One False Move
Page 36
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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 Coddington 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.
The ring of the phone and the muffled voices invaded his sleep, becoming part of his dream. When Myron opened his eyes, he remembered little. He’d been younger in the dream, and he felt a deep sadness as he’d floated up toward consciousness. He closed his eyes again, trying to claw back into that warm, nocturnal realm. The second ring blew away the fading images like so much cloud dust.
He reached for his cell phone. As it had for the past three years, the bedside clock blinked 12:00 A.M. Myron checked his watch. Almost seven in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
It took Myron a moment to place the voice. Officer Francine Neagly, his old high school buddy.
“Home,” he croaked.
“Remember the Halloween scare?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me there in a half hour,” she said.
“Did you get the file?”
Click.
Myron hung up the phone. He took a few deep breaths. Great. Now what?
Through the vents he heard the muffled voices again. They were coming from the kitchen. Years down here had given him the ability to tell by the echo in what room of the house a certain sound originated—not unlike the Indian brave in an old western who puts his ear to the ground to calculate the distance of incoming hoofbeats.
Myron swung his legs out of the bed. He massaged his face with his palms. He threw on a velour bathrobe circa 1978, gave the teeth a quick brush, the hair a quick pat, and headed to the kitchen.
Brenda and Mom sipped coffee at the kitchen table. Instant coffee, Myron knew. Muy watery. Mom wasn’t big on better coffees. The wondrous smell of fresh bagels, however, jump-started his stomach. A bowlful of them along with an assortment of spreads and several newspapers adorned the tabletop. A typical Sunday morning at the Bolitar homestead.
“Good morning,” Mom said.
“Morning.”
“Want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” New Starbucks in Livingston. He’d check it out on the way to Francine.
Myron looked at Brenda. She looked back steadily. No embarrassment. He was glad.
“Good morning,” he said to her. Sparkling morning-after repartee was Myron’s forte.
She nodded a good morning back.
“There are bagels,” Mom said, in case both his eyes and olfactory nerves had shorted out. “Your father picked them up this morning. From Livingston Bagels, Myron. Remember? The one on Northfield Avenue? Near Two Gondoliers Pizzeria?”
“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 Coddington 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.
The ring of the phone and the muffled voices invaded his sleep, becoming part of his dream. When Myron opened his eyes, he remembered little. He’d been younger in the dream, and he felt a deep sadness as he’d floated up toward consciousness. He closed his eyes again, trying to claw back into that warm, nocturnal realm. The second ring blew away the fading images like so much cloud dust.
He reached for his cell phone. As it had for the past three years, the bedside clock blinked 12:00 A.M. Myron checked his watch. Almost seven in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?”
It took Myron a moment to place the voice. Officer Francine Neagly, his old high school buddy.
“Home,” he croaked.
“Remember the Halloween scare?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me there in a half hour,” she said.
“Did you get the file?”
Click.
Myron hung up the phone. He took a few deep breaths. Great. Now what?
Through the vents he heard the muffled voices again. They were coming from the kitchen. Years down here had given him the ability to tell by the echo in what room of the house a certain sound originated—not unlike the Indian brave in an old western who puts his ear to the ground to calculate the distance of incoming hoofbeats.
Myron swung his legs out of the bed. He massaged his face with his palms. He threw on a velour bathrobe circa 1978, gave the teeth a quick brush, the hair a quick pat, and headed to the kitchen.
Brenda and Mom sipped coffee at the kitchen table. Instant coffee, Myron knew. Muy watery. Mom wasn’t big on better coffees. The wondrous smell of fresh bagels, however, jump-started his stomach. A bowlful of them along with an assortment of spreads and several newspapers adorned the tabletop. A typical Sunday morning at the Bolitar homestead.
“Good morning,” Mom said.
“Morning.”
“Want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.” New Starbucks in Livingston. He’d check it out on the way to Francine.
Myron looked at Brenda. She looked back steadily. No embarrassment. He was glad.
“Good morning,” he said to her. Sparkling morning-after repartee was Myron’s forte.
She nodded a good morning back.
“There are bagels,” Mom said, in case both his eyes and olfactory nerves had shorted out. “Your father picked them up this morning. From Livingston Bagels, Myron. Remember? The one on Northfield Avenue? Near Two Gondoliers Pizzeria?”
