One False Move
“So they believe that Dad was beaten right before he was shot,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But we know that it probably isn’t true.”
Myron nodded. “The blood in the locker. My guess is, your father was beaten a day or two before. Either he got away or the beating was just a warning. He went to his locker at St. Barnabas to clean up. He used a shirt to stop the blood flowing out of his nose. Then he ran away.”
“And someone found him and shot him.”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the police about the bloody shirt?”
“I’m not sure. Think about it a second. The cops firmly believe you did it. Now you produce a shirt with your dad’s blood on it. Is that going to help us or hurt us?”
Brenda nodded and suddenly turned away. Her breathing became funny again. Too much too fast, Myron thought. He stayed back and gave her a little space. His heart started swelling up. Mother and father both gone, no sisters or brothers. What must that feel like?
A taxi pulled up a few minutes later. Brenda faced him again.
“Where do you want to be dropped off?” Myron asked. “A friend’s house? Your aunt’s?”
She thought about it. Then she shook her head and met his gaze. “Actually,” she said, “I’d like to stay with you.”
The taxi pulled up to the Bolitar house in Livingston.
“We can go somewhere else,” he tried again.
She shook her head. “Just do me one favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell them about my father. Not tonight.”
He sighed. “Yeah, okay.”
Uncle Sidney and Aunt Selma were already there. So were Uncle Bernie and Aunt Sophie and their boys. Other cars pulled up as he paid the taxi driver. Mom sprinted down the driveway and hugged Myron as though he’d just been released by Hamas terrorists. She also hugged Brenda. So did everyone else. Dad was in the back at the barbecue. A gas grill now, thank goodness, so Dad could stop loading on the lighter fluid with a hose. He wore a chef’s hat somewhat taller than a control tower and an apron that read REFORMED VEGETARIAN. Brenda was introduced as a client. Mom quickly grabbed her away from Myron, threading her arm through Brenda’s, and led her into the house for a tour. More people came. The neighbors. Each with a pasta salad or fruit salad or something. The Dempseys and the Cohens and the Daleys and the Weinsteins. The Brauns had finally surrendered to the warm allure of Florida, and a couple younger than Myron with two kids had moved in. They came over too.
The festivities began. A Wiffle ball and bat were produced. Teams were chosen. When Myron swung and missed, everyone fell down as though from the breeze. Funny. Everyone talked with Brenda. They wanted to hear about the new women’s league, but they were far more impressed when they heard Brenda was going to be a doctor. Dad even let Brenda take over the grill for a while, a move for Dad tantamount to donating a kidney. The smell of charred foods filled the air. Chicken and burgers and hot dogs from Don’s deli (Mom bought her hot dogs only from Don) and shish kebabs and even a few salmon steaks for the health-conscious.
Myron kept meeting Brenda’s eye. Brenda kept smiling.
Kids, all dutifully wearing helmets, parked their bikes at the end of the driveway. The Cohens’ kid had gotten an earring. Everyone ribbed him about it. He slumped his head and smiled. Vic Ruskin gave Myron a stock tip. Myron nodded and promptly forgot it. Fred Dempsey grabbed a basketball from the garage. The Daley girl picked teams. Myron had to play. So did Brenda. Everyone laughed. Myron downed a cheeseburger between points. Delicious. Timmy Ruskin fell down and cut his knee. He cried. Brenda bent down and examined the cut. She put on a Band-Aid and smiled at Timmy. Timmy beamed.
Hours passed. Darkness crept in slowly as it does in suburban summer skies. People began to drift home. Cars and bikes faded away. Fathers threw their arms around sons. Little girls rode home on shoulders. Everyone kissed Mom and Dad good-bye. Myron looked at his parents. They were the only original family left in the neighborhood now, the surrogate grandparents of the block. They suddenly looked old to Myron. That scared him.
Brenda came up behind him. “This is wonderful,” she said to him.
And it was. Win might poke fun at it. Jessica did not care for scenes like these—her own family had created the perfect Rockwellian facade to hide the rot below—and rushed back to the city as though it held an antidote. Myron and Jess often drove back from such events in total silence. Myron thought about that. And he thought again what Win had said about taking leaps of faith.
“I miss your father,” Myron said. “I haven’t talked to him in ten years. But I still miss him.”
She nodded. “I know.”
They helped clean up. Not much to it. They’d used only paper plates and cups and plastic utensils. Brenda and Mom laughed the whole time. Mom kept sneaking glances at Myron. The looks were a little too knowing.
“I always wanted Myron to be a doctor,” Mom said. “Isn’t that a shock? A Jewish mother who wants her son to be a doctor?”
Both women laughed.
“But he faints at the sight of blood,” Mom continued. “Can’t stand it. Myron wouldn’t even go to an R-rated movie until he was in college. Slept with a night-light until he was—”
“Mom.”
“Oh, I’m embarrassing him. I’m your mother, Myron. I’m supposed to embarrass you. Isn’t that right, Brenda?”
“Definitely, Mrs. Bolitar.”
“For the tenth time, it’s Ellen. And Myron’s father is Al. Everyone calls us El Al. Get it? Like the Israeli airline.”
“Mom.”
“Shush, you, I’m going. Brenda, you’ll stay tonight? The guest room is all ready for you.”
“Thank you, Ellen. That would be very nice.”
Mom turned. “I’ll leave you kids alone.” Her smile was too happy.
The backyard fell silent. A full moon was the only source of illumination. Crickets hummed. A dog barked. They started walking. They talked about Horace. Not about the murder. Not about why he vanished or about Anita Slaughter or FJ or the league or the Bradfords or any of that. Just about Horace.
They reached Burnet Hill, Myron’s elementary school. A few years ago the town had closed down half the building because of its proximity to high-tension electromagnetic wires. Myron had spent three years under those wires. Might explain a few things.
Brenda sat on a swing. Her skin glistened in the moonlight. She started swinging, kicking her legs high. He sat on the swing next to her and joined her in the air. The metal apparatus was strong, but it still started swaying a bit under their onslaught.