Promise Me

  "Oh?"

  "Teenagers," he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

  "Trouble?"

  "You have no idea."

  "Oh?"

  Again with the Oh.

  Erik said nothing.

  "What kind?" Myron asked.

  "Kind?"

  Myron wanted to say Oh again, but he feared going to the well once too often. "Trouble. What kind of trouble?"

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Is she sullen?" Myron said, again trying to sound nonchalant. "Does she not listen? Does she stay up late, blow off school, spend too much time on the Internet, what?"

  "All of the above," Erik said, but now his words came out even slower, even more measured. "Why do you ask?"

  Back up, Myron thought. "Just making conversation."

  Erik frowned. "Making conversation usually consists of bemoaning the local teams."

  "It's nothing," Myron said. "It's just . . ."

  "Just what?"

  "The party at my house."

  "What about it?"

  "I don't know, seeing Aimee like that, I just started thinking about how tough those teenage years are."

  Erik's eyes narrowed. On the court someone had called a foul and someone was protesting the call. "I didn't touch you!" a guy with a mustache and elbow pads shouted. Then the name-calling began--something else you never outgrow on a basketball court.

  Erik's eyes were still on the court. "Did Aimee say anything to you?" he asked.

  "Like what?"

  "Like anything. I remember you were in the basement with her and Erin Wilder."

  "Right."

  "What did you guys talk about?"

  "Nothing. They were just goofing on me about how dated the room was."

  Now he looked at Myron. Myron wanted to look away, but he held on. "Aimee can be," Erik said, "rebellious."

  "Like her mother."

  "Claire?" He blinked. "Rebellious?"

  Oh man, he should learn to shut his mouth.

  "In what way?"

  Myron went for the politician response: "It depends on what you mean by rebellious, I guess."

  But Erik didn't let it slide. "What did you mean by it?"

  "Nothing. It's a good thing. Claire had edge."

  "Edge?"

  Shut up, Myron. "You know what I mean. Edge. Good edge. When you first saw Claire--that very first second--what attracted you to her?"

  "Many things," he said. "But edge was not one of them. I had known a lot of girls, Myron. There are those you want to marry and those you just want, well, you know."

  Myron nodded.

  "Claire was the one you wanted to marry. That was the first thing I thought when I saw her. And yes, I know how it sounds. But you were her friend. You know what I mean."

  Myron tried to look noncommittal.

  "I loved her so much."

  Loved, Myron thought, keeping quiet this time. He'd said loved, not love.

  As if reading his mind, Erik added, "I still do. Maybe more than ever."

  Myron waited for the "but."

  Erik smiled. "You heard the good news, I assume?"

  "About?"

  "Aimee. In fact, we owe you a great big thank-you."

  "Why's that?"

  "She got accepted to Duke."

  "Hey, that's great."

  "We just heard two days ago."

  "Congratulations."

  "Your recommendation letter," he said. "I think it pushed her over the line."

  Myron said, "Nah," though there was probably more truth in Erik's statement than Erik knew. Myron had not only written that letter, but he also had called one of his old teammates, who now worked in admissions.

  "No, really," Erik went on. "There's so much competition to get into the top schools. Your recommendation carried a lot of weight, I'm sure. So thank you."

  "She's a good kid. It was my pleasure."

  The game ended. Erik rose. "Ready?"

  "I think I'm done for today," Myron said.

  "Hurting, eh?"

  "A little."

  "We're getting older, Myron."

  "I know."

  "There are more aches and pains now."

  Myron nodded.

  "Seems to me you have a choice when things hurt," Erik said. "You can sit out--or you can try to play through the pain."

  Erik jogged away, leaving Myron to wonder if he'd still been talking about basketball.

  CHAPTER 9

  Back in the car, Myron's cell phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. Again nothing.

  "Hello?"

  "You're a bastard, Myron."

  "Yeah, I got that the first time. Do you have any new material or are we going to follow up with that original line about me paying for what I've done?"

  Click.

  Myron shrugged it off. Back in the days when he used to play superhero, he had been a rather well-connected fellow. It was time to see if that still held. He checked his cell phone's directory. The number for Gail Berruti, his old contact from the telephone company, was still there. People think it's unrealistic how private eyes in TV can get phone records with a snap. The truth is, it was beyond easy. Every decent private eye has a source in the phone company. Think about how many people work for Ma Bell. Think how many of them wouldn't mind making an extra buck or two. The going rate had been five hundred dollars per billing statement, but Myron imagined the price had gone up in the past six years.

  Berruti wasn't in--she was probably off for the weekend--but he left a message.

  "This is a voice from your past," Myron began.

  He asked Berruti to get back to him with the trace on the phone number. He tried Aimee's cell phone again. It went to her voice mail. When he got home, he headed to the computer and Googled the number. Nothing came up. He took a quick shower and then checked his e-mail. Jeremy, his sorta-son, had written him an e-mail from overseas:

  Hey, Myron--

  We're only allowed to say that we're in the Persian Gulf area. I'm doing well. Mom sounds crazy. Give her a call if you can. She still doesn't understand. Dad doesn't either, but at least he pretends he does. Thanks for the package.

  We love getting stuff.

  I got to go. I'll write more later, but I might be out of touch for a while. Call Mom, okay?

  Jeremy

  Myron read it again and then again, but the words didn't change. The e-mail, like most of Jeremy's, said nothing. He didn't like that "out of touch" part. He thought about parenting, how he had missed so much of it, all of it really, and how this kid, his son, fit into his life now. It was working, he thought, at least for Jeremy. But it was hard. The kid was the biggest what-could-have-been, the biggest if-only-I'd-known, and most of the time, it just plain hurt.

  Still staring at the message, Myron heard his cell phone. He cursed under his breath, but this time the caller ID told him it was the divine Ms. Ali Wilder.

  Myron smiled as he answered it. "Stallion Services," he said.

  "Sheesh, suppose it was one of my kids on the phone."

  "I'd pretend to be a horse seller," he said.

  "A horse seller?"

  "Whatever they call people who sell horses."

  "What time is your flight?"

  "Four o'clock."

  "You busy?"

  "Why?"

  "The kids will be out of the house for the next hour."

  "Whoa," he said.

  "My thoughts exactly."

  "Are you suggesting a little righteous nookie?"

  "I am." Then: "Righteous?"

  "It'll take me some time to get there."

  "Uh-huh."

  "And it'll have to be a quickie."

  "Isn't that your specialty?" she said.

  "Now that hurt."

  "Only kidding. Stallion."

  He brayed. "That's horse-speak for 'I'm on my way.' "

  "Righteous," she said.

  But when he knocked on her door, Erin answered it. "Hey, Myron."


  "Hey," he said, trying not to sound disappointed.

  He glanced behind her. Ali shrugged a sorry at him.

  Myron stepped inside. Erin ran upstairs. Ali came closer. "She got in late and didn't feel like going to drama club."

  "Oh."

  "Sorry about that."

  "No problem."

  "We could stand in a corner and neck," she said.

  "Can I cop a feel?"

  "You better."

  He smiled.

  "What?" she said.

  "I was just thinking."

  "Thinking what?"

  "Something Esperanza said to me yesterday," Myron said. "Men tracht und Gott lacht."

  "Is that German?"

  "Yiddish."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Man plans, God laughs."

  She repeated it. "I like that."

  "Me too," he said.

  He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron's eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Myron had time before his flight.

  He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.

  There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.

  They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader--wherever they walked, he stayed in front--was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.

  Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.

  "Hey, Myron," he said too loudly.

  "What's happening, Larry?"

  "Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven't seen a penny. You know what I'm saying?"

  Myron nodded. "I hear you."

  Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of his Indiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.

  Myron started heading for the door. "Take it easy, Larry."

  "You too, Myron." He reached out to shake Myron's hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes--wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes--on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry's. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.

  "The next planet," Larry whispered, "it might be yours. Yours alone."

  "That's great to know, thanks."

  "No!" Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. "The planet. It's slither moon. It's out to get you, you know what I'm saying?"

  "I think so."

  "Don't ignore this."

  He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man's agitation.

  "It's okay, Larry."

  "Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither."

  The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry's tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He'd been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father's alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.

  Then it all came apart.

  What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry's life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone wrong.

  The doctor's diagnosis: a chemical imbalance.

  Who knows how you get cancer? It was the same thing with Larry. He simply had a mental disease. It started as mild OCD, then became more severe, and then, try as they might, no one could stop his slide. By his sophomore year Larry was setting up rat traps so he could eat them. He became delusional. He dropped out of Yale. Then there were suicide attempts and major hallucinations and problems of all sorts. Larry broke into someone's house because the "Clyzets from planet three hundred twenty-six" were trying to lay a nest there. The family was home at the time.

  Larry Kidwell has been in and out of psych institutes ever since. Supposedly, there are moments when Larry is entirely lucid, and it is so painful for him, realizing what he has become, that he rips at his own face--ergo the scars--and cries out in such agony that they immediately sedate him.

  "Okay," Myron said. "Thanks for the warning."

  Myron headed out the door, shook it off. He hit Chang's Dry Cleaning next door. Maxine Chang was behind the counter. She looked, as always, exhausted and overworked. There were two women about Myron's age at the counter. They were talking about their kids and colleges. That was all anybody talked about right now. Every April, Livingston became a snow globe of college acceptances. The stakes, if you were to listen to the parents, could not have been higher. These weeks--those thick-or-thin envelopes that arrived in their mailboxes--decided how happy and successful their offspring would be for the rest of their lives.

  "Ted is wait-listed at Penn but he made Lehigh," one said.

  "Do you believe Chip Thompson got into Penn?"

  "His father."

  "What? Oh wait, he's an alum, right?"

  "He gave them a quarter million dollars."

  "I should have known. Chip had terrible boards."

  "I heard they hired a pro to write his essays."

  "I should have done that for Cole."

  Like that. On and on.

  Myron nodded at Maxine. Maxine Chang usually had a big smile for him. Not today. She shouted, "Roger!"

  Roger Chang came out of the back. "Hey, Myron."

  "What's up, Roger?"

  "You wanted the shirts boxed this time, right?"

  "Right."

  "I'll be right back."

  "Maxine," one of the women said, "did Roger hear from schools yet?"

  Maxine barely looked up. "He made Rutgers," she said. "Wait-listed at others."

  "Wow, congratulations."

  "Thank you." But she didn't seem thrilled.

  "Maxine, won't he be the first in your family to go to college?" the other woman said. Her tone could only have sounded more patronizing if she'd been petting a dog. "How wonderful for you."

  Maxine wrote up the ticket.

  "Where is he wait-listed?"

  "Princeton and Duke."

  Hearing his alma mater made Myron think again about Aimee. He flashed back to Larry and his spooky planet talk. Myron wasn't one for bad omens or any of that, but he didn't feel like poking the fates in the eye either. He debated trying Aimee's phone again, but what would be the point? He thought back over last night, replayed it in his head, wondered how he could have done it differently.

  Roger--Myron had forgotten that the kid was already a high school senior--came back and handed him the box of shirts. Myron took them, told Roger to put them on his account, headed out the door. He still had time before his flight.

  So he drove to Brenda's grave.

  The cemetery still overlooked a schoolyard. That was what he could still not get over. The sun shone hard as it always seemed to when he visited, mocking his gloom. He stood alone. There were no other visitors. A nearby backhoe dug a hole. My
ron remained still. He lifted his head and let the sun shine on his face. He could still feel that--the sun on his face. Brenda, of course, could not. Would never again.

  A simple thought, but there you go.

  Brenda Slaughter had only been twenty-six when she died. Had she survived, she'd have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she'd be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she'd be with him.

  When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, a model. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women's league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her.

  Nice job, All-Star.

  He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn't sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn't conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move.

  He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn't.

  He barely remembered Brenda's face anymore. The one kiss they shared . . . when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn't come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on--feeling at peace with what happened to her--was too obscene.

  Life goes on. That was a good thing, right? The outrage flickers and slowly leaks away. The scars heal. But when you let that happen, your soul goes dead a little too.

  So Myron stood there and clenched his fists until they shook. He thought about the sunny day they buried her--and the horrible way he had avenged her. He summoned up the outrage. It came at him like a force. His knees buckled. He tottered, but he stayed upright.

  He had messed up with Brenda. He had wanted to protect her. He had pushed too hard--and in doing so he had gotten her killed.

  Myron looked down at the grave. The sun was still warm on him, but he felt the shiver travel down his back. He wondered why he chose today of all days to visit, and then he thought about Aimee, about pushing too hard, about wanting to protect, and with one more shiver, he thought--no, he feared--that maybe, somehow, he had let it all happen again.

  CHAPTER 11

  Claire Biel stood by the kitchen sink and stared at the stranger she called a husband. Erik was eating a sandwich carefully, his tie tucked into his shirt. There was a newspaper perfectly folded into one quarter. He chewed slowly. He wore cuff links. His shirt was starched. He liked starch. He liked everything ironed. In his closet his suits were hung four inches apart from one another. He didn't measure to achieve this. It just happened. His shoes, always freshly polished, were lined up like something in a military procession.