Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

“Guess who I ran into?” Mom said.

“Who?”

“Dotte Derrick. Remember her?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. She had that thing, that what-you-call-it, in her yard.”

“Oh, right. Her. With that thing.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but this was easier.

“So anyway, I saw Dotte the other day and we start talking. She and Bob moved down here four years ago. They have a place in Fort Lauderdale, but Myron, it’s really run-down. I mean, it hasn’t been kept up at all. Al, what’s the name of Dotte’s place? Sunshine Vista, something like that, right?”

“Who cares?” Dad said.

“Thanks, Mr. Helpful. Anyway, that’s where Dotte lives. And this place is awful. So run-down. Al, isn’t Dotte’s place run-down?”

“The point, El,” Dad said. “Get to the point.”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Where was I?”

“Dotte Something,” Myron said.

“Derrick. You remember her, right?”

“Very well,” Myron said.

“Right, good. Anyway, Dotte still has cousins up north. The Levines. Do you remember them? No reason you should, forget it. Anyway, one of the cousins lives in Kasselton. You know Kasselton, right? You used to play them in high school—”

“I know Kasselton.”

“Don’t get snappy.”

Dad spread his arms to the sky. “The point, El. Get to the point.”

“Right, sorry. You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. So to make a long story short—”

“No, El, you’ve never made a long story short,” Dad said. “Oh, you’ve made plenty of short stories long. But never, ever, have you made a long story short.”

“Can I talk here, Al?”

“Like anyone could stop you. Like a large gun or big army tank—like even that could stop you.”

Myron couldn’t help but smile. Ladies and gents, meet Ellen and Alan Bolitar or, as Mom liked to say, “We’re El Al—you know, like the Israeli airline?”

“So anyway, I was talking to Dotte about this and that. You know, the usual. The Ruskins moved out of town. Gertie Schwartz had gall stones. Antonietta Vitale, such a pretty thing, she married some millionaire from Montclair. That kind of thing. And then Dotte told me—Dotte told me this, by the way, not you—Dotte said you’re dating someone.”

Myron closed his eyes.

“Is it true?”

He said nothing.

“Dotte said you were dating a widow with six children.”

“Two children,” Myron said.

Mom stopped and smiled.

“What?”

“Gotcha.”

“Huh?”

“If I said two children, you might have just denied it.” Mom pointed an aha finger up in the air. “But I knew if I said six, you’d react. So I caught you.”

Myron looked at his father. His father shrugged. “She’s been watching a lot of Matlock lately.”

“Children, Myron? You’re dating a woman with children?”

“Mom, I’m going to say this as nicely as I can: Butt out.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Funny Guy. When children are involved, you can’t just go on your merry way. You need to think about the repercussions on them. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Do you understand the meaning of ‘butt out’?”

“Fine, do what you want.” Now she did the mock surrender. Like mother, like son. “What do I care?”

They continued walking—Myron in the middle, Dad on his right, Mom on his left. That was how they always walked. The pace was slower now. That didn’t bother him much. He was more than willing to slow down so they could keep up.

They drove to the condo and parked in the designated spot. Mom purposely took the long path past the swimming pool, so she could introduce Myron to a dizzying array of condo owners. Mom kept saying, “You remember meeting my son?” and Myron faked remembering them back. Some of the women, many in their upper seventies, were too-well built. As Dustin Hoffman had been advised in The Graduate, “Plastics.” Just a different kind. Myron had nothing against cosmetic surgery, but past a certain age, discriminatory or not, it creeped him out.

The condo was also too bright. You’d think as you got older you’d want less light, but no. His parents actually kept on the welder sunglasses for the first five minutes. Mom asked if he was hungry. He was smart enough to answer yes. She had already ordered a sloppy joe platter—Mom’s cooking would be deemed inhumane at Guantánamo Bay—from a place called Tony’s, which was “just like the old Eppes Essen’s” at home.

They ate, they talked, Mom kept trying to wipe the small bits of cabbage that got stuck in the corners of Dad’s mouth, but her hand shook too badly. Myron met his father’s eye. Mom’s Parkinson’s was getting worse, but they wouldn’t talk to Myron about it. They were getting old. Dad had a pacemaker. Mom had Parkinson’s. But their first duty was still to shield their son from all that.

“When do you have to leave for your meeting?” Mom asked.

Myron checked his watch. “Now.”

They said good-byes, did the hug-n-kiss thing again. When he pulled away, he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if they were going to hold off the enemy on their own while he drove to safety. Having aging parents sucked; but as Esperanza, who lost both parents young, often pointed out, it was better than the alternative.

Once in the elevator, Myron checked his cell phone. Aimee had still not called him back. He tried her number again and was not surprised when it went to voice mail. Enough, he thought. He would just call her house. See what’s what.

Aimee’s voice came to him: “You promised . . .”

He dialed Erik and Claire’s home number. Claire answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Myron.”

“Hi.”

“What’s happening?”

“Not much,” Claire said.

“I saw Erik this morning”—man, was it really the same day?—“and he told me about Aimee getting accepted to Duke. So I wanted to offer up my congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Is she there?”

“No, not right now.”

“Can I call her later?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Myron changed gears. “Everything okay? You sound a little distracted.”