Very mature.
Greg leaned closer. “You know what I’d like to do to you, Bolitar?”
“Kiss me on the lips? Buy me flowers?”
“Flowers for your grave maybe.”
Myron nodded. “Good one, Greg. I mean, ouch, I’m wounded.”
Karen Singh said, “Just because this is a children’s floor doesn’t mean you two have to act like ones.”
Greg took a step back, his eyes never leaving Myron. “Emily,” he spat suddenly. “She called you, right?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Greg.”
“She asked you to find the donor. Like you found me.”
“You always were a bright boy.”
“I’m calling a press conference today. I’m going to make a direct appeal to the donor. Offer a reward.”
“Good.”
“So we don’t need you, Bolitar.”
Myron looked at Greg, and for a moment they were back on the court, faces drenched with sweat, the crowd cheering, the clock ticking down, the ball bouncing. Nirvana. Gone forever. Snatched away by Greg. And by Emily. And maybe most of all, when he looked at it honestly, by Myron’s own stupidity.
“I’ve got to go,” Myron said.
Greg took a step back. Myron moved past him and pressed the elevator button.
“Hey, Bolitar.”
He faced Greg.
“I came here to talk to the doc about my son,” Greg said, “not rehash our past.”
Myron said nothing. He turned back to the elevator.
“You think you can help save my boy?” Greg asked.
Myron’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know.”
The elevator dinged and opened. There were no good-byes, no nods, no further communication of any sort. Myron stepped inside and let the doors close. When he reached the first level, he went to the lab. He rolled up his sleeve. A woman drew his blood, untied the tourniquet, and said, “Your doctor will be in touch with you about the results.”
8
W in was bored, so he drove Myron to the airport to pick up Terese. His foot pushed down on the gas pedal as though it had offended him. The Jag flew. As was his custom when driving with Win, Myron kept his eyes averted.
“It would appear,” Win began, “that our best option would be to locate a satellite marrow clinic in a somewhat remote area. Upstate maybe or in western Jersey. We would then break in at night with a computer expert.”
“Won’t work,” Myron said.
“Por qua?”
“The Washington center shuts down the computer network at six o’clock. Even if we were to break in, we couldn’t bring up the mainframe.”
Win said, “Hmm.”
“Don’t fret,” Myron said. “I have a plan.”
“When you talk like that,” Win said, “my nipples harden.”
“I thought only the real thing aroused you.”
“This isn’t the real thing?”
They parked in JFK Airport’s short-term parking and reached the Continental Airlines gate ten minutes before the flight touched down. When the passengers began to appear, Win said, “I’ll stand over in the corner.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to cast a shadow on your greeting,” he said. “And standing over there affords me a better view of Ms. Collins’s derriere.”
Ah, Win.
Two minutes later, Terese Collins—to use a purely transportational term—disembarked. She was casually decked out in a white blouse and green slacks. Her brown hair was up in a ponytail. People lightly elbowed one another, whispering and subtly gesturing, giving her that surreptitious glance, the one that says “I recognize you but don’t want to appear fawning.”
Terese approached Myron and offered up her breaking-to-commercial smile. It was small and tight, trying to be friendly but reminding viewers that she was telling them about war and pestilence and tragedy and that maybe a big happy smile would be somewhat obscene. They hugged a little too tightly, and Myron felt the familiar sadness overwhelm him. It happened to him every time they hugged—a sense that something inside of him was crumbling anew. He sensed that the same thing happened to her.
Win came over.
“Hello, Win,” she
Greg leaned closer. “You know what I’d like to do to you, Bolitar?”
“Kiss me on the lips? Buy me flowers?”
“Flowers for your grave maybe.”
Myron nodded. “Good one, Greg. I mean, ouch, I’m wounded.”
Karen Singh said, “Just because this is a children’s floor doesn’t mean you two have to act like ones.”
Greg took a step back, his eyes never leaving Myron. “Emily,” he spat suddenly. “She called you, right?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Greg.”
“She asked you to find the donor. Like you found me.”
“You always were a bright boy.”
“I’m calling a press conference today. I’m going to make a direct appeal to the donor. Offer a reward.”
“Good.”
“So we don’t need you, Bolitar.”
Myron looked at Greg, and for a moment they were back on the court, faces drenched with sweat, the crowd cheering, the clock ticking down, the ball bouncing. Nirvana. Gone forever. Snatched away by Greg. And by Emily. And maybe most of all, when he looked at it honestly, by Myron’s own stupidity.
“I’ve got to go,” Myron said.
Greg took a step back. Myron moved past him and pressed the elevator button.
“Hey, Bolitar.”
He faced Greg.
“I came here to talk to the doc about my son,” Greg said, “not rehash our past.”
Myron said nothing. He turned back to the elevator.
“You think you can help save my boy?” Greg asked.
Myron’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know.”
The elevator dinged and opened. There were no good-byes, no nods, no further communication of any sort. Myron stepped inside and let the doors close. When he reached the first level, he went to the lab. He rolled up his sleeve. A woman drew his blood, untied the tourniquet, and said, “Your doctor will be in touch with you about the results.”
8
W in was bored, so he drove Myron to the airport to pick up Terese. His foot pushed down on the gas pedal as though it had offended him. The Jag flew. As was his custom when driving with Win, Myron kept his eyes averted.
“It would appear,” Win began, “that our best option would be to locate a satellite marrow clinic in a somewhat remote area. Upstate maybe or in western Jersey. We would then break in at night with a computer expert.”
“Won’t work,” Myron said.
“Por qua?”
“The Washington center shuts down the computer network at six o’clock. Even if we were to break in, we couldn’t bring up the mainframe.”
Win said, “Hmm.”
“Don’t fret,” Myron said. “I have a plan.”
“When you talk like that,” Win said, “my nipples harden.”
“I thought only the real thing aroused you.”
“This isn’t the real thing?”
They parked in JFK Airport’s short-term parking and reached the Continental Airlines gate ten minutes before the flight touched down. When the passengers began to appear, Win said, “I’ll stand over in the corner.”
“Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to cast a shadow on your greeting,” he said. “And standing over there affords me a better view of Ms. Collins’s derriere.”
Ah, Win.
Two minutes later, Terese Collins—to use a purely transportational term—disembarked. She was casually decked out in a white blouse and green slacks. Her brown hair was up in a ponytail. People lightly elbowed one another, whispering and subtly gesturing, giving her that surreptitious glance, the one that says “I recognize you but don’t want to appear fawning.”
Terese approached Myron and offered up her breaking-to-commercial smile. It was small and tight, trying to be friendly but reminding viewers that she was telling them about war and pestilence and tragedy and that maybe a big happy smile would be somewhat obscene. They hugged a little too tightly, and Myron felt the familiar sadness overwhelm him. It happened to him every time they hugged—a sense that something inside of him was crumbling anew. He sensed that the same thing happened to her.
Win came over.
“Hello, Win,” she
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