Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.
“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.
“What’s happening, Larry?”
“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of his Indiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.
Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”
“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shake Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes — wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes — on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.
“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”
“That’s great to know, thanks.”
“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t ignore this.”
He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.
“It’s okay, Larry.”
“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”
The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.
Then it all came apart.
What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone wrong.
The doctor’s diagnosis: a chemical imbalance.
Who knows how you get cancer? It was the same thing with Larry. He simply had a mental disease. It started as mild OCD, then became more severe, and then, try as they might, no one could stop his slide. By his sophomore year Larry was setting up rat traps so he could eat them. He became delusional. He dropped out of Yale. Then there were suicide attempts and major hallucinations and problems of all sorts. Larry broke into someone’s house because the “Clyzets from planet three hundred twenty-six” were trying to lay a nest there. The family was home at the time.
Larry Kidwell has been in and out of psych institutes ever since. Supposedly, there are moments when Larry is entirely lucid, and it is so painful for him, realizing what he has become, that he rips at his own face — ergo the scars — and cries out in such agony that they immediately sedate him.
“Okay,” Myron said. “Thanks for the warning.”
Myron headed out the door, shook it off. He hit Chang’s Dry Cleaning next door. Maxine Chang was behind the counter. She looked, as always, exhausted and overworked. There were two women about Myron’s age at the counter. They were talking about their kids and colleges. That was all anybody talked about right now. Every April, Livingston became a snow globe of college acceptances. The stakes, if you were to listen to the parents, could not have been higher. These weeks — those thick-or-thin envelopes that arrived in their mailboxes — decided how happy and successful their offspring would be for the rest of their lives.
“Ted is wait-listed at Penn but he made Lehigh,” one said.
“Do you believe Chip Thompson got into Penn?”
“His father.”
“What? Oh wait, he’s an alum, right?”
“He gave them a quarter million dollars.”
“I should have known. Chip had terrible boards.”
“I heard they hired a pro to write his essays.”
“I should have done that for Cole.”
Like that. On and on.
Myron nodded at Maxine. Maxine Chang usually had a big smile for him. Not today. She shouted, “Roger!”
Roger Chang came out of the back. “Hey, Myron.”
“What’s up, Roger?”
“You wanted the shirts boxed this time, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Maxine,” one of the women said, “did Roger hear from schools yet?”
Maxine barely looked up. “He made Rutgers,” she said. “Wait-listed at others.”
“Wow, congratulations.”
“Thank you.” But she didn’t seem thrilled.
“Maxine, won’t he be the first in your family to go to college?” the other woman said. Her tone could only have sounded more patronizing if she’d been petting a dog. “How wonderful for you.”
Maxine wrote up the ticket.
“Where is he wait-listed?”
“Princeton and Duke.”
Hearing his alma mater made Myron think again about Aimee. He flashed back to Larry and his spooky planet talk. Myron wasn’t one for bad omens or any of that, but he didn’t feel like poking the fates in the eye either. He debated trying Aimee’s phone again, but what would be the point? He thought back over last night, replayed it in his head, wondered how he could have done it differently.
Roger — Myron had forgotten that the kid was already a high school senior — came back and handed him the box of shirts. Myron took them, told Roger to put them on his account, headed out the door. He still had time before his flight.
So he drove to Brenda’s grave.
The cemetery still overlooked a schoolyard. That was what he could still not get over. The sun shone hard as it always seemed to when he visited, mocking his gloom. He stood alone. There were no other visitors. A nearby backhoe dug a hole. Myron remained still. He lifted his head and let the sun shine on his face. He could still feel that — the sun on his face. Brenda, of course, could not. Would never again.
A simple thought, but there you go.
Brenda Slaughter had only been twenty-six when she died. Had she survived, she’d have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she’d be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she’d be with him.
When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, a model. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women’s league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her.
Nice job, All-Star.
He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn’t sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn’t conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move.
He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn’t.
He barely remembered Brenda’s face anymore. The one kiss they shared… when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn’t come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on — feeling at peace with what happened to her — was too obscene.