by Harlan Coben
"Hey," Myron said.
Dad looked up, smiled, put down the tool. "Screw loose," he said. "But let's not talk about your mother."
Myron laughed. They found molded-resin chairs around a table impaled by a blue umbrella. In front of them lay Bolitar Stadium, a small patch of green-to-brown grass that had hosted countless, oft-solo football games, baseball games, soccer games, Wiffle ball games (probably the most popular sport at Bolitar Stadium), rugby scrums, badminton, kickball, and that favorite pastime for the future sadist, bombardment. Myron spotted Mom's former vegetable garden — the word vegetable here being used to describe three annual soggy tomatoes and two flaccid zucchinis; it was now slightly more overgrown than a Cambodian rice paddy. To their right were the rusted remnants of their old tetherball pole. Tetherball. Now, there was a really dumb game.
Myron cleared his throat and put his hands on the table. "How you feeling?"
Dad gave a big nod. "Good. You?"
"Good."
The silence floated down, puffy and relaxed. Silence with a father can be like that. You drift back and you're young and you're safe, safe in that all-encompassing way only a child can be with his father. You still see him hovering in your darkened doorway, the silent sentinel to your adolescence, and you sleep the sleep of the naive, the innocent, the unformed. When you get older, you realize that this safety was just an illusion, another child's perception, like the size of your backyard.
Or maybe, if you're lucky, you don't.
Dad looked older today, the flesh on his face more sagged, the once-knotted biceps spongy under the T-shirt, starting to waste. Myron wondered how to start. Dad closed his eyes for a three count, opened them, and said, "Don't."
"What?"
"Your mother is about as subtle as a White House press release," Dad said. "I mean, when was the last time she picked up the takeout instead of me?"
"Has she ever?"
"Once," Dad said. "When I had a fever of a hundred and four. And even then she whined about it."
"Where's she going?"
"She has me on a special diet now, you know. Because of the chest pains." Chest pains. Euphemism for heart attack.
"Yeah, I figured that."
"She's even tried cooking a little. She told you?"
Myron nodded. "She baked something for me yesterday."
Dad's body went stiff. "By God," he said. "Her own son?"
"It was pretty scary."
"The woman has many, many talents, but they could airdrop that stuff into starving African nations and no one would eat it."
"So where's she going?"
"Your mother is high on some crazy Middle Eastern health food place. Just opened in West Orange. Get this, it's called Ayatollah Granola."
Myron gave him flat eyes.
"Hand to God, that's the name. Food is almost as dry as that Thanksgiving turkey your mother made when you were eight. You remember that?"
"At night," Myron said. "It still haunts my sleep."
Dad looked off again. "She left us alone so we could talk, right?"
"Right."
He made a face. "I hate when she does stuff like that. She means well, your mother. We both know that. But let's not do it, okay?"
Myron shrugged. "You say so."
"She thinks I don't like growing old. News flash: No one does. My friend Herschel Diamond — you remember Heshy?"
"Sure."
"Big guy, right? Played semipro football when we were young. So Heshy, he calls me and he says now that I'm retired, I can do tai chi with him. I mean, tai chi? What the hell is that anyway? If I want to move slowly, I have to drive down to the Y to do it with a bunch of old yentas? I mean, what's that about? I tell him no. So then Heshy, this great athlete, Myron, he could hit a softball a country mile, this marvelous big ox, he tells me we can walk together. Walk. At the mall. Speed-walk, he calls it. At the mall, for chrissake. Heshy always hated the place — now he wants us to trot around like a bunch of jackasses in matching sweatsuits and expensive walking shoes. Pump our arms with these little faigelah barbells. Walking shoes, he calls them. What the hell is that anyway? I never had a pair of shoes I couldn't walk in, am I right?"
He waited for an answer. Myron said, "As rain."
Dad stood up. He grabbed a screwdriver and feigned working. "So now, because I don't want to move like an old Chinaman or walk around a godforsaken mall in overpriced sneakers, your mother thinks I'm not adjusting. You hear what I'm saying?"
"Yes."
Dad stayed bent, fiddling a little more with the railing. In the distance, Myron heard children playing. A bike bell rang. Someone laughed. A lawn mower purred. Dad's voice, when he finally spoke again, was surprisingly soft. "You know what your mother really wants us to do?" he said.
"What?"
"She wants you and I to reverse roles." Dad finally looked up through his heavy-lidded eyes. "I don't want to reverse roles, Myron. I'm the father. I like being the father. Let me stay that, okay?"
Myron found it hard to speak. "Sure, Dad."
His father put his head back down, the gray wisps upright in the humidity, his breathing tool-work heavy, and Myron again felt something open up his chest and grab hold of his heart. He looked at this man he'd loved for so long, who'd gone without complaint to that damn muggy warehouse in Newark for more than thirty years, and Myron realized that he didn't know him. He didn't know what his father dreamed about, what he wanted to be when he was a kid, what he thought about his own life.
Dad kept working on the screw. Myron watched him.
Promise me you won't die, okay? Just promise me that.
He almost said it out loud.
Dad straightened himself out and studied his handiwork. Satisfied, he sat back down. They started talking about the Knicks and the recent Kevin Costner movie and the new Nelson DeMille book. They put away the toolbox. They had some iced tea. They lounged side by side in matching molded-resin chaises. An hour passed. They fell into a comfortable silence. Myron fingered the condensation on his glass. He could hear his father's breathing, moderately wheezy. Dusk had settled in, bruising the sky purple, the trees going a burnt orange.
Myron closed his eyes and said, "I got a hypothetical for you."
"Oh?"
"What would you do if you found out you weren't my real father?"
Dad's eyebrows went skyward. "You trying to tell me something?"
"Just a hypothetical. Suppose you found out right now that I wasn't your biological son. How would you react?"
"Depends," Dad said.
"On?"
"How you reacted."
"It wouldn't make a difference to me," Myron said.
Dad smiled.
"What?" Myron said.
"Easy for both of us to say it wouldn't matter. But news like that is a bombshell. You can't predict what someone will do when a bomb lands. When I was in Korea—" Dad stopped, Myron sat up. "Well, you never knew how someone would react…" His voice tailed off. He coughed into his fist and then started up again. "Guys you were sure would be heroes completely lost it — and vice versa. That's why you can't ask stuff like this as a hypothetical."
Myron looked at his father. His father kept his eyes on the grass, taking another deep sip. "You never talk about Korea," Myron said.
"I do," Dad said.
"Not with me."
"No, not with you."
"Why not?"
"It's what I fought for. So we wouldn't have to talk about it."
It didn't make sense and Myron understood.
"There a reason you raised this particular hypothetical?" Dad asked.
"No."
Dad nodded. He knew it was a lie, but he wouldn't push it. They settled back and watched the familiar surroundings.
"Tai chi isn't so bad," Myron said. "It's a martial art. Like tae kwon do. I've been thinking of taking it up myself."
Dad took another sip. Myron sneaked a glance. Something on his father's face began to quiver. Was Dad indeed
getting smaller, more fragile — or was it like the backyard and safety, again the shifting perception of a child turned adult?
"Dad…?"
"Let's go inside," his father said, standing. "We stay out much longer, one of us is going to get misty and say, 'Wanna play catch?' "
Myron bit off a laugh and followed him inside. Mom came home not long after that, lugging two bags of food as though they were stone tablets. "Everybody hungry?" she called out.
"Starving," Dad said. "I'm so hungry I could eat a vegetarian."
"Very funny, Al."
"Or even your cooking…"
"Ha-ha," Mom said.
"… though I'd prefer the vegetarian."
"Stop it, Al, I'm going to phlegm up, you keep making me laugh like this." Mom dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter. "See, Myron? It's a good thing your mother is shallow."
"Shallow?" Myron asked.
"If I judged a man on brains or sense of humor," Mom continued, "you'd have never been born."
"Right-o," Dad said with a hearty smile. "But one look at your old man in a bathing suit and whammo— all mine."
"Oh please," Mom said.
"Yes," Myron said. "Please."
They both looked at him. Mom cleared her throat. "So did you two, uh, have a nice talk?"
"We talked," Dad said. "It was very life-affirming. I see the errors of my ways."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I. I see everything differently now."
She put her arms around his waist and nuzzled him. "So you'll call Heshy?"
"I'll call Heshy," he said.
"Promise."
"Yes, Ellen, I promise."
"You'll go to the Y and do jai alai with him?"
"Tai chi," Dad corrected.
"What?"
"It's called tai chi, not jai alai."
"I thought it was jai alai."
"Tai chi. Jai alai is the game with the curved rackets down in Florida."
"That's shuffleboard, Al."
"Not shuffleboard. The other thing with the sticks. And the gambling."
"Tai chi?" Mom said, testing it for sound. "Are you sure?"
"I think so."
"But you're not positive?"
"No, I'm not positive," Dad said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it is called jai alai."
The name debate continued for a while. Myron didn't bother correcting them. Never cut in on that strange dance known as marital discourse. They ate the health food. It was indeed nasty. They laughed a lot. His parents must have said "You don't know what you're talking about" to each other fifty times; maybe it was a euphemism for "I love you."
Eventually Myron said good night. Mom kissed his cheek and made herself scarce. Dad walked him to the car. The night was silent save a lone dribbling basketball somewhere on Darby Road or maybe Coddington Terrace. A nice sound. When he hugged his father goodbye, Myron again noticed that his father felt smaller, less substantial. Myron held on a little longer than usual. For the first time he felt like the bigger man, the stronger man, and he suddenly remembered what Dad had said about reversing roles. So he held on in the dark. Time passed. Dad patted his back. Myron kept his eyes closed and held on tighter. Dad stroked his hair and shushed him. Just for a little while. Just until the roles reversed themselves again, returning both of them to where they belonged.
Chapter 25
Granite Man was waiting outside the Dakota. Myron spotted him from his car. He picked up the cell phone and called Win. "I have company."
"A rather large gentleman, yes," Win said. "Two cohorts are parked across the street in a corporate vehicle owned by the Lex family."
"I'll leave the cell phone on."
"They confiscated it last time," Win said.
"Yes."
"Likely they'll do the same."
"We'll improvise."
"Your funeral," Win said, and hung up.
Myron parked in the lot and approached Granite Man.
"Mrs. Lex would like to see you," Granite Man said.
"Do you know what she wants?" Myron asked.
Granite Man ignored the question.
"Maybe she saw me flexing on the security tape," Myron said. "Wanted to get to know me better."
Granite Man did not laugh. "You ever think about doing this comedy thing professionally?"
"There have been offers."
"I bet. Get in the car."
"Okay, but I have a curfew, you know. And I never French-kiss on the first date. Just so we understand each other."
Granite Man shook his head. "Man, I'd like to waste you."
They got in the car. Two blue-blazers sat in front. The car ride was silent except for Granite Man and His Magic Cracking Knuckles. The Lex building emerged grudgingly through the dark. Myron traveled through the security travail again. As Win predicted, they confiscated his phone. Granite Man and the two blazers turned left this time instead of right. They escorted him into an elevator. It opened into what appeared to be living quarters.
Susan Lex's office had been done sort of Renaissance palatial, but the apartment up here — it looked like an apartment anyway — did a one-eighty. Modern and minimalism were the major themes. The walls were painted stark white and had nothing on them. The floors were a pigeon-gray wood. There were black and white bookshelves made of fiberglass, most empty, some with indistinct figurines. The couch was red and shaped like two lips. There was a well-stocked see-through bar constructed out of Lucite. Two metallic swivel stools were painted red on the base, looking about as inviting as rectal thermometers. A fire danced lazily in the fireplace, fake logs casting an unnatural glow over the black mantel. The whole place had a feel and aura about as warm as a cold sore.
Myron strolled, feigning interest. He stopped at a crystal statue with a marble base. Something modern or cubist or what-have-you. Symmetrical Bowel Movement maybe. Myron put his hand on it. Substantial. He looked out the one-way glass. Too low for much of a view beyond the hedges lining the front gate. Hmm.
The two blue-blazers did the Buckingham Palace Guard thing on either side of the door. Granite Man followed Myron, his hands clasped behind his lower back. A door on the other side of the room opened. Myron was not surprised to see Susan Lex enter, again keeping her distance. There was a man with her this time. Myron did not bother approaching.
"And you are?" he called out.
Susan Lex answered this one. "This is my brother Bronwyn."
"Not the brother I'm interested in," Myron said.
"Yes, I know. Please sit down."
Granite Man gestured toward the lips-couch. Myron sat on the lower lip, waiting to be swallowed. Granite Man sat right next to him. Cozy.
"Bronwyn and I would like you to answer some questions, Mr. Bolitar," Susan Lex said.
"Could you move a little closer?"
She smiled. "I think not."
"I showered."
She ignored the remark. "I understand that you occasionally do some investigative work," Susan Lex said.
Myron did not reply.
"Is that correct?"
"Depends on what you mean by investigative work."
"I'll take that as a yes," Susan Lex said.
Myron gave her a suit-yourself shrug.
"Is that why you're searching for our brother?" she asked.
"I already told you why I was searching for him."
"That bit about him being a bone marrow donor?"
"It's not a bit."
"Please, Mr. Bolitar," Susan Lex said with that rich-people air. "We both know that's a lie."
Myron started to rise. Granite Man put a hand on Myron's knee. It felt like a cinder block. Granite Man shook his head. Myron stayed where he was. "It's not a lie," he said.
"We're wasting time," Susan Lex said. She flicked her eyes at Granite Man. "Show him the pictures, Grover."
Myron turned to him. "Grover is the name of my very favorite Sesame Street character. I want you to know that."
"We've been
following you, Myron." Granite Man handed him a pile of photographs. Myron looked at them. They were eight-by-tens of him at the condo with Stan Gibbs. The first one showed him knocking on the door. The second one showed Stan sticking his head out. The third one showed them both heading inside the condo.
"Well?"
Myron frowned. "I have no knack for accessorizing."
"We know that you're working for Stan Gibbs," Susan Lex said.
"Doing what exactly?" Myron asked.
"Investigating. As I stated earlier. So now that we understand your true motive, tell me how much it will cost for you to go away."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Simply put, how much will it cost to have you cease and desist?" Susan Lex asked. "Or are you going to force us to destroy you too?"
Too?
Brain click.
Myron turned his attention to the silent brother. "Let me ask you something, Bronwyn," he said. "You and Dennis were both going to nursery school. You both disappeared. Two weeks later, only you came back. How come? What happened to your brother?"
Bronwyn's mouth opened and closed, marionette style. He looked to his sister for help.
"It's like he disappeared off the face of the earth after that," Myron went on. "For thirty years, he's totally off the radar. But now, well, it's like he's come back for some reason. He changed his name, opened a small checking account, donated blood to a bone marrow center. So what gives, Bron? You got a clue?"
Bronwyn said, "That simply cannot be!"
His sister silenced him with a look. But Myron felt something in the air. He mulled the feeling over and another thought hit him: Maybe the Lex siblings didn't know the answer themselves. Maybe they were looking for Dennis too.
It was while he was lost in that thought that Granite Man punched him deep in the stomach. The fist followed through to the point where it seemed the knuckles must have reached the fabric of the couch. Myron snapped closed at the waist. He dropped to the floor, struggled to regain a breath, suffocating from within. He lowered his head to his knees, consumed with one thought: air. He needed air.
Susan Lex's voice boomed in his ears. "Stan Gibbs knows the truth. His father is a disgusting liar. His accusations are totally without merit. But I'll defend my family, Mr. Bolitar. You tell Mr. Gibbs he has not yet begun to suffer. What has happened to him so far is nothing compared to what I will do to him — and you— if he doesn't stop. Do you understand?"
