“Sounds epic,” I said in my flattest monotone.
Myron laughed. “God, you’re a wiseass.”
“No, no, a game of horse. You and Dad must have been party animals.”
Myron laughed some more and then we fell into silence. I started for the door when he said, “Mickey?”
I turned toward him.
“I’ll drive you and your mom tomorrow morning. Then I’ll leave you two alone.”
I nodded a thanks.
Myron grabbed the basketball and started shooting. It was his escape too. Not long ago, I found an old clip of his injury on YouTube. Myron was wearing a Boston Celtics jersey with the horrible short-shorts they wore in those days. He’d been pivoting on his right leg when Burt Wesson, a bruiser on the Washington Bullets, slammed into him. Myron’s leg bent in a way it was never supposed to. You could hear the snap even in the old video.
I watched him another second or two, noticing the startling similarities in the release on our jump shots. I started to go back into the house when a thought made me pause. After his injury Myron became a sports agent. That’s how my parents met—Myron was going to represent the teen tennis sensation Kitty Hammer, aka my mother. Eventually Myron branched out to represent not just athletes but people in the arts, theater, and music. He even repped rock star Lex Ryder, half of the duo that made up the group HorsePower.
Mom had known HorsePower. So had Dad. Myron represented them. And Bat Lady had their first album, which had to be thirty years old now, on her turntable.
I turned back to Myron. He stopped shooting and looked back at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you know anything about the Bat Lady?” I asked.
He frowned. “The old house on the corner of Pine and Hobart Gap?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Bat Lady. She has to be long dead.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe kids still make up stories about her.”
“What kind of stories?”
“She was like the town bogeyman,” he said. “Supposedly she kidnapped children. People claimed they saw her bringing children to her house late at night, stuff like that.”
“Did you ever see her?” I asked.
“Me? No.” Myron spun the ball on his fingers, staring at it a little too intently. “But I think your father did.”
I wondered if this was yet another attempt by Myron to bring up my father, but no, that didn’t seem to be Myron’s style. He was a lot of things, my uncle, but he wasn’t a liar.
“Can you tell me about it?”
I could see that Myron wanted to ask why, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment. I didn’t talk to him much and never about my dad. He didn’t want to risk me clamming back up. “I’m trying to think,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Your dad must have been twelve, maybe thirteen, I don’t remember. Anyway, we walked past that house our whole lives. You know the stories about it already, and you’ve lived here only a few weeks. So you can imagine. One time, your father and I, we were young then, he was maybe seven, I was twelve or so, we went to a horror movie at the Colony and we decided to walk back. It got dark and started to rain and we walked past some older kids. They chased us and started yelling how the Bat Lady was going to get us. Your father was so scared he started to cry.”
Myron stopped and looked off. He was fighting off tears again.
“After that night, your dad was always afraid of the Bat Lady’s house. I mean, like I said, we were all creeped out, but your father didn’t even want to walk past it. He had nightmares about the house. I remember he went to a sleepover party and he woke up screaming about the Bat Lady coming to get him. The kids teased him about it. You know how it is.”
I nodded that I did.
“So one Friday night, Brad is out with friends. That’s what we used to do back then. We’d just hang out at night. So anyway, it’s getting dark and they’re bored, so one thing leads to another and the friends challenge Brad to knock on Bat Lady’s door. He doesn’t want to, but your father was not one to lose face.”
“So what happened next?”
“He approached Bat Lady’s house. It was pitch dark. No lights were on. His friends stayed across the street. They figured he’d knock and then run. Well, he knocked, but he didn’t run. His friends all waited to see if Bat Lady answered the door. But that’s not what happened. Instead they saw your father turn the knob and go inside.”
I almost gasped. “On his own?”
“Yep. He disappeared inside, and his friends waited for him to come out. They waited a long time. But he didn’t come back. After a while, they figured that Brad was playing a trick on them. You know. The house was empty, so all Brad did was sneak out the back—trying to scare them by not coming out.”
I took a step closer to Myron. “So what did happen?”
“One of your dad’s old friends, Alan Bender, well, he didn’t buy that. So when your dad didn’t show up for two hours, he was terrified. He ran to our house to get help or at least tell someone. I remember he was out of breath and all wide eyed. I was out back here shooting, just like, well, tonight. Alan told me that he saw Brad go into Bat Lady’s house and that he didn’t come out.”
“Were Grandma and Grandpa home?”
“No, they were out to dinner. It was a Friday night. We didn’t have cell phones back then. So I ran back with Alan. I started pounding on Bat Lady’s door, but there was no answer. Alan said that he saw your dad just turn the knob and walk in. So I tried that, but the door was locked now. From inside, I thought I could hear music playing.”
“Music?”
“Yeah. It was weird. I started freaking out. I tried to kick in the door, if you could believe it, but it held. I told Alan to run to the neighbor’s house and have them call the police. So Alan takes off. And just as he does, the front door opens and your father walks out. Just like that. He looks so serene. I ask him if he’s okay. He says, sure, fine.”
“What else did he say?”
“That’s it.”
“Didn’t you ask him what he’d been doing for two hours?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“He never said.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Never?”
Myron shook his head. “Never. But something happened. Something big.”
Myron laughed. “God, you’re a wiseass.”
“No, no, a game of horse. You and Dad must have been party animals.”
Myron laughed some more and then we fell into silence. I started for the door when he said, “Mickey?”
I turned toward him.
“I’ll drive you and your mom tomorrow morning. Then I’ll leave you two alone.”
I nodded a thanks.
Myron grabbed the basketball and started shooting. It was his escape too. Not long ago, I found an old clip of his injury on YouTube. Myron was wearing a Boston Celtics jersey with the horrible short-shorts they wore in those days. He’d been pivoting on his right leg when Burt Wesson, a bruiser on the Washington Bullets, slammed into him. Myron’s leg bent in a way it was never supposed to. You could hear the snap even in the old video.
I watched him another second or two, noticing the startling similarities in the release on our jump shots. I started to go back into the house when a thought made me pause. After his injury Myron became a sports agent. That’s how my parents met—Myron was going to represent the teen tennis sensation Kitty Hammer, aka my mother. Eventually Myron branched out to represent not just athletes but people in the arts, theater, and music. He even repped rock star Lex Ryder, half of the duo that made up the group HorsePower.
Mom had known HorsePower. So had Dad. Myron represented them. And Bat Lady had their first album, which had to be thirty years old now, on her turntable.
I turned back to Myron. He stopped shooting and looked back at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you know anything about the Bat Lady?” I asked.
He frowned. “The old house on the corner of Pine and Hobart Gap?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Bat Lady. She has to be long dead.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe kids still make up stories about her.”
“What kind of stories?”
“She was like the town bogeyman,” he said. “Supposedly she kidnapped children. People claimed they saw her bringing children to her house late at night, stuff like that.”
“Did you ever see her?” I asked.
“Me? No.” Myron spun the ball on his fingers, staring at it a little too intently. “But I think your father did.”
I wondered if this was yet another attempt by Myron to bring up my father, but no, that didn’t seem to be Myron’s style. He was a lot of things, my uncle, but he wasn’t a liar.
“Can you tell me about it?”
I could see that Myron wanted to ask why, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment. I didn’t talk to him much and never about my dad. He didn’t want to risk me clamming back up. “I’m trying to think,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Your dad must have been twelve, maybe thirteen, I don’t remember. Anyway, we walked past that house our whole lives. You know the stories about it already, and you’ve lived here only a few weeks. So you can imagine. One time, your father and I, we were young then, he was maybe seven, I was twelve or so, we went to a horror movie at the Colony and we decided to walk back. It got dark and started to rain and we walked past some older kids. They chased us and started yelling how the Bat Lady was going to get us. Your father was so scared he started to cry.”
Myron stopped and looked off. He was fighting off tears again.
“After that night, your dad was always afraid of the Bat Lady’s house. I mean, like I said, we were all creeped out, but your father didn’t even want to walk past it. He had nightmares about the house. I remember he went to a sleepover party and he woke up screaming about the Bat Lady coming to get him. The kids teased him about it. You know how it is.”
I nodded that I did.
“So one Friday night, Brad is out with friends. That’s what we used to do back then. We’d just hang out at night. So anyway, it’s getting dark and they’re bored, so one thing leads to another and the friends challenge Brad to knock on Bat Lady’s door. He doesn’t want to, but your father was not one to lose face.”
“So what happened next?”
“He approached Bat Lady’s house. It was pitch dark. No lights were on. His friends stayed across the street. They figured he’d knock and then run. Well, he knocked, but he didn’t run. His friends all waited to see if Bat Lady answered the door. But that’s not what happened. Instead they saw your father turn the knob and go inside.”
I almost gasped. “On his own?”
“Yep. He disappeared inside, and his friends waited for him to come out. They waited a long time. But he didn’t come back. After a while, they figured that Brad was playing a trick on them. You know. The house was empty, so all Brad did was sneak out the back—trying to scare them by not coming out.”
I took a step closer to Myron. “So what did happen?”
“One of your dad’s old friends, Alan Bender, well, he didn’t buy that. So when your dad didn’t show up for two hours, he was terrified. He ran to our house to get help or at least tell someone. I remember he was out of breath and all wide eyed. I was out back here shooting, just like, well, tonight. Alan told me that he saw Brad go into Bat Lady’s house and that he didn’t come out.”
“Were Grandma and Grandpa home?”
“No, they were out to dinner. It was a Friday night. We didn’t have cell phones back then. So I ran back with Alan. I started pounding on Bat Lady’s door, but there was no answer. Alan said that he saw your dad just turn the knob and walk in. So I tried that, but the door was locked now. From inside, I thought I could hear music playing.”
“Music?”
“Yeah. It was weird. I started freaking out. I tried to kick in the door, if you could believe it, but it held. I told Alan to run to the neighbor’s house and have them call the police. So Alan takes off. And just as he does, the front door opens and your father walks out. Just like that. He looks so serene. I ask him if he’s okay. He says, sure, fine.”
“What else did he say?”
“That’s it.”
“Didn’t you ask him what he’d been doing for two hours?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“He never said.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Never?”
Myron shook his head. “Never. But something happened. Something big.”
