“Don’t tell me the law.”
Myron just shook his head and started for the door. Taylor got in his way again. “Where are you going? I thought I made it clear I wanted to ask your nephew some questions.”
“He isn’t talking to you.”
“Says who?”
“Says his attorney.”
Chief Taylor looked at Myron as if he were something that had just dropped out of a dog’s behind. “Oh, that’s right. After you blew your basketball career, you became a scumsucking lawyer.”
Myron just grinned at him. “We’ll be on our way.”
“That’s the way you’re going to play? Then I’m going to have to charge him. Maybe hold him overnight.”
Myron looked behind him. Two other cops stood in the doorway. They had their eyes downcast. This wasn’t the way they wanted to play this either.
“Go ahead,” Myron said. “You’ll get laughed out of court.”
“You really want to go that route?” Taylor asked.
No, I thought.
“What my nephew did isn’t a crime.” Myron moved a little closer to Chief Taylor. “You know what was a crime, though, Eddie?”
Chief Taylor—I guess his first name was Eddie—said nothing.
“That time you egged my house junior year,” Myron said. “Remember that, Eddie? The cops picked you up, but they didn’t haul your dumb ass into the station like this. They drove you home. Or that time Chief Davis caught you breaking beer bottles against the school. Big tough guy, breaking bottles, until Davis drove up. Remember how you cried like a baby—”
“Shut up!”
“—when he threatened to put you in the squad car?” Myron turned to me. “Mickey, did you cry?”
I shook my head.
“Well, Chief Taylor did. Like a three-year-old. Ah yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. You cried—”
Taylor was the red of a sports car. “Shut up!”
The other two cops were snickering.
“But even then Chief Davis just drove you home,” Myron went on. “He didn’t cuff you. He didn’t drag you in because he had an old beef with your uncle, which, really, is such a cowardly thing to do.”
Taylor caught his breath. “You think that’s what this is?”
Myron stepped closer. “I know that’s what this is.”
“Take a step back, Myron.”
“Or?”
“Do you want to make an enemy of the chief of police?”
“It seems,” Myron said, maneuvering me around Taylor and starting us for the exit, “I already have.”
We headed to the parking lot without speaking. When we got into the car, Myron said, “Did you do anything against the law?”
“No.”
“You asked me about Bat Lady’s house. Then you paid her a late-night visit.”
I didn’t reply.
“Anything you want to tell me about?” Myron asked.
I thought about it. “No, not right now.”
Myron nodded. “Okay then.”
That was all. He didn’t ask more questions. He started up the car, and we drove home in silence that was, for a change, somewhat comfortable.
That night, when the dream starts, my father is still alive.
He has a basketball in his hand and he’s smiling at me.
“Hey, Mickey.”
“Dad?”
He nods.
I feel such happiness, such hope. I am nearly crying with joy. I rush over to him, but suddenly he isn’t there anymore. He is behind me. I run after him again, and again he vanishes. I start to get it now. I start to get that this might be a dream and when I wake up, my father will be dead again. Panic takes hold. I move faster. I jump closer to him, and I manage to get my arms around him. I embrace him with everything I have, and for a moment, he feels so real that I think, no, wait, this is reality! He is alive! He never died!
But even as I think that, I can start to feel my grip slipping. Behind him, I see that paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes. He is giving me that same heavy look. I yell, “No,” and hug my dad harder, dig my face right into his chest. I start to cry onto his favorite blue shirt. But my dad is fading away now. His smile is gone.
“No!” I shout again.
I close my eyes and hold on tighter, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like trying to hold on to smoke. The dream is ending. I can see consciousness making its way in.
“Please don’t leave me,” I say out loud.
I woke up in Myron’s basement, sweating and panting. I put my hand to my face and could still feel the tears there. I swallowed hard and got out of bed.
I took a shower and headed to school. Rachel and I worked on our project some more during Mrs. Friedman’s class. At one point, Rachel asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“That was like your fifth yawn.”
“Sorry.”
“A girl could get a complex,” she said.
“It’s not the company,” I said. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
She looked at me with those big blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. I wanted to reach out and touch her face. “Can I ask you something personal?” she asked.
I gave her a half nod.
“Why do you live with your uncle?”
“You mean, why don’t I live with my parents?”
“Yes.”
I kept my eyes on the desk, on a smug picture of Robespierre from early 1794. I wonder if the smug Robespierre had any inkling what the next few months would bring. “My mother is in rehab,” I said. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or . . .”
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?”
“My dad,” I said, surprising myself.
“Can I ask how he died?”
“A car crash.”
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
Enough, I thought. But then I said, “I was there.”
“At the car crash?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the car?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt?”
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. “A little,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil—and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rachel said with the most gentle voice. “We’re history partners—it doesn’t mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?”
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady’s house. He looked hurt.
“You didn’t invite me?”
“It was like two in the morning,” I said. “We figured you’d be asleep.”
“Me? I’m an up-all-night party animal.”
“Right,” Ema said. “By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?”
Spoon frowned. “Tell me that epitaph again.”
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,