“Do you have any thoughts?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Myron aimed for his gentlest voice. “Could there be someone else?”
Her eyes stopped flicking and flared in his direction. “I’m not some hooker he picked up off the street.”
“I know that.”
“We love each other.”
“I know that too. But I also know a lot of guys in love who still do dumb things.” Women too. Jessica, for one. Four years ago with a guy named Doug. It still hurt. Guy named Doug. Go figure.
Wanda shook her head again firmly. Convincing herself or Myron? “It’s not like that with us. I know I sound like a gullible idiot, but it’s the way it is. I can’t explain it.”
“No need to. I was just seeing what you thought.”
“Duane’s not having an affair.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes were wet. She took a couple of deep breaths. “He’s not sleeping at night. He paces. I ask him what’s wrong, but he won’t tell me. I tried eavesdropping on a call, but the only thing I picked up was your name.”
“My name?”
She nodded. “He said it twice, but that’s all I heard.”
Myron thought a moment. “Suppose I put a tap on your phone.”
“Do it.”
“You don’t have a problem with that?”
“No.” The wet eyes broke into tears. She let out two quick sobs, made herself stop. “It’s getting worse, Myron. We have to find out what’s going on.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She gave him a brief hug. Myron wanted to stroke her hair and say something comforting. He didn’t do either. She strode out slowly, head high. Myron watched. As soon as she was out of sight Win returned.
“Well?” Win asked.
“I like her,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “Very shapely derriere.”
“That’s not what I meant. She’s a good woman. And she’s scared.”
“Of course she’s scared. Her meal ticket is about to go bye-bye.”
The Return of Mr. Warmth. “It’s not like that, Win. She loves him.”
Win strummed a few notes on an air-violin. Couldn’t talk to him about stuff like that. He just didn’t get it. “What did she want?”
Myron filled him in on the conversation. Win spread his legs, dropping into a full split and then sliding back up. He repeated the move several times, faster and faster. Ladies and gentlemen, the Godfather of Soul, Mr. James Brown.
When Myron finished, Win said, “Sounds like Duane is trying to hide more than a quick fling.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You want me to watch him?”
“We can take shifts.”
Win shook his head. “He knows you.”
“He knows you too.”
“Yes,” Win said, “but I am invisible. I am the wind.”
“Sure you don’t mean passing wind?”
Win made a face. “That was a good one. I’m sure I’ll laugh for days.”
Truth was, Win could be nestled in your B.V.D.’s for a week and you’d never know. “Can you start tonight?” Myron asked.
Win nodded. “I’m already there.”
22
Myron shot baskets on the blacktop off the driveway. The long summer day was finally slipping into darkness, but the basket was illuminated with spotlights. He and his father had installed them when Myron was in the sixth grade. A variety of barbecue smells competed in the still air. Chicken from the Dempseys’ house. Burgers from the Weinsteins’. Shish kebab at the Ruskins’.
Myron shot, rebounded, shot again. He got a little rhythm going, the ball back-spinning gently through the basket. Nothing but net. Sweat matted his gray T-shirt to his chest. Myron always did his best thinking out here, but right now his mind was a blank. There was nothing but the ball, the hoop, and the sweet arc after the release. It felt pure.
“Hey, Myron.”
It was Timmy from next door. Timmy was ten.
“Bug off, kid. You’re bothering me.”
Timmy laughed and grabbed a rebound. It was an inside joke. Timmy’s mother was convinced that her son was bothering Myron and that Myron should send Timmy home whenever he came over. Didn’t stop Timmy. He and his friends always came over when Myron was shooting. Once in a while, when they needed an extra body, the kids would knock on the door and ask his mom if Myron could come out and play.
He and Timmy shot around for a while. They talked about stuff that was important to little boys. A few other kids came by. The Daleys’ boy. The Cohens’ girl. Others. Bikes were parked at the end of the driveway. They started playing a game. Myron was designated steady passer. No one kept score accurately. Everyone laughed a lot. A few fathers came by and joined in. Arnie Stollman. Fred Dempsey. It’d been a while since they’d done this. A bit too Rockwellian for some, but it felt very right to Myron.
It was nearly ten when mothers started to call out for their children. From their front stoops the mothers smiled brightly and waved at Myron. Myron waved back. The kids “aw, Mom” ’d, but they listened.
Summer and school break. Still a touch of innocence. Kids were supposed to be different now. They had to deal with guns and drugs and crime and AIDS. But a summer night in middle-class suburbia was the great generational equalizer, a place far away from people like Aaron and the Ache brothers. A place far away from young women being murdered.
Valerie would have had fun tonight.
Mom opened the back door. “Telephone,” she said shortly.
“Who is it?”
Her voice was like a closed fist. “Jessica.” She made a face when she said it, like the name tasted bad on her lips.
Myron tried not to sprint. He walk/ran up the back steps and into the kitchen. The kitchen had been completely redone last year. Why, Myron couldn’t say. No one in the house cooked, unless you count microwaving Celeste frozen pizzas.
“I’ll take it in the basement,” he said.
A grunt from Mom. No wisecrack. Like Esperanza, Mom too held grudges. Especially when it came to her little boy.
He closed the door, grabbed the receiver, heard his mother hang up the extension. “Jess?”
“Is this Stallions ‘R’ Us?”
As usual her voice made him soar. “Why, yes it is. What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for a true stallion.”
“You called the right place. Any preference?”