family photographs, taking a little extra time with the one of Myron holding aloft the NCAA trophy after leading Duke to the title. There was an empty box of Dunkin’ Donuts. He picked it up and dropped it into a wastepaper basket.
Finally Dad said, «Why would you ask that?»
«I’m tangled up in something.»
«And it involves Arthur Bradford?»
«Yes,» Myron said.
«Then get untangled. Fast.»
Dad lifted one of those traveling coffee cups to his lips and craned his neck. The cup was empty.
«Bradford told me to ask you about him,» Myron said. «He and this guy who works for him.»
Dad’s neck snapped back into place. «Sam Richards?» His tone was quiet, awe-filled. «He’s still alive?»
«Yes.»
«Jesus Christ.»
Silence. Then Myron asked, «How do you know them?»
Dad opened his drawer and fumbled about for something. Then he yelled for Eloise. She came to the door. «Where’s the Tylenol?» he asked her.
«Bottom right-hand drawer. Left side toward the back. Under the box of rubber bands.» Eloise turned to Myron. «Would you like a Yoo-Hoo?» she asked.
«Yes, please.» Stocking Yoo-Hoos. He had not been to his father’s office in almost a decade, but they still stocked his favorite drink. Dad found the bottle and played with the cap. Eloise closed the door on her way out.
«I’ve never lied to you,» Dad said.
«I know.»
«I’ve tried to protect you. That’s what parents do. They shelter their children. When they see danger coming, they try to step in the way and take the hit.»
«You can’t take this hit for me,» Myron said.
Dad nodded slowly. «Doesn’t make it any easier.»
«I’ll be okay,» Myron said. «I just need to know what I’m up against.»
«You’re up against pure evil.» Dad shook out two tablets and swallowed them without water. «You’re up against naked cruelty, against men with no conscience.»
Eloise came back in with the Yoo-Hoo. Reading their faces, she silently handed Myron the drink and slipped back out. In the distance a forklift started beeping out the backup warning.
«It was a year or so after the riots,» Dad began. «You’re probably too young to remember them, but the riots ripped this city apart. To this day the rip has never healed. Just the opposite, in fact. It’s like one of my garments.» He gestured to the boxes below. «The garment rips near the seam, and then nobody does anything so it just keeps ripping until the whole thing falls apart. That’s Newark. A shredded garment.
«Anyway, my workers finally came back, but they weren’t the same people. They were angry now. I wasn’t their employer anymore. I was their oppressor. They looked at me like I was the one who dragged their ancestors across the ocean in chains. Then troublemakers started prodding them. The writing was already on the wall, Myron. The manufacturing end of this business was going to hell. Labor costs were too high. The city was just imploding on itself. And then the hoodlums began to lead the workers. They wanted to form a union. Demanded it, actually. I was against the idea, of course.»
Dad looked out his glass wall at the endless rows of boxes. Myron wondered how many times his father had looked out at this same view. He wondered what his father had thought about when looking out, what he dreamed about over the years in this dusty warehouse. Myron shook the can and popped the top. The sound startled Dad a bit. He looked back at his son and managed a smile.
«Old Man Bradford was hooked in to the mobsters who wanted to set up the union. That’s who was involved in this: mobsters, hoodlums, punks who ran everything from prostitutes to numbers; all of a sudden they’re labor experts. But I still fought them. And I was winning. So one day Old Man Bradford sends his son Arthur to this very building. To have a chat with me. Sam Richards is with him – the son of a bitch just leans against the wall and says nothing. Arthur sits down and puts his feet on my desk. I’m going to agree to this union, he says. I’m going to support it, in fact. Financially. With generous contributions. I tell the little snotnose there’s a word for this. It’s called extortion. I tell him to get the hell out of my office.»
Beads of sweat popped up on Dad’s forehead. He took a hankie and blotted them a few times. There was a fan in the corner of the office. It oscillated back and forth, teasing you with moments of comfort followed by stifling heat. Myron glanced at the family photos, focusing in on one of his parents on a Caribbean cruise. Maybe ten years ago. Mom and Dad were both wearing loud shirts and looked healthy and tan and much younger. It scared him.
«So what happened then?» Myron asked.
Dad swallowed away something and started speaking again. «Sam finally spoke. He came over to my desk and looked over the family photos. He smiled, like he was an old friend of the family. Then he tossed these pruning shears on my desk.»
Myron started to feel cold.
His father kept talking, his eyes wide and unfocused. «'Imagine what they could do to a human being,' Sam says to me. 'Imagine snipping away a piece at a time. Imagine not how long it would take to die but how long you could keep someone alive.' That’s it. That’s all he said. Then Arthur Bradford started laughing, and they both left my office.»
Dad tried the cup of coffee again, but it was still empty. Myron held up the Yoo-Hoo, but Dad shook his head.
«So I go home and try to pretend that everything is hunky-dory. I try to eat. I try to smile. I play with you in the yard. But I can’t stop thinking about what Sam said. Your mother knew something was wrong, but for once even she didn’t push it. Later I go to bed. I can’t sleep at first. It was like Sam said: I kept imagining. About cutting off little pieces of a human being. Slowly. Each cut causing a new scream. And then the phone rang. I jumped up and looked at my watch. It was three in the morning. I picked up the phone, and no one spoke. They were there. I could hear them breathing. But nobody spoke. So I hung up the phone and got out of bed.»
Dad’s breathing was shallow now. His eyes were welling up. Myron rose toward him, but Dad held up a hand to stop him.
«Let me just get through this, okay?»
Myron nodded, sat back down.
«I went into your room.» His voice was more monotone now, lifeless and flat. «You probably know that I used to do that a lot. Sometimes I would just sit in awe and watch you sleep.»
Tears started racing down his face. «So I stepped in the room. I could hear your deep breathing. The sound comforted me immediately. I smiled. And then I walked over to tuck you in a little better. And that’s when I saw it.»
Dad put a fist to his mouth as though stifling a cough. His chest started hitching. His words came in a sputter.
«On your bed. On top of the cover. Pruning shears. Someone had broken into your room and left pruning shears on your bed.»
A steel hand started squeezing Myron’s insides.
Dad looked at him with reddening eyes. «You don’t fight men like that, Myron. Because you can’t win. It’s not a question of bravery. It’s a question of caring. You have people you care about, that are connected to you. These men don’t even understand that. They don’t feel. How do you hurt a person who can’t feel?»
Myron had no answer.
«Just walk away,» Dad said. «There’s no shame in that.»
Myron stood up then. So did Dad. They hugged, gripping each other fiercely. Myron closed his eyes. His father cupped the back of his head and then smoothed his hair. Myron snuggled in and stayed there. He inhaled the Old Spice. He traveled back, remembering how this same hand had cradled his head after Joey Davito had hit him with a pitch.
Still comforting, he thought. After all these years, this was still the safest place to be.
