Page 81 of Sure Shot
“That is some really woo woo shit, Doc Mulvey.”
He laughs. “And Ilovewoo woo shit. I was that kid who stood in the middle of my basement holding a plastic light saber, trying to feel the force.”
“Yeah?” I laugh. “Fine, me too. But that’s every little boy.”
“Here’s the thing, though.” He leans forward in his chair. “Didyou feel the force?”
I blink. He’s right, damn it. As a kid, I’d stood there, eyes closed, knowing to my bones that my X-Wing fighter was parked beside me in the sand and feeling an unexplained energy ripple through my body “Sure, I felt it. But not since I was seven.”
“Try again, Mark,” Doc Mulvey whispers. “Humor us both. Try to feel it again. Whether you call it the force, or luck, or meditation. Try to see yourself at one with this team. Your stick is that light saber, okay? And there’s a magnet inside it that draws the puck whenever you’re ready.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes.Sure, pal.
“Feel the force, man. What do you really have to lose?
* * *
When my thirty-minute session is up, I swing by the locker room to grab my gym bag.
The only guy around is Jason Castro. The moment he sees it’s me, he shoves his ear buds into his ears and makes himself busy with his phone.
I don’t like it, but I don’t even blame him. He’d warned me not to hurt Bess, but I did anyway. I deeply regret it, but nobody cares.
If there’s a silver lining, it’s that Bess isn’t my agent. Thank God for Eric. If I had to chat with Bess about hiring a New York accountant or finding an apartment I would probably lose my mind.
I might be losing it anyway. It kills me to know that she’s right here in Brooklyn, yet I can’t see her. I should have known that it would turn out this way. None of this is her fault. It’s all mine. She asked me for the one thing I couldn’t give.
It’s lunchtime, so I take myself out to eat. As I’m finishing up, my phone buzzes with a text, and I have a knee-jerk moment of optimism, wondering if it’s from Bess.
As if. It’s from Henry Kassman.Got something for you.Come visit.
Finally, I reply.This afternoon?
Sure, he says, as if he hasn’t steered me away every other time I’ve asked.
Instead of taking a nap, I catch the ferry across the river and walk up the East Side to Kassman’s fancy apartment building.
The moment after I enter Henry’s penthouse, I understand why Bess ended up in my hotel room that afternoon, crying her eyes out all over my T-shirt. Even from fifteen paces I can see that Henry Kassman looks dreadful. He’s horribly thin, and his skin is gray. He’s wearing pajamas in the middle of the day, which is just plain wrong.
Now I want to cry, too.
“Tank, my boy,” Henry says in a slow, thready voice. “You’re looking well.”
I take a deep breath and man up. “You flatter me, Kassman.”
“Nah. Everyone looks well compared to me.” He takes an audible breath just to finish the sentence. “Take the compliment.”
I pull a chair a little closer to his hospital bed and sit down, and the silence threatens to choke us both. What do you say to a man who’s dying? “Is there anything at all I can do for you? Any of your favorite foods you need me to fetch?”
“Not a thing,” he wheezes. “Unless you’ve got any decent gossip. It’s boring being old and sick.”
“Huh. Okay. This year I think Iamthe gossip.”
“This too shall pass.” He removes a folder from the table by his bed and hands it to me. “These are for you.”
I flip open the cover, and I’m staring down at a set of documents that I’d forgotten about. “Finaldecree of divorce,” I blurt. What’s the proper reaction to receiving one’s divorce decree? If there’s a right way to feel, I don’t know what it is.
I’m failing at this, too.
