, Norm. I'm sorry.'
Norm Zuckerman did not move. He opened his mouth as though readying to protest. Then he stopped. 'How did you find out?'
' 'You were with Jack. At the Court Manor Inn. A maid saw you.'
Norm looked at Esme, who kept her head high. He turned back to Myron. ' 'Do you know what will happen if words gets out that I'm a faygeleh?'
'I can't help that, Norm.'
'I am the company, Myron. Zoom is about fashion and image and sports which just so happens to be the most blatantly homophobic entity on this planet. Perception is everything in this business. If they find out I'm an old queen, you know what happens? Zoom goes plop down the septic tank.'
'I'm not sure I agree,' Myron said, 'but either way, it can't be helped.'
'Do the police know?' Norm asked.
'No, not yet.'
Norm threw up his hands. 'So why does it have to come out? It was just a fling, for crying out loud. Okay, so I met Jack. So we were attracted to each other. So we both had a ton to lose if either of us opened our traps. No big whup. It's got nothing to do with his murder.'
Myron stole a glance at Esme. She looked back at him with eyes that urged him to keep silent. 'Unfortunately,' '
Myron said, 'I think it does.'
'You think? You're going to destroy me on an 'I
think'?'
'I'm sorry.'
'I can't talk you out of it?'
'I'm afraid not.'
Norm moved away from the bar and half-collapsed into a chair. He put his face in the palms of his hands, his fingers sliding toward the back, meeting up in the hair, interweaving. 'I've spent my entire life with lies, Myron,'
he began. 'I spent my childhood in Poland pretending I wasn't a Jew. Can you believe that? Me, Norm Zuckerman, pretending I was some slack-jawed goy. But I
survived. I came here. And then I spent my adult life pretending I was a real man, a Casanova, a guy who always had a beautiful girl on his arm. You get used to lying, Myron. It gets easier, you know what I mean? The lies become a sort of second reality.'
'I'm sorry, Norm.'
He breathed deeply and forced up a tired smile.
'Maybe it's for the best,' Norm said. 'Look at Dennis Rodman. He cross-dresses, for crying out loud. Hasn't hurt him any, has it?'
'No. It hasn't.'
Norm Zuckerman lifted his eyes toward Myron.
'Hey, once I got to this country, I became the most inyour-face Jew you ever saw. Didn't I? Tell me the truth.
Am I not the most in your-face Jew you've ever met, or what?'
