Win

Chapter 34

When I take the helicopter to my familial home of Lockwood, I customarily don’t appreciate the views. Human beings adapt, one aspect of which is that when something becomes common, we lose the sense of awe. We take the everyday for granted. I am not saying this is a negative. Too much is made of “live every moment to its fullest.” It is an unrealistic goal, one that leads to more stress than satisfaction. The secret to fulfillment is not about exciting adventures or living out loud — no one can maintain that kind of pace — but in welcoming and even relishing the quiet and familiar.

My father is on the putting green. I stop twenty yards away and watch him. His stroke is a perfect metronome. Golfers will disagree, but to be great at the game, you have to be a little OCD. Who else can stand over the same putts for hours on end and work on their stroke? Who else can spend three hours straight in the same bunker in order to perfect spin and trajectory?

“Hello, Win,” my father says.

“Hello, Dad.”

He is still eyeing up his putt. He has a routine. He does it every time, no matter what, no matter how many putts in a row he practices. His theory, which is the same one I apply to martial arts, is that you practice the same way as you play.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.

“I was thinking that to be great at golf, you have to be a little OCD.”

“Elaborate, please.”

I explain briefly about obsessive-compulsive disorder.

He listens patiently, and when I finish, he says, “Sounds like an excuse not to practice.”

“That could be.”

“You’re a very good player,” he says, “but you never wanted it enough.”

That is true.

“Now Myron,” Dad continues. “He seems sweet and nice, and he is. But on the basketball court? He’s barely sane. He wants to win that badly. You can’t teach that kind of competitive spirit. And it’s not always a healthy thing either.”

He stands up now and turns to me. “So what’s wrong?”

“Uncle Aldrich.”

He sighs. “He’s been dead for more than twenty years.”

“Did you know about his problems?”

“Problems,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “Your grandparents preferred the term ‘predilections.’”

“When did you know?”

“Always, I guess. There were incidents when he was still in middle school.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, what difference does it make, Win?”

“Please.”

He sighs. “Peeping Tom to start. He would also get too aggressive with girls. You have to remember. This was the sixties. There was no such thing as date rape.”

“So your parents moved him around,” I say. “Or they paid people to let it go. He changed high schools twice. He started at Haverford and then the family shipped him to school in New York.”

“If you know all this, why are you asking?”

“Something happened in New York,” I say. “What?”

“I don’t know. Your grandparents never told me. I assume it was another incident with another girl. They sent him to Brazil.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t a girl,” I say.

“Oh?”

“Aldrich was one of the Jane Street Six.”

I wanted to see if he knew. I can see from his face that he didn’t.

“Uncle Aldrich was there that night. He threw a Molotov cocktail. A few days later, your parents sent him to Brazil. Kept him in hiding, just in case. They set up that shell company to keep Ry Strauss quiet.”

“What is the point of this, Win?”

“The point is,” I say, “that didn’t stop Aldrich. Men like him don’t get better.”

My father’s eyes close as though in pain. “Which is why I broke off with him,” he says. “Cut him off and never spoke to him again.”

There is anger in his voice — anger and deep sadness.

“He was my baby brother. I loved him. But after that incident with Ashley Wright, I knew that he would never change. Perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps if our parents hadn’t always facilitated him, perhaps if they had made Aldrich get help or face some consequences, it wouldn’t have come to that. But it was too late. Granddad was dead, so it was up to me. I did what I thought best.”

“You cut ties.”

He nods. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

I nod and move closer to him. He is a simple man, my father. He has chosen to live behind these hedges, safe, protected. He has chosen to be passive. Has that worked for him? I don’t know. I am my father’s son, but I am not my father. He did what he thought best, and I love him for it.

“What?” he asks. “Is there something else?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I assure him.

He searches my face for a few moments. Again I show nothing.

I do not want to break his heart.

After a few moments pass, he points to the rack on his left. “Grab a club,” he says, as he lines up the balls for our favorite backyard game.

I want to stay with him. I want to stay and play Closest to the Cup with my father until the sun sets, like we used to when I was a child.

“I can’t right now,” I tell him.

“Okay.” He looks down at a golf ball, as though he’s trying to read the logo on it. “Later maybe?”

“Maybe,” I say.

I want to tell him the truth. But I never will. It would only hurt him. There would be no upside, no positive change. I stay silent and wait until he turns his attention back to the small white ball on the green. His eyes focus on it, only it, and I know, because I’ve seen him doing it many times, he is escaping into this simple, habitual activity. I try to do the same sometimes. I even get there once in a while.

But it’s not really who I am.