Forgive Me, Alex (9 page)

***

The bath, and our further explorations following my record recovery, lasts almost an hour. We then dress and agree to take that trip to the bookstore.

"I have so little opportunity," she says, "to read for pleasure, given the demands of my job. I'm determined to do so while on vacation."

I still don't believe that's why she's here, but I let it go. At the bookstore, she picks up two romance novels—not exactly my style. I take advantage of the opportunity to pick up Mark Helprin's latest,
Memoir from Antproof Case
.

We leave the store and stand for a moment in the warm sunshine, as though neither of us is sure what we should do next. Now fully recovered—again—I have a definite idea about that, but she has something else on her mind.

"I'm starving," she says. "Let's get some lunch, and this time
I'm
paying."

"In that case, I know where they serve an excellent steak and lobster, along with a fine, exclusive bottle of wine, of course."

Perhaps a little humor will enhance the moment.

"That sounds nice," she says.

I need to work on my timing. Some funny material would help.

At the Barn of Barrington, an upscale restaurant in an upscale town, we enjoy a spectacular late lunch that will undoubtedly double as dinner. We huddle at a nice out-of-the-way table, side-by-side instead of across from one another—she insisted on being close. Perfect. We make small talk again, and tell jokes and laugh.

Man! I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

The food is gone and we've passed on coffee, well into our second bottle of wine, and she reaches over and grabs my hand. She leans in close and squeezes my hand as her eyes burrow into mine.

She throws me a curve ball. "Tony, tell me about 1978. I want to know about Alex."

I can barely look Linda in the face. "You were there. Don't you remember?"

"I was twenty-eight, fresh out of school with my doctorate and into a new career, trying desperately to please the people for whom I worked and to make my mark." She pauses to measure her words. "I hate to admit it, but honesty compels me to say that I wasn't terribly concerned about Tony Hooper at the time. I did my job and tried to impress my new boss. I was there, but I wasn't there, because for me,
you
weren't there. Not really."

One more thing I like about Linda: she tells the truth even when it exposes her as less than the person she strives always to be—a rare bird, in my experience. Then again, my experience is more limited than I'd care to admit: jaded, cynical, solitary. My disappointment with humanity tends to inform my opinions.

Frank, ever the grandpa, recently disagreed with that self-assessment. He insisted that I'm protecting myself from further pain of loss, having experienced too much already, afraid that another such incident might push me over the edge. He said I love people without inhibition, devote myself to them with abandon, and open my emotions, thus making myself vulnerable. To guard against that vulnerability, I've built a wall to keep others out, to keep
me
safe.

Sounds like pure psychobabble to me.

Yet when I'm with Linda, I feel as though I might remove a few bricks from that wall. Maybe. In time.

"I've thought about 1978 a lot, lately," I say.

"That's only natural, under the circumstances."

I take another long sip of wine and refill our glasses. The second bottle is empty. "Nevertheless, I have a difficult time expressing my feelings about it."

"Please try, Tony. It's important."

Damn, I don't want to disappoint her.

Her soft eyes reassure me, and I'm more comfortable than I've felt in a long time—perhaps seventeen years. It might help if I open up to her. I've spoken at length with Frank and Master Komura about my memories, my psychological baggage, my loss. They've been my sounding boards throughout the years, and I trust them with my life.

It's different with Linda, more intimate. I think I trust her with my
heart
, an unusual circumstance, and a feeling I like... a lot.

I motion the waiter over and point to the empty wine bottle. "I think we need another one of these."

Linda doesn't argue.

What the hell, I may as well get drunk given the condition I'm in.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?"
Say no. Please, let me off the hook.

"Yes, I'm ready."

I'd suffered in bed last night, staring out the window as I floated in a mean state between sleep and consciousness. Stubborn instinct had refused to stay in its hole, burrowing from deep inside to give me the inevitable news: Alex would never again share his bright disposition and carefree smile.

For the first time since Mom had died, I'd cried. I'd screamed silently at myself, at Dad, at the world, at the Hoopster, and I'd cried some more.

Finally, dawn crept mischievously out of the darkness, like the bratty kid down the block come to tease me.

Had this been a typical Sunday afternoon, I'd have watched the Cubs game on TV with Alex, or shot hoops with him. Instead, I walked around the driveway and absent-mindedly dribbled the basketball, shooting it only occasionally, caring not a whit whether I made the shot—just going through the motions.
Any
motion.

Alex should have been there with me, struggling to make a shot from far outside his range so he could feel like a big man, or at least like his big brother. I wanted to talk to him and coach him. God, I wanted to hold him.

It had been twenty-four hours since I'd walked out the door and left him alone.

Still there was no word of him.

Every tick of the clock's minute hand struck a hammer-blow to my heart. I suffered privately and quietly, refusing to speak to anyone or even to remain near them. Dad was there, Frank was there to provide comfort, and some friends and neighbors stopped by after hearing what had happened.

Intruders! They distracted me from my anguish, my self-loathing.

We knew
nothing
with certainty.

Yet I knew.

I couldn't talk to Dad. I had no confidence in his ability to handle the situation. I'd seen first-hand how he crumbled under the strain when Mom died, and I expected him to crumble again. A damned lousy attitude, but an honest one. Frank might have helped, but he focused on Dad, perhaps sensing who needed consoling the most—again.

Diana called not once, but three times that morning, and each time I had to say I'd get back to her later. Despite her disappointment and concern, I couldn't face even
her
. I didn't know how to draw the lines between my own suffering and guilt, and my need for Diana to rescue me.

Perhaps I didn't want to be rescued. I wasn't finished punishing myself.

"Shit, I hate this!" I stared at the driveway as I dribbled the ball, and then glanced around the neighborhood. "Alex, where are you? Come on home, Hoopster."

Emotions tore at my mind until I could barely think, or stand, or breathe. One crept out of my psyche to overshadow all the others: anger—persistent, pernicious, persecuting. If someone had hurt Alex, I desperately wanted to get my hands on that someone.

What would I do?

Well, I'd done it before. I'd meted out justice on the spot—killed a killer, the drunken bastard who'd murdered Mom. I'd eliminated him without any real conscious thought in what was practically an out-of-body experience.

This time, I had plenty of time to consider my actions. Could I, with absolute premeditation, kill another human being? I couldn't escape the truth, so why deny it? If someone had killed Alex, I could kill the killer—again—if I got the chance.

What an alarming realization. Was it my rage pushing me to the edge? Would I go beyond the simple consideration of the act to its fulfillment, or should I leave it to the law? Which would be worse for the criminal: a quick death, or a lifetime of wallowing in misery behind bars without hope of parole, knowing that his life was already over but that he must suffer it all the same? Which was the more enlightened approach? Which the more costly? What price, life?

What was the value of
Alex's
life?

I grasped for answers as if catching raindrops with a fork.

What morbid thoughts I dwelled on. They jabbed at me like Muhammad Ali on speed. I couldn't shake the horror, the crushing foreboding that life prepared to deal me another devastating blow, a real knockout punch. Was it selfish to think that way, to think of the impact on
me
instead of Alex? Was that the essence of mourning?

"Goddamn it, Tony! Why such dark expectations?" I glanced around to ensure that no one had heard my outburst.

My thoughts drifted back to a time when Mom, Alex and I had gone to the beach at Cedar Lake on a sweltering July day. Alex had journeyed out too far and found deep water. He flailed and yelled for me as the strength drained from his little arms. He was four years old. I raced to him and got there just as he was about to go under. I tried to hide my own fear while holding him close. He shivered and fought to hold back the tears, so I laughed and light-heartedly called him a goof, and his smile returned. He looked around and, upon realizing the depth, puffed with pride. He'd never been out so far, hanging with his big brother in what he liked to call "the big water." I wanted to squeeze him like a warm blanket.

If I'd had a calendar of favorite days, that summer steamer would have been on it.

The recollection wisped away on the warm breeze, and I slumped as though a crane had parked a wrecking ball on my head. I could stay awake no longer. Alex was missing, or worse. What would I do about it?

I'd sleep. It's all I
could
do.

I rolled the basketball into the grass alongside the garage, and staggered inside the house. I needed to leave behind the chaos, the fear and anger, and escape for a few hours into a dream world. Perhaps I could recapture there the life I'd once known—my old friend, happiness.

Yes, dreams. What else was there?

***

Alex is getting his curveball to work, even though he's too young to be throwing breaking pitches. He's determined to be a pitcher, which I think is a mistake. The kid can hit! He has a fluid natural swing that generates more power than you'd think possible from his little frame. He's a good glove too, and he can play almost any position. Although he's only ten, I swear that kid has Major League Baseball written all over him. Wouldn't that be a kick?

I can imagine how he would react to playing for the Cubs. Geez, I'd never hear the end of it. That would be a gas. Alex so loves the Cubs and Wrigley Field.

We were there April 17, 1976, to see the Cubs play the Phillies.

The Cubs get off to a huge lead, 12-1, and it looks like a lock. Alex goes nuts as his favorite players get hits and score runs. He keeps eating those lousy, sixty-cent pizza slices, which fairly resemble cardboard smothered in tomato sauce and mozzarella.

He pesters Dad relentlessly. "Please, just one more slice?"

Dad furls his brow and grins. "That's what you said two slices ago."

"I promise. Just one more slice, and one more bag of peanuts, and another Pepsi. That'll be it. I promise!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure it will be." Dad hands him the money.

"Come on, Tony!"

He's too small to go on his own, and I have to jog to keep up with him as he bounces between the other fans in the runway like an escaped pinball.

He yells over his shoulder, "Hurry up, Tony, I don't want to miss any of the action."

When the game ends and Mike Schmidt has hit four homeruns to lead the Phillies to a big comeback win, 18-16, Alex shrinks in disappointment. Until we get outside the ballpark.

His enthusiasm resurfaces like a submarine missile launch. "Hey, Dad, can we stop for a Chicago-style hotdog? And maybe an Italian Beef?"

Dad and I look at each other and laugh. Where in the world does the skinny little kid put all that food?

Alex sits alone in the backseat and plays catch by himself. He slaps the baseball into his glove, over and over and over, for the entire ninety-minute drive home.

When we get there, he jumps out of the car and runs to the end of the driveway. He yells, "Hey, Tony, do you want to play some catch?"

Man, are you kidding me? It's been a long day and I need a break. I'm exhausted. I can barely get out of the car, let alone toss a ball around. "Sure, Hoopster, I'll play for a little while."

"All right!"