“I’m not,” he said. “Nothing to be worried about.”
“Pops,” I said, “I think it’s time to come clean with me.
“I did. I always have.”
“Reluctantly.”
“Granted.”
“Is there something else? Does this guy know something I don’t know?”
“Nothing else to know, Brady. It was what it was.”
“I got the feeling he was way ahead of me.”
“Look, Brady. I didn’t give you the locker-room version. I think you understand.”
“If you mean I don’t judge you, pass judgment on the things you do, things you’ve done, you’re right. I understand. If you mean I understand what this guy thinks he’s got, I’m not so sure.”
“A long time ago, something happened, and then it was over. Okay? Can we please just leave it there?”
“And that’s it?”
I heard a loud explosion of breath. “Christ,” he said. “That’s it, Brady. Leave it lay, will you?”
“This guy seems to think it’s worth ten grand.”
“It’s not. You told him that. End of story.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you say so. You going to need me for anything else?”
“You told the guy I’m not going to give him money, you did your job. I appreciate it. Would’ve told him myself, but the position I’m in, I can’t very well sit around barrooms meeting with strangers who want to blackmail me. Folks see me, they might get the wrong idea.”
“Ah, the price of fame.”
“It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Ten grand, huh?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Ain’t worth a penny.”
“He seemed to think it was.”
“Trust me,” said Pops. “It ain’t.”
“Sure,” I said. “I trust you.”
After I finished talking with Pops, I dialed the familiar number in Wellesley.
My number two son, Joey, answered. “Hi, pal,” I said.
“Hey, Dad. How you doing?”
“Fine. You?”
“Terrific.”
“What’re you up to?”
“Not much. I watched the Bruins, worked out a little. Thinking of hitting the sack.”
“What about your homework?”
“Under control.”
“The Bruins, huh. The Boston Symphony played Beethoven tonight, you know.”
He chuckled. “Who won?”
“Dead even, same as the Bruins. Ozawa and his orchestra ended at the exact same time. Always amazes me, how they do that. Your mother still awake?”
“I’ll check. Hang on.”
I heard him yell, “Hey, Mom. The old man’s on the phone.”
A moment later I heard a click, and Gloria said, “I’ve got it, dear.”
“Night, Dad,” said Joey.
“Good night, pal.”
I heard him disconnect.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, there.”
“The old man, he calls me. God.”
Her laugh tinkled in my ear. “You want maybe he should call you the young man?”
Gloria has a husky voice on the telephone. Gloria’s voice exudes intimacy. It promises ecstasy. But I suppose that’s me. The ear of the beholder. Gloria’s voice conjures up a whole kaleidoscope of memories whenever I hear it. It makes my bachelor apartment seem sterile and alien to me. Fortunately, the feeling passes quickly. It would be worse if I talked with Gloria more frequently, which is one of the reasons I don’t.
“So what’s up, hon?” I said. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure. Everything’s fine.”
“Whenever you call, I always worry that something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I don’t do that, do I?”
“Do what?”
“Call you to lay my problems on you.”
“No. It’s me. I think about you and the boys, that’s all. Wondering if everything is okay. Imagining that it’s not, and then wondering why you didn’t call me. And then when you do call, I think… I mean, if something was wrong, you would call me, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure.”
“So. That’s how I think.”
“Jesus, Brady.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I mean, if you’re worried all the time, you can always call me, right?”
“Not really,” I said. “It’s not that simple.”
I heard her sigh. “It was almost easier being married to you, know that?”
“I don’t think you mean that.”
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t. Anyway, nothing’s wrong. This is something good. I’ve got a line on a magazine job, and I’m going to be in town on Friday, and I just wondered if you might want to meet me for a drink.”
“Friday,” I said. “Let me check my calendar.”
She laughed. “You’re such a bullshitter, Brady.”
“No, really. I’ve gotta check my busy schedule.”
“Hey, forget it, then.”
“Nope. You’re in luck. It’s clear Friday.”
“Oh, lucky me,” she said.
“I can squeeze you in.”
“The hell with it,” she said.
“Aw, it’s just a joke, Gloria.”
“I don’t always think your jokes are that funny.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Look,” I said. “I’d like very much to meet you Friday for a drink, okay? I was just fooling around, about my busy schedule.”
She paused. I heard her sigh. “Well, okay. So I’m lucky.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“You name it.”
“Skeeter’s,” I said. “He’s got a new drink. A Whitey Ford.”
“What’s a Whitey Ford?”
“Oh, boy. No wonder we didn’t make it. Whitey Ford was a very great left-hander for the Yankees. Always gave the Sox fits. Skeeter has concocted a drink in his honor.”
“I’ll probably have a glass of wine. If the interview goes well, maybe a Scotch. Say eight o’clock?”
“Eight’s good. Will you have eaten?”
“No. Skeeter still have those great hamburgers?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’ll let you buy me one.”
“What’s the job, Gloria? Something exciting?”
“Very. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
I hung up with Gloria, had one last cigarette, and went to bed. I had a date with my former wife. February no longer seemed like such a shitty month. Perhaps that little groundhog in Pennsylvania hadn’t been frightened by his own shadow after all.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I AM INDEBTED TO Rick Boyer, Cindy Tapply, and Jackie Farber for their sharp and objective ears and eyes. I am also grateful to Jed Mattes, Betsy Rapoport, Kate Mattes, and fellow members of the Cadavers for their unswerving friendship and support.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by William G. Tapply
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch
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