Free Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page B

was severe. He was concerned.
    Henry thought he’d tell him the truth. However, he became anxious and said, It’s mono, Edgar.
    Mono? Hmm, that can be tough, Hank. You must be laid up in bed?
    I am.
    You sound like you’re on the street.
    Actually, I’m heading back from the doctor’s, said Henry, his voice unsteady. I’ve been in bed for days.
    Sorry to hear that. I take it you’ll be out a couple weeks. You’ll want to get a lot of rest. Don’t push yourself.
    That’s what the doctor told me.
    He’s right, Hank.
    Edgar began speaking of his own experience with mononucleosis. His case had lasted over four months. Unable to work, he’d run into financial trouble. His wife had had to take a second job. He could hardly remember seeing her during that time. Edgar talked about the fatigue, the problems eating, but Henry wasn’t listening. A man on the opposite side of the street, tall, about sixty-years-of-age, with short gray hair, had caught his attention. In blue jeans and a navy dress jacket the stranger’s attire seemed distinctly of the West Coast. His gait was all sun and palm trees, ocean air. The man proceeded up 76th Street towards Fifth Avenue, Central Park.
    Henry, his heart rate increased, said, I’m sorry, Edgar. I’ll call you back.
    He hung up. Crossing the street, the light already changing, Henry ran fast, sliding in his dress shoes. A taxi screamed towards him, but he gained the curb with an inch to spare. Past a roasted nut dealer he hurried. Was it really his father just up ahead? Art Schiller? Would Art come to New York and not tell him? Rushing up the sidewalk, his testicle was in pain. But what did that matter? Ten feet ahead of him was a man, his father. It did look like him. And Henry would never forgive him for this.
    Sonovabitch. How could he. To come to New York and not tell me.
    Moving fast beside a row of palatial limestone townhouses, and closing in on the man, Henry’s nerves were an accident waiting to happen. His scalp prickled hot. Fifteen feet from his target, he cried, Hey, you!
    The man didn’t stop but turned into a building. Henry advanced quickly and was facing in at the doors a moment later, looking in through an austere marble lobby. The man was gone. Blood rose into Henry’s cheeks. Holding his head, he asked the doorman if he could tell him the name of the person who’d just passed through the lobby. The doorman, a wide, beaver-ish-looking fellow, said he couldn’t give out that information. Henry, his head hanging, retreated back to the hotel.
    He called Edgar.
    You sound all of out breath, Hank. You all right?
    I’m fine.
    What’s the matter?
    It’s nothing. Nothing at all. I’m hoping to be back at work soon.
    You’ll see how you’re feeling .
    Maybe a week. Ten days, said Henry, still not listening to Edgar.
    Just tell me if you need anything. Your job will be waiting for you.
    Thank you, Edgar.
    Off the phone and standing under the awning of the Carlyle, through his whole face, his forehead and cheeks, around the mouth and chin, were the creased lines of inner-turmoil. With his hand set on the back of his head, he began to feel great disappointment. To himself, he was saying, Probably wasn’t really Dad. If only it had been. I’d have fallen on his shoulder and sobbed. Could use him more than ever.
    It was as far he’d let his own heart swell. At once he corrected his overly curved posture, lifted his head, his neck and spine.
    I become tired of myself when I think like this. You’ll be fine. Just pull it together.
    Adjusting from the sun on Madison to the low light of Bemelman’s caused his eyes to make out dark amorphous spots which floated to the ceiling then disappeared. Paula welcomed Henry back. The martini had taken hold of her and she was sitting slumped-drunk in her chair. Marcel, big and cheerful, his shiny bald head teeming sweat, cried out for