Yes, Judy had heard about Sinclair’s reputation as a major womanizer. Yes, she had known that this was not his first experience with adultery, but all the others had been nothing more than empty-headed campus beauties he could have fun with and dispense with quickly. Judy was different. While attractive enough, she was certainly no head turner, and more to the point, their affair was now four months old. Sinclair Baskin loved her, she knew, and he was going to get divorced. Yes, it would be messy. No, her parents would not understand or be supportive at first. But love conquered all, right? What could be stronger than love?
As it turned out, love proved no match for jealousy, beauty, deceit, and rage.
The affair had been tough on Sinclair, too. He had a ten-year-old boy and an infant son, both of whom he loved dearly. Judy smiled sadly. Little, mischievous Stan was now forty years old. The little baby boy named David had grown up to be a wonderful young man and a sports hero. How proud Sinclair would have been of David. How crushed he would have been when David drowned. . . .
But of course, that would never have happened. If Sinclair were here, David would be, too.
Judy continued to gaze at the familiar photograph. Her thoughts glided easily from the past to the present. Such a thin line separated Boston in nineteen eighty-nine from Chicago in nineteen sixty. Her beautiful niece had also loved a Baskin man. David Baskin. Sinclair’s baby boy. Laura had put her whole life into loving him. Her dreams, her hopes, her love, her life—all gone now. Gone.
But there were major differences between Judy’s tragedy and Laura’s. For one, David had loved Laura with everything he had, no questions asked. In the end, Judy could not say the same thing about Sinclair. But more important, Laura was completely blameless in the death of the man she loved.
Judy was not.
Damn you, Sinclair Baskin. Why did you make that one dreaded mistake? And why was I so stupid? Why did I react so impulsively and strike without thinking? Everything was perfect, you idiot. Perfect.
Gone. Dead. Over. For Judy, there was nothing left. But what about Laura?
Judy’s hand reached for the telephone. There still might be hope for Laura. She grabbed the receiver, picked it up, dialed.
Her decision was made.
WHEN practice ended, Mark Seidman silently showered and dressed. The locker room was quiet, the players still somber from the previous night’s ceremony. No tape deck blasted the latest long-play single from Chaka Khan or Samantha Fox. There was little conversation going on, which made it easier for Mark to avoid conversing with his teammates. In the past, Mark had always enjoyed the camaraderie of his teammates. He recognized that there was a direct correlation between winning basketball games and having fun. When basketball became merely a job, the level of play always dropped off.
All that being said, Mark could not get himself to warm up to his teammates, nor did they accept him with open arms. It bothered him, and yet he knew that getting friendly with any of them could be catastrophic. Earl was not stupid. Neither was Timmy or Mac or Johnny. While he doubted that they could ever put the whole thing together, the risk was still too great.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed toward the exit. As he passed by Earl’s locker, he heard, “See you tomorrow, Mark.”
Earl had barely spoken a word to him all season. “Yeah,” Mark said unsurely, “see you tomorrow, Earl.”
“Nice game last night.”
Mark swallowed. “You, too,”
They both stood uncomfortably. With an uneasy smile, Mark turned away. He pushed the door open and vanished into the lobby.
One of the towel boys ran after him. “Mark?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“There’s a telephone call for you.”
“Tell whoever it is I’m not here.”
“She said it’s urgent.”
“She?”
The boy nodded. “She said you would know her. Judy Simmons.”
Mark felt something rip through his stomach.
“You all right, Mark?”
He nodded, his body numb. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’ll take the call in room five.”
Mark tried to remain calm, composed, unruffled.
He reached room five, closed the door for privacy, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Seidman?”
“Yes?”
“This is Judy Simmons. We met last night.”
His mouth felt incredibly dry. “Yes, of course. Is there something I can do for you, Miss Simmons?”
“How do you know I’m not married?”
“Excuse me?”
“You just called me ‘Miss.’ How do you know I’m not married?”
Mark closed his eyes. Every word had to be watched before it passed his lips. “I . . . I noticed last night that you weren’t wearing a wedding band.”
She paused as if she were mulling over his explanation. “I see.”
“You said it was urgent.”
“It is,” she said. “Do you mind if I call you Mark?”
“Please do.”
“Good,” Judy replied. She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking again. “Do you mind if I call you David?”
Her words hit him like a powerful blow. Just keep cool, Mark. Just keep cool. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but I do not appreciate your calling me under the pretense of an emergency—”
“Don’t play games with me, David,” she interrupted. “That is your real name, isn’t it? David Baskin.”
“No, it is not,” he shot back confidently. But he was scared—oh, so scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I don’t care. I’m sick of hearing the man’s name already. I know that your family has suffered a tragedy, Miss Simmons, and I know that my jump shot is similar to his. But I am Mark Seidman, not David Baskin. Do you hear me? I am not your niece’s dead husband.”
“Wait a sec—”
“No, you wait a second. Tragedies happen, Miss Simmons. They are indiscriminate and cruel. I know that the death of a man as young and healthy as David Baskin is hard for everyone to accept. The press and fans can’t even accept it. They call me White Lightning II, as if I were David reincarnated. I’m sick of it—do you hear me? Do yourself a favor. Accept the truth and help your family do the same. David Baskin is dead. I happened to replace him on the basketball court. That’s all.”
As it turned out, love proved no match for jealousy, beauty, deceit, and rage.
The affair had been tough on Sinclair, too. He had a ten-year-old boy and an infant son, both of whom he loved dearly. Judy smiled sadly. Little, mischievous Stan was now forty years old. The little baby boy named David had grown up to be a wonderful young man and a sports hero. How proud Sinclair would have been of David. How crushed he would have been when David drowned. . . .
But of course, that would never have happened. If Sinclair were here, David would be, too.
Judy continued to gaze at the familiar photograph. Her thoughts glided easily from the past to the present. Such a thin line separated Boston in nineteen eighty-nine from Chicago in nineteen sixty. Her beautiful niece had also loved a Baskin man. David Baskin. Sinclair’s baby boy. Laura had put her whole life into loving him. Her dreams, her hopes, her love, her life—all gone now. Gone.
But there were major differences between Judy’s tragedy and Laura’s. For one, David had loved Laura with everything he had, no questions asked. In the end, Judy could not say the same thing about Sinclair. But more important, Laura was completely blameless in the death of the man she loved.
Judy was not.
Damn you, Sinclair Baskin. Why did you make that one dreaded mistake? And why was I so stupid? Why did I react so impulsively and strike without thinking? Everything was perfect, you idiot. Perfect.
Gone. Dead. Over. For Judy, there was nothing left. But what about Laura?
Judy’s hand reached for the telephone. There still might be hope for Laura. She grabbed the receiver, picked it up, dialed.
Her decision was made.
WHEN practice ended, Mark Seidman silently showered and dressed. The locker room was quiet, the players still somber from the previous night’s ceremony. No tape deck blasted the latest long-play single from Chaka Khan or Samantha Fox. There was little conversation going on, which made it easier for Mark to avoid conversing with his teammates. In the past, Mark had always enjoyed the camaraderie of his teammates. He recognized that there was a direct correlation between winning basketball games and having fun. When basketball became merely a job, the level of play always dropped off.
All that being said, Mark could not get himself to warm up to his teammates, nor did they accept him with open arms. It bothered him, and yet he knew that getting friendly with any of them could be catastrophic. Earl was not stupid. Neither was Timmy or Mac or Johnny. While he doubted that they could ever put the whole thing together, the risk was still too great.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed toward the exit. As he passed by Earl’s locker, he heard, “See you tomorrow, Mark.”
Earl had barely spoken a word to him all season. “Yeah,” Mark said unsurely, “see you tomorrow, Earl.”
“Nice game last night.”
Mark swallowed. “You, too,”
They both stood uncomfortably. With an uneasy smile, Mark turned away. He pushed the door open and vanished into the lobby.
One of the towel boys ran after him. “Mark?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“There’s a telephone call for you.”
“Tell whoever it is I’m not here.”
“She said it’s urgent.”
“She?”
The boy nodded. “She said you would know her. Judy Simmons.”
Mark felt something rip through his stomach.
“You all right, Mark?”
He nodded, his body numb. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’ll take the call in room five.”
Mark tried to remain calm, composed, unruffled.
He reached room five, closed the door for privacy, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Seidman?”
“Yes?”
“This is Judy Simmons. We met last night.”
His mouth felt incredibly dry. “Yes, of course. Is there something I can do for you, Miss Simmons?”
“How do you know I’m not married?”
“Excuse me?”
“You just called me ‘Miss.’ How do you know I’m not married?”
Mark closed his eyes. Every word had to be watched before it passed his lips. “I . . . I noticed last night that you weren’t wearing a wedding band.”
She paused as if she were mulling over his explanation. “I see.”
“You said it was urgent.”
“It is,” she said. “Do you mind if I call you Mark?”
“Please do.”
“Good,” Judy replied. She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking again. “Do you mind if I call you David?”
Her words hit him like a powerful blow. Just keep cool, Mark. Just keep cool. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t know what this is all about, but I do not appreciate your calling me under the pretense of an emergency—”
“Don’t play games with me, David,” she interrupted. “That is your real name, isn’t it? David Baskin.”
“No, it is not,” he shot back confidently. But he was scared—oh, so scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I don’t care. I’m sick of hearing the man’s name already. I know that your family has suffered a tragedy, Miss Simmons, and I know that my jump shot is similar to his. But I am Mark Seidman, not David Baskin. Do you hear me? I am not your niece’s dead husband.”
“Wait a sec—”
“No, you wait a second. Tragedies happen, Miss Simmons. They are indiscriminate and cruel. I know that the death of a man as young and healthy as David Baskin is hard for everyone to accept. The press and fans can’t even accept it. They call me White Lightning II, as if I were David reincarnated. I’m sick of it—do you hear me? Do yourself a favor. Accept the truth and help your family do the same. David Baskin is dead. I happened to replace him on the basketball court. That’s all.”
