“Bullshit, Sara. ‘Let’s change the subject’ is just another way of saying you want to try to attack from another angle. You figure if you keep probing, eventually you’ll get what you want—no matter what the cost.”
“And what are the costs, Michael? Your story could give hope to thousands of children who are being abused—”
“Jesus, how low will you stoop to get this story?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied. “I want every story I’m assigned.”
“Have you no ethics?”
Sara’s fists clenched. “Spare me the morality play. We reporters are great as long as we’re telling the world what a wonderful guy you are. We’re your best pals when we pat you on the back and help you get more endorsement money. But oh, if we dare to criticize, if we dare to dig deeper—”
“My personal life is none of anyone’s goddamn business.”
“Afraid I’ll shatter your precious image? Afraid I’ll make you look like something other than Superman?”
She could see him wrestling with his temper. “Good-bye, Sara,” he said with too much control. “I really didn’t want to do this.”
“Go ahead. Slam the door in my face. I’ll be back.”
“No,” he said, “you won’t.”
“We’ll see.”
And then he closed the door in her face just as Sara let loose with another sneeze. Her breathing was shallow from the effects of her cold. Sara wheezed, each drawn breath a painful struggle. She turned away from the door and huffed of.
“The man is a major-league pain in the ass.”
Back home, she began to reread his file. As the words passed in front of her, her anger softened and then evaporated. Could she really blame him for being so defensive? His childhood read like something out of Oliver Twist. She sat back, laced her fingers behind her head, and sneezed again. Her breathing was still labored, even worse than before. She had tried to dismiss it, but the truth was becoming more and more apparent. With something near terror, Sara knew what she had to do. She reached for the phone and called her father.
The next morning the doctors confirmed Sara’s diagnosis.
“Pneumonia,” John told his daughter in her hospital bed. There were tears in his eyes. “Third time for you in the last two years, Sara.”
“I know,” she said.
“You have to slow down a little.”
Sara glanced up at her father but said nothing.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she replied. “How long will I have to be here this time?”
“The doctors don’t know, honey. I can stay with you for a while, if you’d like.”
She nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
John Lowell left his daughter’s bedside at nine p.m. Sara did not want him to go. Irrational as it might seem, she hated being alone at night in the hospital. Despite all the time she had spent in hospitals, Sara was still scared to close her eyes, afraid that someone or something might sneak up on her. She felt like some movie character left alone to survive a night in a haunted house. It was the hospital sounds that made her shudder, the sounds that reverberated louder in the blackness and stillness of the night: footsteps echoing much too loudly against the tile floors; the constant beeping, gurgling, and sucking noises of life-saving machines; the random moan of pain; the scream of terror; the squeak of wheels; crying.
Feeling lonely, Sara strapped on her Walkman and began to sing a little ditty by the Police. When her voice grew too loud (“Don’t stand so . . . Don’t stand so . . . Don’t stand so close to me!”), the nurse came in, gave her a scolding glare, and told her to quiet down.
“Sorry.”
She took off the headset and flicked on the television. She was immediately greeted by a sportscaster’s voice. “Great move by Michael Silverman. What a game he’s having, Tom.”
“Sure is, Brent. Twenty-two points, ten rebounds, nine assists. He’s playing like a man possessed.”
“And Seattle calls time out. The score in this fourth game off the NBA Championship Series—New York 87, the Sonics 85. We’ll be back at Madison Square Garden in New York City in just a moment.”
Though not much of a sports fan, Sara watched the remainder of the game. The Knicks won by five points, tying up the NBA finals at two games apiece. The series would now move to Seattle for the next two games and then back to New York if a seventh and final game was needed. She continued to watch as the inane sportscasters spewed out as many clichés as they could come up with while reviewing the game highlights. After that there were interviews with numerous players and coaches, which lasted for another hour or so.
“Looking for me?”
Sara turned quickly toward the door. “Who—?”
Michael stepped forward from the shadows. His hair was still wet from his postgame shower. “Miss Nancy Levin,” he said simply.
“What?”
“You asked about my piano teacher. Miss Nancy Levin. She was the music teacher at Burnet Hill Elementary School.”
Sara swallowed, not sure what to say. “It’s past visiting hours.”
“I know,” he said. “I promised the security guard two tickets to a game if he looked the other way. One of the advantages of fame. Mind if I take a seat?”
Sara tried to speak but had to settle for a shake of the head.
“Thanks,” he said. “I called your office this morning and your editor told me you had pneumonia. He said you get it pretty frequently.”
She shrugged.
“So I thought I’d pay you a visit. I hope I’m not keeping you awake.”
“Not at all,” she replied, finding her voice at last, “but shouldn’t you be celebrating with your teammates?”
“We don’t celebrate until we win four games. We’ve only won two so far.”
“Didn’t the reporters want to interview you after the game?”
He nodded, smiling. “But as you well know, I don’t really like interviews.”
“Not even postgame victory ones?”
“Actually, I like those.”
“So?”
“So I wanted to come here and see you, okay?”
She turned away from his steady gaze, summoning some inner strength before turning back to face him. “How much does this championship series mean to you, Michael?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Well, how can I put it? It means everything to me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about hitting the winning shot in the NBA finals. Since I was a little kid, winning the NBA finals has been my dream. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes.”
“So how are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Under one condition,” he said. “It’s all off the record. We’re just chatting now. None of this can be used in a story. I want your word.”
“You have it.”
He stood and paced. “What do you know about me?”
“The file is on the night table,” she said. “Read it.”
He lifted the folder and opened it. Sara watched his eyes grow large and pained as they moved across the page.
“Is it true?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
And so they talked for the next hour until the nurse, a large black woman who was no basketball fan, found Michael in Sara’s room, reprimanded him for being there after visiting hours, and threw him out.
The Knicks and the Sonics split the next two games, putting both teams at three wins apiece and setting up Game Seven at Madison Square Garden in New York. Game Seven—mystical words for sports fans. Twenty-four teams playing eighty-two regular season games each and four rounds of play-offs had come down to one final g
ame to decide the championship.
Sara watched the game from her hospital room. She found herself cheering for the Knicks fiercely, for Michael most especially. With three seconds left and the Knicks down 102–101, the ball was passed to Michael. Sara felt her heart leap into her throat as Michael drove the lane and lofted a hook shot high over the outstretched hand of Seattle’s seven-foot center. The buzzer sounded. The ball bounced on the rim twice, hit the backboard, and then dropped in for two points. The game was over.
New York Knicks 103, Seattle Supersonics 102.
New York City went crazy. Michael’s teammates, led by Reece Porter, mobbed Michael. Madison Square Garden rocked in a frenzied celebration. Sara heard herself crying out with joy, her hands pounding the bed in excitement.
He had done it. Michael had done it.
“Yahoo!” she shouted.
The same nurse peeked her head through the doorway. “Miss Lowell . . .”
“Sorry.”
She watched the locker room scene, the champagne being poured on everyone’s head, the rare joy of winning the NBA championship. The Knick players and coaches were hooting and shouting and hugging one another in one of adult life’s few moments of uninhibited, unashamed happiness. Sara tried to find Michael in the rejoicing horde, but there was too much confusion. Several Knicks were interviewed by the sportscasters, all singing Michael’s praises, but the game’s superstar was nowhere to be found. Some time later Sara heard footsteps approach her room.
“Hi,” Michael said.
“What are you doing here?”
Sara’s voice was angry. A hurt look crossed Michael’s face.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated, her tone no softer. “You’re supposed to be celebrating the greatest moment of your life, right? So what the hell are you doing here?”
Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you want from me? You said everything was true in that file, so I know you have a hundred bimbos to choose from—”
“Sara . . .”
“So what do you want from me?”
He lowered his head. “Why are you so angry?” he asked, his tone almost childlike.
She stopped. Her reaction had surprised her. Why was she yelling at him like this? Why did she feel so strange whenever she was with him—a soaring and yet queasy feeling? Why was she acting so angry when, truth be known, she was so happy he was here? “I’m just confused, Michael. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
He moved closer. “Neither do I, Sara.”
“Why did you come here tonight, Michael? Why aren’t you celebrating with your teammates?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I . . . I just wanted to be with you, that’s all.”
And now he had AIDS.
AIDS. The word floated about the room like a poisonous vapor. Sara felt the tears come to her eyes, and once again, she began to cry.
“It’s okay,” Michael whispered to her. “Everything is going to be okay.”
He had not cried a single tear since Harvey and Eric had told them the news two hours ago, and somehow his lack of response was the most terrifying thing. His body had shook, but his eyes stared off, lost, confused, thoughtful. What are you thinking? Sara wondered. What are you feeling right now and why won’t you share it with me?
Harvey and Eric had not yet left the room. Eric sat by the window, staring out over the impatient traffic on One Hundred Sixty-eighth Street. Harvey paced.
“I want the truth,” Michael said now, his hand tightening against Sara’s. “Can you cure this or not?”
Harvey stopped and turned toward Michael. His gaze met Eric’s for a split second before resting on Michael’s face. “We want to give it a try. We believe it’s very possible.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Harvey nodded. “I’ll have you transferred to the clinic today.”
“Today?” Sara said. “Can’t it wait—”
“No,” Harvey replied. “It can’t wait. The earlier we start treatment, the better. I want to warn you both now that this treatment is not pretty. You will be hooked on SR1 and the side effects will be painful and unpleasant. For a while you will be a junkie, Michael. You will feel as though you need the fix or you’ll die. And you’ll be right.”
The room slid gently back into silence.
“You two better go now,” Michael said. “You must have a thousand things to do.”
Harvey signaled to Eric and they both moved toward the exit. As Harvey opened the door, he turned back toward Michael. “Think about what I said earlier, okay? You can do a lot of good.”
Michael nodded. The moment they left, Sara threw her arms around Michael again, but he stiffened, his body cold and hard . . . like a corpse.
“Michael?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes shifted around the room, moving quickly from item to item as though looking for an easy exit. Sara rested her head against Michael’s chest, and they stayed that way in silence for a very long time. The only sound Sara could hear was Michael’s steady breathing, her head rising and falling with his chest.
Finally, Michael spoke. “You should go, Sara,” he said. “You have your story to do.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to,” Michael said. “The story is too important.”
“I’ll get Donald Parker to do it.”
He shook his head. “You should do it.”
“To hell with the story, Michael. I want to stay with you.”
Michael did not say anything for another ten minutes. He just remained silent, his lips curling around his teeth. “Sara, I’m not sure I want you to go through this.”
“You don’t have any choice,” she replied. “And don’t you dare play the brave martyr with me, Michael. You’re not going to die. You’re not going to leave me and the baby here alone without you.”
He smiled sadly and patted her stomach. “We have Junior here to think of.”
“That’s right.”
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about this for the past few hours,” he said. “And I want to go public with this.”
“What?”
“What they said makes sense—”
“They should have never said anything,” Sara said. “This is no time for you to be making decisions, Michael. You’re vulnerable right now.”
He smiled again, sweetly, sadly. “What’s the point of delaying the inevitable, Sara? You know we have no choice.”
Fear wrapped around her neck like a cold scarf. “Please, Michael, think this through more. Don’t just throw away . . .”
“Throw away what?” he asked. “It’s over, Sara. There’s nothing to throw away. I never let you do the story on the physical abuse I suffered as a child, and that was a selfish thing to do.”
“Michael . . .”
“No, let me finish. It’s really strange, Sara. When Harvey told me the results of the test, my thoughts became frighteningly clear. I’ve been thinking this whole thing through. Harvey and Eric didn’t say too much, but I know where they stand. They want me to go public with this.”
“Give it a little time,” Sara said. “You just heard. There’s a lot of things to consider here. Think for a second about the discrimination. People will hate you for it. The NBA will probably say you’re too much of a health threat to ever step on the court again, even if the virus goes into remission.”
“So what? Look, I’m not a brave man. Maybe you were right all those years ago. Maybe the story of my childhood would have helped people understand child abuse, but—I don’t know—I just couldn’t live through it again. I didn’t have the strength.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”
“But, Sara, this is too big, too important. I can’t just sit back again. I think Harvey knows that. He sees what his cure can do for people and so he puts everything else on hold.
You heard what he said. The publicity from my case could have the biggest effect on the AIDS epidemic since Rock Hudson died. I can’t just walk away from that.”
She just held him, her eyes squeezed shut.
“So I want this story done, Sara. And I want you to arrange a press conference for me for tomorrow.”
“If that’s what you really want,” she said slowly, “then we’ll do it. But let’s not talk about it right now, Michael. Right now, I just want you to hold me.”
JENNIFER Riker pushed open the glass door leading to Los Angeles’ main post office. The air-conditioning pounced upon her. Poor Bruce, she thought. He had been a wonderful person in so many ways. A lousy husband, yes, but some men are just not built for marriage. Why had he done it? What could have been so horrible that Bruce had chosen to end his own life?
The tragedy had been hard on them all, especially young Tommy. Not surprisingly, Bruce’s son had blamed his mother for his father’s suicide.
“You killed him!” Tommy had yelled at Susan. “It’s your fault Dad died!”
And though Susan tried to argue with him, something inside her leveled the same accusation; something could not help but wonder what part she had played in Bruce’s demise. Jennifer watched the guilt etch lines onto her sister’s lovely face. Susan could not sleep at night. She barely ate. The situation reached the point where Jennifer began to raise the possibility of seeking professional counseling to help them deal with their grief.
But in the end Susan decided against it. She thought that what she and Tommy really needed was to get away from the world for a while and see if time and solitude could help them regain their ties and come to grips with Bruce’s death. They had left two days ago for a quiet retreat outside of Sacramento where there were no telephones and no outside distractions.
Jennifer walked up to the information counter. “Could you please tell me where box 1738 is?”
“Around the corner and to the left.”
“Thank you.”
A few minutes later Jennifer located the correct number, inserted the key, and opened the box. It was filled to capacity with junk mail and soot. She waved away the particles of dust and began to transfer the mail from the box into her tote bag. Ed McMahon’s picture was on one envelope, telling Bruce that he might have already won $100,000. Alas, the postmark showed that the letter was mailed last year. Too bad. Bruce might have been rich and never knew it.
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