Back Spin
Page 59
Another nod.
“Have you ever seen the horse stables?”
“Only from a distance,” Myron said.
She smiled Win’s smile. “You’ve never been inside?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised. Win doesn’t ride anymore. He used to love horses. More than golf even.”
“Ms. Lockwood—”
“Please call me Cissy.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable hearing this.”
Her eyes hardened a bit. “And I do not feel comfortable telling you this. But it must be done.”
“Win wouldn’t want me to hear it,” Myron said.
“That’s too bad, but Win cannot always have what he wants. I should have learned that long ago. He did not want to see me as a child. I never forced it. I listened to the experts, who told me that my son would come around, that compelling him to see me would be counterproductive. But they did not know Win. By the time I stopped listening to them it was too late. Not that it mattered. I don’t think ignoring them would have changed anything.”
Silence.
She stood proud and tall, her slender neck high. But something was going on. Her fingers kept flexing, as if she were fighting off the desire to make fists. Myron’s stomach knotted up. He knew what was coming next. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
“The story is simple,” she began, her voice almost wistful. She was no longer looking at Myron. Her gaze rose above his shoulder, but he had no idea what she was actually seeing. “Win was eight years old. I was twenty-seven at the time. I married young. I never went to college. It was not as though I had a choice. My father told me what to do. I had only one friend—one person I could confide in. That was Victoria. She is still my dearest friend, not unlike what you are to Win.”
Cissy Lockwood winced. Her eyes closed.
“Ms. Lockwood?”
She shook her head. The eyes slowly opened. “I am getting off track,” she said, catching her breath. “I apologize. I’m not here to tell you my life story. Just one incident in it. So let me just state it plainly.”
A deep breath. Then another.
“Jack Coldren told me that he was taking Win out for a golf lesson. But it never happened. Or perhaps they had finished far earlier than expected. Either way, Jack was not with Win. His father was. Somehow Win and his father ended up going into the stables. I was there when they entered. I was not alone. More specifically, I was with Win’s riding instructor.”
She stopped. Myron waited.
“Do I need to spell this out for you?”
Myron shook his head.
“No child should see what Win saw that day,” she said. “And worse, no child should ever see his father’s face under those circumstances.”
Myron felt tears sting his eyes.
“There is more to it, of course. I won’t go into it now. But Win has never spoken to me since that moment. He also never forgave his father. Yes, his father. You think he hates only me and loves Windsor the Second. But it is not so. He blames his father, too. He thinks that his father is weak. That he allowed it to happen. Utter nonsense, but that is the way it is.”
Myron shook his head. He didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted to run and find Win. He wanted to hug his friend and shake him and somehow make him forget. He thought of the lost expression on Win’s face as he watched the horse stables yesterday morning.
My God. Win.
When Myron spoke, his voice was sharper than he’d expected. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am dying,” she replied.
Myron slumped against a car. His heart ripped anew.
“Again, let me put this simply,” she said in too calm a voice. “It has reached the liver. It is eleven centimeters long. My abdomen is swelling from liver and kidney failure.” That explained the wardrobe—the untucked, oversize shirt and the stretch pants. “We are not talking months. We are talking perhaps weeks. Probably less.”
“There are treatments,” Myron tried lamely. “Procedures.”
She simply dismissed this with a shake of her head. “I am not a foolish woman. I do not have delusions of engaging in a moving reunion with my son. I know Win. That will not happen. But there is still unfinished business here. Once I am dead, there will be no chance for him to disentangle himself again. It will be over. I do not know what he will do with this opportunity. Probably nothing. But I want him to know. So that he can decide. It is his last chance, Myron. I do not believe he will take it. But he should.”
With that, she turned away and left. Myron watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, Myron hailed a taxi. He got in the back.
“Where to, bud?”
He gave the man the address where Esme Fong was staying. Then he settled back in the seat. His eyes stared blankly out the window. The city passed by in a misty, silent blur.
30
When he thought that his voice would not betray him, Myron called Win on the cell phone.
After a quick hello, Win said, “Bummer about Jack.”
“From what I hear, he used to be your friend.”
Win cleared his throat. “Myron?”
“What?”
“You know nothing. Remember that.”
True enough. “Can we have dinner tonight?”
Win hesitated. “Of course.”
“At the cottage. Six-thirty.”
“Fine.”
Win hung up. Myron tried to put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about.
Esme Fong paced the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Omni Hotel on the corner of Chestnut Street and Fourth. She wore a white suit and white stockings. Killer legs. She kept wringing her hands.
Myron got out of the taxi. “Why are you waiting out here?” he asked.
“You insisted on talking privately,” Esme answered. “Norm is upstairs.”
“You two live in the same room?”
“No, we have adjoining suites.”
Myron nodded. The no-tell motel was making more sense now. “Not much privacy, huh?”
“No, not really.” She gave him a tentative smile. “But it’s okay. I like Norm.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“What’s this about, Myron?”
“You heard about Jack Coldren?”
“Of course. Norm and I were shocked. Absolutely shocked.”
Myron nodded. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk.”
They headed up Fourth Street. Myron was tempted to stay on Chestnut Street, but that would have meant strolling past Independence Hall and that would have been a tad too cliché for his liking. Still, Fourth Street was in the colonial section. Lots of brick. Brick sidewalk, brick walls and fence, brick buildings of tremendous historical significance that all looked the same. White ash trees lined the walk. They turned right into a park that held the Second Bank of the United States. There was a plaque with a portrait of the bank’s first president. One of Win’s ancestors. Myron looked for a resemblance but could not find one.
“Have you ever seen the horse stables?”
“Only from a distance,” Myron said.
She smiled Win’s smile. “You’ve never been inside?”
“No.”
“I’m not surprised. Win doesn’t ride anymore. He used to love horses. More than golf even.”
“Ms. Lockwood—”
“Please call me Cissy.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable hearing this.”
Her eyes hardened a bit. “And I do not feel comfortable telling you this. But it must be done.”
“Win wouldn’t want me to hear it,” Myron said.
“That’s too bad, but Win cannot always have what he wants. I should have learned that long ago. He did not want to see me as a child. I never forced it. I listened to the experts, who told me that my son would come around, that compelling him to see me would be counterproductive. But they did not know Win. By the time I stopped listening to them it was too late. Not that it mattered. I don’t think ignoring them would have changed anything.”
Silence.
She stood proud and tall, her slender neck high. But something was going on. Her fingers kept flexing, as if she were fighting off the desire to make fists. Myron’s stomach knotted up. He knew what was coming next. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
“The story is simple,” she began, her voice almost wistful. She was no longer looking at Myron. Her gaze rose above his shoulder, but he had no idea what she was actually seeing. “Win was eight years old. I was twenty-seven at the time. I married young. I never went to college. It was not as though I had a choice. My father told me what to do. I had only one friend—one person I could confide in. That was Victoria. She is still my dearest friend, not unlike what you are to Win.”
Cissy Lockwood winced. Her eyes closed.
“Ms. Lockwood?”
She shook her head. The eyes slowly opened. “I am getting off track,” she said, catching her breath. “I apologize. I’m not here to tell you my life story. Just one incident in it. So let me just state it plainly.”
A deep breath. Then another.
“Jack Coldren told me that he was taking Win out for a golf lesson. But it never happened. Or perhaps they had finished far earlier than expected. Either way, Jack was not with Win. His father was. Somehow Win and his father ended up going into the stables. I was there when they entered. I was not alone. More specifically, I was with Win’s riding instructor.”
She stopped. Myron waited.
“Do I need to spell this out for you?”
Myron shook his head.
“No child should see what Win saw that day,” she said. “And worse, no child should ever see his father’s face under those circumstances.”
Myron felt tears sting his eyes.
“There is more to it, of course. I won’t go into it now. But Win has never spoken to me since that moment. He also never forgave his father. Yes, his father. You think he hates only me and loves Windsor the Second. But it is not so. He blames his father, too. He thinks that his father is weak. That he allowed it to happen. Utter nonsense, but that is the way it is.”
Myron shook his head. He didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted to run and find Win. He wanted to hug his friend and shake him and somehow make him forget. He thought of the lost expression on Win’s face as he watched the horse stables yesterday morning.
My God. Win.
When Myron spoke, his voice was sharper than he’d expected. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am dying,” she replied.
Myron slumped against a car. His heart ripped anew.
“Again, let me put this simply,” she said in too calm a voice. “It has reached the liver. It is eleven centimeters long. My abdomen is swelling from liver and kidney failure.” That explained the wardrobe—the untucked, oversize shirt and the stretch pants. “We are not talking months. We are talking perhaps weeks. Probably less.”
“There are treatments,” Myron tried lamely. “Procedures.”
She simply dismissed this with a shake of her head. “I am not a foolish woman. I do not have delusions of engaging in a moving reunion with my son. I know Win. That will not happen. But there is still unfinished business here. Once I am dead, there will be no chance for him to disentangle himself again. It will be over. I do not know what he will do with this opportunity. Probably nothing. But I want him to know. So that he can decide. It is his last chance, Myron. I do not believe he will take it. But he should.”
With that, she turned away and left. Myron watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, Myron hailed a taxi. He got in the back.
“Where to, bud?”
He gave the man the address where Esme Fong was staying. Then he settled back in the seat. His eyes stared blankly out the window. The city passed by in a misty, silent blur.
30
When he thought that his voice would not betray him, Myron called Win on the cell phone.
After a quick hello, Win said, “Bummer about Jack.”
“From what I hear, he used to be your friend.”
Win cleared his throat. “Myron?”
“What?”
“You know nothing. Remember that.”
True enough. “Can we have dinner tonight?”
Win hesitated. “Of course.”
“At the cottage. Six-thirty.”
“Fine.”
Win hung up. Myron tried to put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about.
Esme Fong paced the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Omni Hotel on the corner of Chestnut Street and Fourth. She wore a white suit and white stockings. Killer legs. She kept wringing her hands.
Myron got out of the taxi. “Why are you waiting out here?” he asked.
“You insisted on talking privately,” Esme answered. “Norm is upstairs.”
“You two live in the same room?”
“No, we have adjoining suites.”
Myron nodded. The no-tell motel was making more sense now. “Not much privacy, huh?”
“No, not really.” She gave him a tentative smile. “But it’s okay. I like Norm.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“What’s this about, Myron?”
“You heard about Jack Coldren?”
“Of course. Norm and I were shocked. Absolutely shocked.”
Myron nodded. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk.”
They headed up Fourth Street. Myron was tempted to stay on Chestnut Street, but that would have meant strolling past Independence Hall and that would have been a tad too cliché for his liking. Still, Fourth Street was in the colonial section. Lots of brick. Brick sidewalk, brick walls and fence, brick buildings of tremendous historical significance that all looked the same. White ash trees lined the walk. They turned right into a park that held the Second Bank of the United States. There was a plaque with a portrait of the bank’s first president. One of Win’s ancestors. Myron looked for a resemblance but could not find one.
