by Play Dead
“What the hell was that all about?” Serita whispered to Laura.
“Beats me,” Laura replied. “Weird, huh?”
“At the very least.”
Laura watched her mother visibly sag and now even Aunt Judy looked worn. What the hell was going on? An uncomfortable silence hung over them. The seat on Laura’s left was left open for T.C., who had told her he was going to be a little late. Laura wished he were here. She’d like to know what he would have made of Stan’s introduction to her family.
An uncomfortable silence circled around them until Laura turned toward Judy. “Tell us about Colin,” she said.
Judy seemed relieved at the break in tension. “He’s a geology professor at Colgate. Head of the department.”
“And?” Serita encouraged.
Judy smiled. “And he’s terrific.”
“That’s wonderful,” Gloria enthused.
“Yeah, well, enough about me,” Judy said. “I hear the Celtics got a great prospect in this Seidman kid.”
Mary Ayars tried her best to pretend that everything was normal, that everything was just fine. “You’re not still a basketball nut, are you, Judy?”
“Are you kidding?” Judy answered, also trying like hell to keep the mood upbeat. Between David’s memorial and Stan’s reaction to seeing them … “I have tickets to the Final Four already and I put in MSG so I’ll be able to see all the Knick games this year.”
Mary looked puzzled. “What is a Knick? And what on earth is an MSG?” she asked.
Judy chuckled. “Forget it.”
Their conversation came to a halt when the loud speaker blared, “Ladies and gentlemen, the nineteen eighty-nine and ninety Boston Celtics!”
A sudden roar blared out from all points, consuming the arena in waves of sound. Twelve men with green warm-ups jogged onto the court and the roar became impossibly louder. For a split second Laura looked for David on the familiar parquet floor. When she realized that he was not there, that he would never again be there, the familiar pain ripped into her heart.
The players circled the floor a few times and then some began to stretch out while others grabbed basketballs from the rack and took some shots. Laura spotted Earl standing under the basket. He half waved in their direction. Serita returned the wave by blowing him a kiss and winking suggestively. Laura scanned the other familiar faces. David’s teammates all caught her eye and smiled warmly, sadly. Timmy Daniels, Johnny Dennison, Mac Kevlin, Robert Frederickson … all except one.
Number thirty.
Number thirty was the only face Laura did not recognize. He was about six-five with curly blond hair. His body was well toned and defined—a nearly perfect physique. She watched as he took layups in a relaxed manner, flipping the ball casually onto the backboard without really looking, knowing it would hit on the precise angle and go in. Laura realized that this had to be the rookie Earl and Serita had talked about last week. What was his name again? Aunt Judy had just mentioned it. Seidman. Mark Seidman. The man from nowhere.
Mark Seidman.
As though hypnotized, Laura watched the new Celtic weave through the layup drill: waiting on line, shooting, waiting on line, rebounding. Mark Seidman moved smoothly and without hesitation. He seemed loose, incredibly loose for a first-game rookie the press had built up as the Celtic’s new savior.
T.C. arrived as the referee tossed the ball in the air to begin the game. He said hello to everybody (except Stan) and gently slid past them (except Stan—T.C. purposely stepped on his foot). “Sorry about that, Stan, ol’boy,” he said with deep regret. “It was an accident.”
T.C. ignored Stan’s angry glare and collapsed heavily into the empty seat next to Laura. “How’s it going, champ?”
“Not bad,” Laura said.
“Sorry about being late.”
“You only missed the opening tap.”
They turned their attention toward the game. Johnny Dennison passed the ball to Timmy Daniels. Timmy looked around before tossing it inside to Big Mac Kevlin. Mac was double-teamed. He passed it out to Mark Seidman. Seidman was trapped in the corner.
“He’s going to have to shoot,” T.C. remarked. “The shot clock is ticking down.”
As if on cue, Mark Seidman leaped in the air, twisted, and took a fade-away jump shot. The ball touched the backboard and fell in. Laura felt the breath shoot out of her. Her stomach coiled in pain. That jump shot. That damn fade-away jump shot—no wonder they call him White Lightning II.
“Jesus, T.C., did you see that?”
T.C. nodded. “Hell of a good shot.”
“Unbelievable,” Judy uttered from their left, her voice cracking.
Mary did not pay attention to the game. Her eyes darted about, sneaking glances in Stan’s general direction. Stan’s concentration also wandered away from the parquet floor and toward those with whom he was seated. He gripped Gloria’s hand tightly, his face frighteningly pale.
“You know anything about him?” Laura asked.
“Seidman?” T.C. replied with a shake of his head. “Just what I read in the papers. Earl mentioned him to me a couple of times. He said he’s quiet, keeps to himself.”
The game continued with Mark Seidman playing like a man possessed. He scored eight points in the first quarter and added three assists and four rebounds. The Celtics led by seven. By the end of the first half, the Mark Seidman-led Celtics had upped their lead to twelve.
Halftime activities pushed by in a murky haze. Laura walked onto the basketball court, silence and stillness devouring the entire arena around her. She went through the motions, accepted the solemn words, watched with a quivering lower lip as Earl and Timmy hoisted David’s uniform up into the rafters.
But Judy Simmons did not watch the proceedings too closely. Instead, she kept her eye on Mark Seidman, trying to see his reaction to David Baskin’s memorial. His expression did not change, but Judy noticed that his eyes never went anywhere near Laura.
Thoughts—wild, crazy thoughts—dashed and bounced across Judy’s mind. She tried to reach out and grab a few of those irrational thoughts, tried to organize them and create a cohesive theory. But they managed to elude her.
Separately, Judy knew the facts meant nothing. There were plenty of guys who had successfully duplicated David’s fade-away jump shot. There was that guy from UCLA and the point guard from Seattle. And what about that power forward on the Phoenix Suns? Basketball players everywhere were trying to perfect the White Lightning jump shot, that quick release that made it impossible to block. No, that alone would make absolutely nobody suspicious.
But that was the problem. It was too perfect. Nobody would be suspicious. Unless of course you knew the background of the situation. Unless you understood completely the strength of the past and how it could twist reality into unrecognizable shapes.
Laura moved back toward her seat, her head high, her eyes dry. There would be no tears now, Judy thought. The tears would come later, when she was alone and away from everyone. Judy kissed Laura’s cheek, trying like hell to dismiss the crazy ideas that kept circulating in her head. After all, she was probably wrong. She was letting her overly suspicious nature get the best of her. Better to think it through carefully before jumping to any conclusions. Better to look at the whole situation coldly before crossing into unchartered minefields.
But if her suspicions were correct, she would have to trample through that minefield no matter what the costs. If her suspicions were correct, the ghosts of the past were going to rise up yet again and demand to be faced. They would cry out one last time for vengeance, and finally, at long last, that lust would be quenched. And this time, there would be no place to run and hide, no one to sacrifice to the ghosts. This time, the guilty would be destroyed.
MARK lowered his head into his hands. He sat on a bench in front of his locker, trying to dismiss the noise of the media frenzy that surrounded him on all sides. Most of the reporters had already left him alone, knowing his reputation for not talking to the p
ress and moving on to the more fruitful and talkative pastures of Earl Roberts, Timmy Daniels, and Mac Kevlin.
But it had been Mark Seidman’s game. In his debut, Mark had netted twenty-seven points, twelve rebounds, and eight assists as the Celtics coasted to a 117-102 victory over Washington. Normally, the press would have pounced upon such a subject, no matter what that subject requested, but for the most part, they kept away from him, respecting his desire for solitude. They milled about the other players in the locker room, stealing quick peeks at Mark as if he were a grenade with the pin half out. Who could have imagined that the budding hopeful would more than fulfill expectations in his Boston Garden debut? Doing well in preseason was one thing. To face the opening-game crowd at Boston Garden as a rookie and dismantle the competition … that was something else. But Mark looked more like a weathered veteran than a rookie. His intensity on the court was amazing and downright eerie. He never slapped his teammates five, never celebrated a good shot, never smiled, never showed emotion of any kind. It made no sense. Here was a rookie playing in front of a sell-out crowd in the home of basketball legends and he stalked the parquet floor in a cold, unfeeling, technocratic manner. And yet there was still a beauty to his game, the unmistakable grace of a master at this craft.
Clip Arnstein came into the locker room, a famous victory cigar clenched between his teeth. The press sprinted toward him. “What did you think of the game, Clip?” a reporter asked.
Clip smiled. “I’m smoking a cigar, aren’t I?”
“And how about the play of Mark Seidman?”
His answer was an even bigger smile. “And you can quote me on that fellas. Now do me a favor, will you? Get out of here for a while. The guys have to get dressed and head down to the reception.”
Normally, the press would have protested. But not tonight. They knew that the Celtics were heading to a reception for David Baskin’s family. David had been a favorite of the press: colorful, off-the-wall, fun, polite, and always willing to say something outrageous. White Lightning had the ability to be engaging with the media while not appearing egomaniacal.
The reporters filed out without another word. The players dressed quickly now, silently. But Mark just continued to sit with his head between his hands. Clip headed over to the corner locker, where Mark sat alone, away from his teammates. He put his hand on Mark’s shoulder as several players left the room and headed upstairs.
“Are you okay?” Clip asked.
Mark nodded.
“Look, I know you don’t like making appearances or talking to the press. Fine, that’s up to you. But David meant a lot to these guys. I know you’re not a social guy and I guess you don’t want to make friends with your teammates. That’s also up to you. As long as you’re doing your job, I won’t say anything. You understand?”
Mark looked up. “Yes.”
“So while I don’t like your closed-mouth act, I let it go,” Clip continued. “But I don’t want you to do something that will alienate your teammates.”
The last of the Celtics filed out, leaving Clip and Mark alone in the towel-cluttered locker room. “As long as I do the job on the court,” Mark began, “what’s the difference?”
“I’m not saying that you have to be buddy-buddy with the other guys. But it doesn’t pay to piss them off… .”
“But—”
“Or me,” Clip pronounced, his voice getting louder and shakier. His face turned deep scarlet. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, Mark, and I don’t give a shit how great of a player you are. David Baskin meant a lot to these guys—and to me. If you’re disrespectful to his memory, I don’t care if you’re the Messiah. I’ll sit you so far down the bench, you’ll be lucky to see the game. Is that understood?”
Mark wanted so much to stand up and hug the angry, frail-looking man who stood before him. “I guess so.”
Clip calmed down, the scarlet ebbing away from his complexion. His voice softened. “You’re already being compared to David,” he said. “You shoot like him, you move like him, and you’ve taken his position.” He stood and moved toward the door. “Get dressed now. We’ll go together.”
Mark nodded. Any further resistance would only draw attention to himself. He began to shiver uncontrollably, frightened of entering the Blades and Boards Club. His teammates would be there. T.C. would be there. But most of all, the row of people who had been sitting with T.C. would be there. He had managed to avoid even looking in that direction, not even catching the eye of T.C. for fear he would see someone else. And though he had not seen her, he knew that she had been there, could feel her from the moment she had entered the building. Now his body felt cold as he realized that like it or not, Mark Seidman would have to face her for the first time. The pit of his stomach contracted.
At long last, Mark Seidman would meet Laura Baskin.
21
LAURA stood with Earl and Serita. She had already greeted David’s old teammates with embraces and kind words. All of them were there, except for Clip and that mystery guy. Laura could still not believe what she had seen on the court. It was more than Mark Seidman’s play, fantastic as it had been. Now she understood what Earl had been talking about at his penthouse. There was something disquieting about Seidman. The way he played—so like David technically but without one slice of emotion. Emotion had always propelled David to play his best. He fed off his affection for his teammates and off his love for the game. His face showed it in every jump shot, every pass, every rebound. But Mark Seidman seemed motivated by something else, something abstract and impersonal. He looked like a reluctant warrior trying to survive the fiercest of battles so he could just go home.
But then again, he was so like David. Mark Seidman had taken David’s place in the lineup, played the same position, displayed the same unshakable concentration, but weirdest of all, he had that quick-release jump shot. Like David, Mark Seidman made the ball appear to float gently toward the basket, as though an invisible hand were guiding it in the air. Laura could not take her eyes off him. Every move Mark Seidman made on the court jabbed at her insides. So like David. So like her wonderful, beautiful David. Even now Laura felt herself trembling.
She stopped herself as Clip entered the room, shaking off her ridiculous thoughts about the Celtics rookie. Clip turned toward her. His smile reached his sad eyes. It was a soothing smile, the smile of an old friend who had come to help. She began to make her way to where he stood.
Then Mark Seidman walked in.
Laura froze. She did not glance at him just yet. She could not explain why she felt it necessary to avoid seeing him. But she did. Clip took Mark Seidman’s arm and began to whisk him about the room, introducing him to Laura’s parents, Serita, and T.C. Finally, Clip brought Mark Seidman over to where she stood.
“Laura, this is Mark Seidman,” he said. “Mark, this is Laura Baskin.”
She slowly lifted her head toward him. Without warning, her gaze locked onto his. A powerful blow struck her midsection. Her eyes dodged for cover from the onslaught while his did the same. She had looked at him for less than a split second, but there was no mistaking the unspeakable pain in his contorted eyes.
“Congratulations on a good game,” she managed.
“Thank you,” came his soft voice. “I’m sorry about your husband.” They shook hands. Mark’s face flushed with her touch. He quickly released his grip. “Please excuse me.”
Clip tried to keep hold of Mark’s arm by subtly locking him in place, but Mark slipped through and hurried to the other side of the room. Embarrassed, Clip raised his hands toward Laura and shrugged. “What can I tell you?” he said. “Mark is painfully shy.”
“Earl told me,” Laura replied.
“He’s a strange sort. Good player though.”
Laura nodded. Clip excused himself and made his way toward the Celtics’ coaching staff.
That was when Laura spotted Stan wobbling toward her.
After downing a good number of beers during the game, Stan had bee
n hanging out near the fully stocked bar throughout the reception. Now Stan was most definitely drunk. Completely inebriated. He could barely stand. Laura scanned the room. Gloria was nowhere to be seen.
When Stan finally reached where she was standing, he threw his arm around her shoulders, leaned over, and quickly kissed her. “You’ve got some hot bod, Laura.”
“Bastard!” she hissed.
“Now, now, don’t make a scene,” Stan slurred, his arm still around her for support. “It was only a peck on the cheek.”
“What do you want, Stan?”
Stan teetered but steadied himself quickly. He kept his arm around Laura’s neck and pulled her closer to him. “God, you’re rude, sis. Has anyone ever told you that before?”
“You’re drunk.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’m drunk. So what? Does that mean I can’t come over and say hello and see how you’re holding up? Can’t you at least be civil on a tragic occasion like this?”
Laura chortled. “You’d spit on David’s grave for a dollar.”
He pulled her closer and whispered, “Or even half that much.”
Laura considered slamming her fist into his groin, as she had done that day he attacked her in her office, but the thought of making a scene and then trying to explain her behavior kept her temper in check. Instead, she smiled as though nothing was wrong and said, “Get away from me, pig.”
“But, Laura, I have good news for you. The charade is about to end.”
“Where’s Gloria?”
“Powdering her nose. But listen to me. It’s over. Tonight.”
“What are you babbling about?”
His body swayed back and forth. “I don’t need you or your sister’s goddamn money anymore.”
“Stan, I don’t know what you’re talking about nor do I care. Just get the hell away from me.”
“All in good time,” he said. “But don’t you understand? It’s over. I’m leaving.”
