Myron nodded and promptly forgot it. Fred Dempsey grabbed a basketball from the garage. The Daley girl picked teams. Myron had to play. So did Brenda. Everyone laughed. Myron downed a cheeseburger between points. Delicious. Timmy Ruskin fell down and cut his knee. He cried. Brenda bent down and examined the cut. She put on a Band-Aid and smiled at Timmy. Timmy beamed.
Hours passed. Darkness crept in slowly as it does in suburban summer skies. People began to drift home. Cars and bikes faded away. Fathers threw their arms around sons. Little girls rode home on shoulders. Everyone kissed Mom and Dad good-bye. Myron looked at his parents. They were the only original family left in the neighborhood now, the surrogate grandparents of the block. They suddenly looked old to Myron. That scared him.
Brenda came up behind him. «This is wonderful,» she said to him.
And it was. Win might poke fun at it. Jessica did not care for scenes like these – her own family had created the perfect Rockwellian facade to hide the rot below -and rushed back to the city as though it held an antidote. Myron and Jess often drove back from such events in total silence. Myron thought about that. And he thought again what Win had said about taking leaps of faith.
«I miss your father,» Myron said. «I haven’t talked to him in ten years. But I still miss him.»
She nodded. «I know.»
They helped clean up. Not much to it. They’d used only paper plates and cups and plastic utensils. Brenda and Mom laughed the whole time. Mom kept sneaking glances at Myron. The looks were a little too knowing.
«I always wanted Myron to be a doctor,» Mom said. «Isn’t that a shock? A Jewish mother who wants her son to be a doctor?»
Both women laughed.
«But he faints at the sight of blood,» Mom continued. «Can’t stand it. Myron wouldn’t even go to an R-rated movie until he was in college. Slept with a night-light until he was-»
«Mom.»
«Oh, I’m embarrassing him. I’m your mother, Myron. I’m supposed to embarrass you. Isn’t that right, Brenda?»
«Definitely, Mrs. Bolitar.»
«For the tenth time, it’s Ellen. And Myron’s father is Al. Everyone calls us El Al. Get it? Like the Israeli airline.»
«Mom.»
«Shush, you, I’m going. Brenda, you’ll stay tonight? The guest room is all ready for you.»
«Thank you, Ellen. That would be very nice.»
Mom turned. «I’ll leave you kids alone.» Her smile was too happy.
The backyard fell silent. A full moon was the only source of illumination. Crickets hummed. A dog barked. They started walking. They talked about Horace. Not about the murder. Not about why he vanished or about Anita Slaughter or FJ or the league or the Bradfords or any of that. Just about Horace.
They reached Burnet Hill, Myron’s elementary school. A few years ago the town had closed down half the building because of its proximity to high-tension electromagnetic wires. Myron had spent three years under those wires. Might explain a few things.
Brenda sat on a swing. Her skin glistened in the moonlight. She started swinging, kicking her legs high. He sat on the swing next to her and joined her in the air. The metal apparatus was strong, but it still started swaying a bit under their onslaught.
They slowed.
«You haven’t asked about the assault,» she said.
«There will be time.»
«It’s a pretty simple story,» she said.
Myron said nothing, waited.
«I came to Dad’s apartment. He was drunk. Dad didn’t drink much. When he did, it really hit him. He was barely coherent when I opened the door. He started cursing me. He called me a little bitch. Then he pushed me.»
Myron shook his head, not sure what to say.
Brenda stopped the swing. «He also called me Anita,» she said.
Myron’s throat went dry. «He thought you were your mother?»
Brenda nodded. «He had such hate in his. eyes,» she said. «I’ve never seen him look like that.»
Myron stayed still. A theory had been slowly taking shape in his mind. The blood in the locker at St. Barnabas. The call to the lawyers and to the Bradfords. Horace’s running away. His being murdered. It all sort of fit. But right now, it was just a theory based on the purest of speculation. He needed to sleep on it, marinate the whole thing in the brain fridge for a while, before he dared articulate it.
«How far is it to the Bradfords ’ place?» Brenda asked.
«Half a mile maybe.»
She looked away from him. «Do you still think my mom ran away because of something that happened in that house?»
«Yes.»
She stood. «Let’s walk over there.»
«There’s nothing to see. A big gate and some shrubs.»
«My mother walked through those gates for six years. That’ll be enough. For now.»
They took the path between Ridge Drive and Cod-dington Terrace – Myron could not believe it was still here after all these years – and made a right. The lights on the hill were visible from here. Not much else. Brenda approached the gate. The security guard squinted at her. She stopped in front of the iron bars. She stared for several seconds.
The guard leaned out. «Can I help you, ma’am?»
Brenda shook her head and moved away.
They got back to the house late. Myron’s father was feigning sleep in the recliner. Some habits die hard. Myron «woke» him up. He startled to consciousness. Pacino never overacted this much. He smiled good night at Brenda. Myron kissed his father on the cheek. The cheek felt rough and smelled faintly of Old Spice. As it should.
The bed was made in the downstairs guest room. The maid must have been in that day because Mom stayed away from domestic chores as though they were radioactive. She had been a working mother, one of the most feared defense attorneys in the state, since the days before Gloria Steinem.
His parents saved toiletry bags from first-class flights. He gave one to Brenda. He also found her a T-shirt and pajama bottoms.
When she kissed him hard on the mouth, he felt every part of him stir. The excitement of a first kiss, the brand-newness of it, the wondrous taste and smell of her. Her body, substantial and hard and young, pressed against his. Myron had never felt so lost, so heady, so weightless. When their tongues met, Myron felt a jolt and heard himself groan.
He pulled back. «We shouldn’t. Your father just died. You-
She shut him up with another kiss. Myron cupped the back of her head with his palm. He felt tears come to his eyes as he held on.
When the kiss ended, they held each other tightly, gasping.
«If you tell me I’m doing this because I’m vulnerable,» she said, «you’re wrong. And you know you’re wrong.»
He swallowed. «Jessica and I are going through a rough patch right now.»
«This isn’t about that either,» she said.
He nodded. He did know that. And after a decade of loving the same woman, maybe that was what scared him most of all. He stepped back.
«Good night,» he managed.
Myron rushed downstairs to his old room in the basement. He crawled under the sheets and pulled them up to his neck. He stared up at the frayed posters of John Havlicek and Larry Bird. Havlicek, the old Celtic great, had been on his wall since he was six years old. Bird had joined him in 1979. Myron sought comfort and maybe escape in his old room, in surrounding himself with familiar images. He found none.
