“That’s pretty much it.”
“No, I don’t think so, Myron. Aunt Cissy didn’t say that you could help us because you were good at basketball.”
“I worked a bit for the government.”
“With Win?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
Again he shook his head.
“Top secret, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“And you date Jessica Culver?”
“Yes.”
“I like her books.”
He nodded.
“Do you love her?”
“Very much.”
“So what do you want?”
“Want?”
“Out of life. What are your dreams?”
He smiled. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just getting to the heart of the matter,” Linda said. “Humor me. What do you want, Myron?” She looked at him with keen interest. Myron felt flushed.
“I want to marry Jessica. I want to move to the suburbs. I want to raise a family.”
She leaned back as though satisfied. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“Like your parents?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I think that’s nice.”
“It’s simple,” he said.
“Not all of us are built for the simple life,” she said, “even if it’s what we want.”
Myron nodded. “Deep, Linda. I don’t know what it means, but it sounded deep.”
“Me neither.” She laughed. It was deep and throaty and Myron liked the sound of it. “Tell me where you met Win.”
“At college,” Myron said. “Freshman year.”
“I haven’t seen him since he was eight years old.” Linda Coldren took a swallow of her seltzer. “I was fifteen then. Jack and I had already been dating a year, believe it or not. Win loved Jack, by the way. Did you know that?”
“No,” Myron said.
“It’s true. He followed Jack everywhere. And Jack could be such a prick back then. He bullied other kids. He was mischievous as all hell. At times he was downright cruel.”
“But you fell for him?”
“I was fifteen,” she said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
“What was Win like as a kid?” Myron asked.
She smiled again, the lines in the corners of her eyes and lips deepening. “Trying to figure him out, eh?”
“Just curious,” Myron said, but the truth in her words stung. He suddenly wanted to withdraw the question, but it was too late.
“Win was never a happy kid. He was always”—Linda stopped, searching for the word—“off. I don’t know how else to put it. He wasn’t crazy or flaky or aggressive or anything like that. But something was not right with him. Always. Even as a child, he had this strange ability to detach.”
Myron nodded. He knew what she meant.
“Aunt Cissy is like that too.”
“Win’s mother?”
Linda nodded. “The woman can be pure ice when she wants to be. Even when it comes to Win. She acts as though he doesn’t exist.”
“She must talk about him,” Myron said. “To your father, at least.”
Linda shook her head. “When Aunt Cissy told my father to contact Win, it was the first time she’d mentioned his name to him in years.”
Myron said nothing. Again the obvious question hung in the air unasked: What had happened between Win and his mother? But Myron would never voice it. This conversation had already gone too far. Asking would be an unforgivable betrayal; if Win wanted him to know, he’d tell him.
Time passed, but neither one of them noticed. They talked, mostly about Chad and the kind of son he was. Jack had held on and still led by eight strokes. A gigantic lead. If he blew it this time, it would be worse than twenty-three years ago.
The tent began to empty out, but Myron and Linda stayed and talked some more. A feeling of intimacy began to warm him; he found it hard to breathe when he looked at her. For a moment he closed his eyes. Nothing, he realized, was really going on here. If there was an attraction of some sort, it was simply a classic case of damsel-in-distress syndrome—and there was nothing less politically correct (not to mention Neanderthal) than that.
The crowd was gone now. For a long time nobody came into view. At one point, Win stuck his head into the tent. Seeing them together, he arched an eyebrow and then slipped back out.
Myron checked his watch. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Tad Crispin.”
“Here at Merion?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you’ll be long?”
“No.”
She started fiddling with her engagement ring, studying it as though making an appraisal. “Do you mind if I wait?” she asked. “We can catch dinner together.” She took off her glasses. The eyes were puffy, but they were also strong and focused.
“Okay.”
He met up with Esperanza at the clubhouse. She made a face at him.
“What?” he said.
“You thinking about Jessica?” Esperanza asked suspiciously. “No, why?”
“Because you’re making your nauseating, lovesick-puppy face. You know. The one that makes me want to throw up on your shoes.”
“Come on,” he said. “Tad Crispin is waiting.”
The meeting ended with no deal. But they were getting close.
“That contract he signed with Zoom,” Esperanza said. “A major turkey.”
“I know.”
“Crispin likes you.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Myron said.
He excused himself and walked quickly back to the tent. Linda Coldren was in the same seat, her back to him, her posture still queenlike.
“Linda?”
“It’s dark now,” she said softly. “Chad doesn’t like the dark. I know he’s sixteen, but I still leave the hall light on. Just in case.”
Myron remained still. When she turned toward him—when he first saw her smile—it was like something corkscrewed into his heart. “When Chad was little,” she began, “he always carried around this red plastic golf club and Wiffle ball. It’s funny. When I think about him now, that’s how I see him. With that little red club. For a long time I hadn’t been able to picture him like that. He’s so much like a man now. But since he’s been gone, all I see is that little, happy kid in the backyard hitting golf balls.”
“No, I don’t think so, Myron. Aunt Cissy didn’t say that you could help us because you were good at basketball.”
“I worked a bit for the government.”
“With Win?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
Again he shook his head.
“Top secret, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“And you date Jessica Culver?”
“Yes.”
“I like her books.”
He nodded.
“Do you love her?”
“Very much.”
“So what do you want?”
“Want?”
“Out of life. What are your dreams?”
He smiled. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just getting to the heart of the matter,” Linda said. “Humor me. What do you want, Myron?” She looked at him with keen interest. Myron felt flushed.
“I want to marry Jessica. I want to move to the suburbs. I want to raise a family.”
She leaned back as though satisfied. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“Like your parents?”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I think that’s nice.”
“It’s simple,” he said.
“Not all of us are built for the simple life,” she said, “even if it’s what we want.”
Myron nodded. “Deep, Linda. I don’t know what it means, but it sounded deep.”
“Me neither.” She laughed. It was deep and throaty and Myron liked the sound of it. “Tell me where you met Win.”
“At college,” Myron said. “Freshman year.”
“I haven’t seen him since he was eight years old.” Linda Coldren took a swallow of her seltzer. “I was fifteen then. Jack and I had already been dating a year, believe it or not. Win loved Jack, by the way. Did you know that?”
“No,” Myron said.
“It’s true. He followed Jack everywhere. And Jack could be such a prick back then. He bullied other kids. He was mischievous as all hell. At times he was downright cruel.”
“But you fell for him?”
“I was fifteen,” she said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
“What was Win like as a kid?” Myron asked.
She smiled again, the lines in the corners of her eyes and lips deepening. “Trying to figure him out, eh?”
“Just curious,” Myron said, but the truth in her words stung. He suddenly wanted to withdraw the question, but it was too late.
“Win was never a happy kid. He was always”—Linda stopped, searching for the word—“off. I don’t know how else to put it. He wasn’t crazy or flaky or aggressive or anything like that. But something was not right with him. Always. Even as a child, he had this strange ability to detach.”
Myron nodded. He knew what she meant.
“Aunt Cissy is like that too.”
“Win’s mother?”
Linda nodded. “The woman can be pure ice when she wants to be. Even when it comes to Win. She acts as though he doesn’t exist.”
“She must talk about him,” Myron said. “To your father, at least.”
Linda shook her head. “When Aunt Cissy told my father to contact Win, it was the first time she’d mentioned his name to him in years.”
Myron said nothing. Again the obvious question hung in the air unasked: What had happened between Win and his mother? But Myron would never voice it. This conversation had already gone too far. Asking would be an unforgivable betrayal; if Win wanted him to know, he’d tell him.
Time passed, but neither one of them noticed. They talked, mostly about Chad and the kind of son he was. Jack had held on and still led by eight strokes. A gigantic lead. If he blew it this time, it would be worse than twenty-three years ago.
The tent began to empty out, but Myron and Linda stayed and talked some more. A feeling of intimacy began to warm him; he found it hard to breathe when he looked at her. For a moment he closed his eyes. Nothing, he realized, was really going on here. If there was an attraction of some sort, it was simply a classic case of damsel-in-distress syndrome—and there was nothing less politically correct (not to mention Neanderthal) than that.
The crowd was gone now. For a long time nobody came into view. At one point, Win stuck his head into the tent. Seeing them together, he arched an eyebrow and then slipped back out.
Myron checked his watch. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Tad Crispin.”
“Here at Merion?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you’ll be long?”
“No.”
She started fiddling with her engagement ring, studying it as though making an appraisal. “Do you mind if I wait?” she asked. “We can catch dinner together.” She took off her glasses. The eyes were puffy, but they were also strong and focused.
“Okay.”
He met up with Esperanza at the clubhouse. She made a face at him.
“What?” he said.
“You thinking about Jessica?” Esperanza asked suspiciously. “No, why?”
“Because you’re making your nauseating, lovesick-puppy face. You know. The one that makes me want to throw up on your shoes.”
“Come on,” he said. “Tad Crispin is waiting.”
The meeting ended with no deal. But they were getting close.
“That contract he signed with Zoom,” Esperanza said. “A major turkey.”
“I know.”
“Crispin likes you.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Myron said.
He excused himself and walked quickly back to the tent. Linda Coldren was in the same seat, her back to him, her posture still queenlike.
“Linda?”
“It’s dark now,” she said softly. “Chad doesn’t like the dark. I know he’s sixteen, but I still leave the hall light on. Just in case.”
Myron remained still. When she turned toward him—when he first saw her smile—it was like something corkscrewed into his heart. “When Chad was little,” she began, “he always carried around this red plastic golf club and Wiffle ball. It’s funny. When I think about him now, that’s how I see him. With that little red club. For a long time I hadn’t been able to picture him like that. He’s so much like a man now. But since he’s been gone, all I see is that little, happy kid in the backyard hitting golf balls.”
