Chapter Eighteen

Early the next morning Myron and Jeremy headed back to New York City in Emily's car. Myron drove.

"So," Jeremy said. "About last night…"

Myron's grip on the wheel tightened.

"Mom probably thought she was being quiet when she tiptoed back from the guest wing. She forgets I'm military."

"Nothing happened."

"Uh-huh."

"She just fell asleep."

"If you think I'm upset by it—"

"Doesn't matter what I think. She slept next to me. That's all."

"Okay."

"We will always be connected," Myron said.

"Let me guess. Because of me?"

"It's a good reason to be connected."

"The best. But she needs someone."

"That someone won't be me."

"Don't you have any friends who'd be good for her?"

Myron thought about it. "Not one. I know a lot of terrific single women your mother's age. I don't know one single guy my age worthy of them."

"Sad but true," Jeremy said. "So about my dad."

My dad, Myron repeated in his head. "What about him?"

"Visiting hours start at eleven a.m."

"We'll be in the city by nine."

"Where's your office again?"

"Park and 47th Street."

"I have an army pal who works in the MetLife Building next door. Okay if I visit him before we head over?"

"Sure."

Jeremy took out a set of AirPods and put them in his ears. "I'm still adjusting to the time change. Do you mind if I close my eyes?"

"No," Myron said, his heart sinking. "Of course not."

Myron parked in the garage below Win's building. When they got on Park Avenue, Jeremy headed left toward MetLife. Myron watched him walk away before heading into the Lock-Horne Building. He hopped on the elevator and took it to the top floor.

Big Cyndi greeted him in a spandex Batgirl suit, custom-made from the design used for the "original" Batgirl costume—the "real" Batgirl—from the old 1960s Batman TV series. Years ago, when Big Cyndi was professionally wrestling as Big Chief Mama, she befriended the iconic actress Yvonne Craig, who played that original Batgirl/Barbara Gordon role as well as Marta the green Orion girl in Star Trek. Yvonne had loaned Big Cyndi the Batgirl costume she still owned so that Big Cyndi could design her own. When Yvonne Craig died in 2015, Big Cyndi had made another one, entirely in black, and wore it every day for three months in mourning.

As the kids would say, Big Cyndi always goes hard.

She twirled when Myron entered. She always twirled to start her day. "You like?"

"I do," Myron said to her. "You look ready to save Gotham."

"Do you know what Batgirl's catchphrase is?"

"I do not."

Big Cyndi normally spoke in a high falsetto, but now she made her voice lower than a basso profundo at the Philharmonic. "I'm Batgirl."

She looked at Myron. Myron said nothing.

"I googled it," Big Cyndi said. "That was her catchphrase."

Not sure what to say about that, Myron went with: "It's easy to remember."

"Right?" Big Cyndi tilted her head and grinned. "Anyway, there's another quote from Batgirl I wanted to share with you, Mr. Bolitar."

She always called him Mister Bolitar, never Myron, and she insisted that he called her Big Cyndi, not Cyndi or, uh, Big.

"Something Batgirl once said to Batman."

"I'm listening," Myron said.

"‘You don't have a monopoly on wanting to help.'"

Myron was six four. Big Cyndi had two inches on him, plus the Batgirl boots probably gave her another two inches. Big Cyndi never shied away from her size. She never toned down her personality. Many people will tell you that they don't care what people think, which is bullshit by definition—if you're telling me you don't care what people think, you want me to think you're the kind of person who doesn't care what people think and thus you care what I think—but Big Cyndi genuinely did not. She lived life out loud and was the most authentic person Myron had ever met.

"Is it okay if I give you a hug?" Myron asked.

"Not if I give you one first."

Big Cyndi stepped forward and swept him into her thick arms.

"I always need your help," Myron said.

"I know," Big Cyndi said. "It's true."

That made Myron laugh. His phone buzzed, telling him he had an incoming FaceTime. He stepped back and checked the screen.

"My parents," Myron said.

"Please tell them I said hi."

"Will do."

Myron hit the answer button. A shaky video appeared. Myron could make out startlingly bright sunlight and then the pool at his parents' condo. The screen jerked, and now Myron could see his mother's face. She wore huge sunglasses that looked like someone had glued two manhole covers together.

"Myron?" his mother said. "It's your mother."

"Yes, Mom, I have caller ID. Also I can see you."

"I'm outside by the pool."

"I can see that too, Mom. You know this is a video call, right?"

"Don't be a wiseass with your mother."

"Sorry." Myron headed into his office and closed the door behind him. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Let me see your face."

"Okay."

"Sheesh, I can barely see anything on this screen."

"Take your sunglasses off," Myron said.

"What?"

He repeated himself and told her to go into the shade. She did so.

"Oh, that's better," she said.

"Where's Dad?"

"What do you mean, where's Dad?" That was his father speaking now. "I'm right here."

The camera stayed on Mom, so Myron couldn't see him.

"Hey, Dad."

"So the reason we're calling," Mom said, "is that your father made a new friend."

"Ellen, stop."

"His name is Allen too. He spells it just like your father. Allen Castner. The two of them met at the poolside breakfast buffet and guess what? Allen Castner wants to teach Allen Bolitar how to play pickleball. Can you imagine such a thing?"

From off-screen, Dad said, "What's the problem?"

"You're going to hurt yourself, that's the problem. You're an old man. And what kind of name for a sport is pickleball anyway? Who came up with that? Myron, do you know who came up with that name?"

"I don't."

"Pickleball," Mom said again. "A grown man playing a sport with that name. And your father is no great athlete, let me tell you."

"Thanks for the support, Ellen."

"What, I'm not telling the truth? You, Myron. You got my genes. I come from a long line of great athletes. Shira, she got them too. Your brother? Not so much."

"Is there a point to this call, Mom?"

"Don't rush me, I'm getting there. So, like I said, your father made a friend."

"Allen Castner," Myron said.

"Right, Allen Castner. They're going to play pickleball together and then—get this, Myron—they both love trivia so tonight they're going to compete as a team at the local trivia contest at the JCC."

"Sounds fun," Myron said.

"It's not, but never mind that. Guess the name of their team."

"Allen and Allen?"

"Close," Mom said.

Dad took the phone. "Allen Squared," he said. "Kind of hip, right?"

"Kind of," Myron said.

Dad made a face and handed the phone back to Mom—or maybe she just grabbed it back. The video's constant jerking was making Myron dizzy.

"So anyway," Mom said, "Dad's new friend Allen Castner is a huge basketball fan. Truth?" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, which in Mom's case meant they'd hear her in Fort Lauderdale. "I think this other Allen made friends with your dad because of you. Anyway, your father was being all modest, but the reason I'm calling is Allen really wanted to meet you."

"Allen the friend," Dad said with a chuckle. "Not Allen the father."

"Good one, Al," Mom said in a voice dripping with sarcasm—something else Myron had inherited from her. "Anyway, here he is."

She turned the phone's camera now, so Myron could see his father crowding into the screen with a bald guy who looked to be in his late seventies–early eighties. Both Allens wore big smiles and, like Mom, all-encompassing sunglasses. Big sunglasses seemed to be haute couture amongst the Florida retirees.

Allen Castner said, "So nice to meet you, Myron. I'm a big fan."

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Castner."

"Mr. Castner," he repeated. "What am I, your father?"

Everyone laughed at that. Myron didn't get it. Who calls their father Mister?

"Call me Allen. Look, Myron, I don't want to keep you. You wouldn't guess it looking at me now, but I was a big player back in the day. I even did some scouting for the Celtics. I was friends with Clip Arnstein."

Clip Arnstein was the famed basketball general manager who drafted Myron in the first round—one of the few major mistakes in Clip's long and stellar career.

"Anyway," Allen Castner continued, "I know it was a long time ago, but you were a great player. I saw every game when you were at Duke. I know your career was cut short, but since when is time the deciding factor in how brightly someone shines? You were a joy to watch. So thank you for that."

Everyone went silent. Even Myron's parents. Dad's eyes started to well up. A song by the Moody Blues played over the pool speaker. Myron could make out the lyrics "Just what I'm going through, they can't understand." There were the happy squeals of kids at a pool, someone's grandchildren probably.

"That's very kind of you to say, Mr.—"

"Uh-uh."

"—Allen," Myron said, correcting himself. Then: "Listen, I have to take this other call."

"Go, go," Allen Castner said. "I've taken up too much of your time. But really, such an honor to meet you. Here, Ellen, say goodbye to your son."

He handed the phone back to Mom. She pointed the camera right into the sunlight. "You know I'm having lunch with Hester this week."

"She told me," Myron said. "Have a blast."

"Blast. What, you worried Hester and I are going to find some young guys and run off?"

From off-screen, Myron heard his dad shout, "I wish."

"Very funny."

"I'm kidding," Dad said. "If your mother ran off, I wouldn't know what I would do… first."

The two Allens yucked it up at that one.

"It's like Rodney Dangerfield is still alive. See what I live with, Myron?"

"I got to go, Mom."

They said their goodbyes. Myron hung up the phone and sat back and wondered what the hell was bothering him about that call.