As he and Maggie stepped out of the O'Hare's house, Steve said, "Thank you
again, Mrs. O'Hare, for being so kind to me. I know it was difficult for
you."
"Thank you, Detective," Elizabeth O'Hare said, "for telling me the truth about…the end. A part of me wishes she had called out for me," the woman was on the verge of tears again, "but I suppose it's better that she didn't. I don't know how I would feel knowing she needed me and I couldn't be there."
"Mrs. O'Hare," Steve tried to reassure her, "I'm sure she knew a piece of your heart was *always* with her."
"Thank you, Detective, it's good of you to say that." She shut the door then, and left Steve and Maggie standing on the porch.
As they headed down the sidewalk toward the Mustang, Steve heard the distinctive thwap, thwap of a basketball hitting pavement. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mr. O'Hare in front of the garage, shooting free throws.
"Maggie, wait for me in the car, ok?"
"Querido…"
"Está bien, Mags. It'll be ok. If he tells me to go to hell, I'll just come back to the car and we can go, but I've got to try to talk to him."
"Ok. Te esperaré. I'll wait for you."
"Mr. O'Hare…"
O'Hare threw a high hard pass at Steve, and Steve caught the ball at about chest level.
"Don't bother to tell me you're sorry," the old man told him.
"I am, sir, but I know it's not enough."
"Got that right."
Steve bounced the ball a couple times, and passed it back to the old man, and turned to leave.
He'd only moved a step or two when O'Hare asked him, "You ever shoot hoops?"
"Pickup games at the park and around the neighborhood," Steve said, "but football was more my game."
O'Hare grunted. "You look the type, tall enough for basketball, but too damned heavy and slow. Well, I'm getting too old for one-on-one, but I'll bet you played HORSE."
"Sometimes, with my sister." Steve tried a small joke then, "But she could spell better than me, so I usually lost."
O'Hare snorted with laughter, made a perfect shot from the free throw line, caught the rebound, and passed the ball to Steve.
Steve stepped up to the line, bounced the ball a couple times, and lined up his shot.
"I knew what my daughter was doing," O'Hare said as Steve released the ball.
Steve's shot slammed into the garage wall a good foot above the backboard.
"That's an H," O'Hare said. He moved to the top of the three-point circle and downed another perfect shot.
"How'd you know," Steve asked as he got the rebound for himself this time and took O'Hare's place on the circle.
"I read the papers, news from around the state. Even when she changed her name, I recognized her writing style. Seems there was always a cop murdered--actually four--near where she was working. I didn't have any proof, though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to go looking for any."
Steve's shot fell short, not because O'Hare had surprised him this time, but because he had simply misjudged the force it would take to get the ball into the basket. "That's an O," he told the old man.
"I thought you couldn't spell," O'Hare said dryly.
"I learned," Steve told him.
O'Hare went to the corner of the court by the garage door, near what would have been the baseline if it had been painted on the blacktop, and sank a basket that was nothing but net.
Steve caught the rebound again, and said, "Mind if I go from the other corner? I'm a leftie."
O'Hare shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Steve dribbled the ball ahead of him until he got to the corner where he stopped and eyed the basket, determined to make the shot this time.
"She called me from LA and told me about you."
Steve sighed as the ball sailed over the basket and landed in the rhododendrons in front of the porch.
"I've got it," O'Hare said. "That's an R."
"She told you about me?" He was stunned, and suddenly realized O'Hare was using surprise to win this game.
"Yep. And about the house you shared with your dad, the ocean view, and your fireplace." O'Hare said as he went to the middle of the edge of the driveway. It would have been about half court in any gym. "She was already planning to break it off, said you were getting too close." He took his time lining up his shot, as it was a much greater distance this time, and finally sent it through the net with a swish.
Steve caught the ball, and dribbled over to where O'Hare had been standing. He knew there was no way he'd make this shot, but he'd try, nonetheless.
"I would have killed you myself then. I thought she meant you were trying to force her into…something."
Steve's shot banged off the back of the rim with an unpleasant sound, and came hurtling right back at him. He'd been surprised by what O'Hare had said again, and barely caught the ball before it smashed him in the face.
"That's S," O'Hare said, taking the ball from his hands and moving to the far corner of the court.
He sank one more perfect shot, and stepped aside to let Steve have a go.
As Steve lined up his shot, O'Hare said, "She told me I was wrong."
Steve held on to the ball, waiting for him to finish. When he seemed to have nothing left to say, Steve took his shot.
"She said she just wasn't ready to love someone yet."
The ball struck the garage at an angle, ricocheted to hit the mailbox with a 'bonggg', bounced into a tree, and rolled into the street. Steve's gasp of surprise turned into a groan of frustration as the old man trotted after the ball, saying, "That's an E."
Steve looked over at O'Hare, realizing how much he was like his own father, and said, "That's why I played football."
O'Hare walked back to the driveway, dribbling the ball, and Steve made a halfhearted attempt to guard him. To his surprise, O'Hare dodged around him, glided to the basket, and executed a perfect lay-up. Steve gaped after him and said, "Mrs. O'Hare said you hadn't heard from Lynn in three years."
"She didn't, but I did." He tossed the ball to Steve, who dribbled to the back of the court, and then came slowly forward.
O'Hare stole the ball from him, moved off to his right, turned and made a beautiful jump shot. "Lynn just couldn't talk to her mom anymore. Elizabeth got too protective, and when Lynn tried to tell her to back off, she'd get weepy. I didn't know how to tell Betsy that he only child couldn't bear speaking to her, so I just didn't."
It was O'Hare's ball, and Steve was determined to steal it, but the old man kept pivoting, keeping his back to him. Finally, the man got an open shot, and made a three-pointer with no effort. Now, he was huffing and puffing from the exertion, so he just tossed the ball to Steve and let him wander around the court, shooting at will.
Even without being guarded, Steve scored on only two of his three shots, and O'Hare said, "You ain't lying when you say that's why you played football."
"No, sir. What else did Lynn tell you?"
O'Hare caught the ball as Steve passed it to him and said, "Nothing." He dribbled up to the free throw line, and stood there, bouncing the ball listlessly. "But I know my daughter, and she did love you, Detective. The last time I talked to her, she sounded like her old self, like she was before the rape, and she loved you. Hearing her sound that happy, one last time, was a great gift to me, Detective, and I thank you for it. The old Lynn wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She would understand why you had to…do what you did, and I do, too. She would also want you to go on afterward."
The two men stood there in silence for some moments, the only sound between them being the steady thwap, thwap, thwap of the basketball hitting the pavement. Then O'Hare sniffed deeply, cleared his throat, and spat on the pavement near Steve's feet. Steve backed up a step. Without ever looking at Steve, O'Hare told him, "I'd say, 'no offense,' but I really don't give a damn if you get offended. I want you to go the hell away now, and never come back."
"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir." O'Hare ignored him, so Steve turned to go. As he walked away, Steve heard the ball go through the hoop with a perfect swish.
"Thank you, Detective," Elizabeth O'Hare said, "for telling me the truth about…the end. A part of me wishes she had called out for me," the woman was on the verge of tears again, "but I suppose it's better that she didn't. I don't know how I would feel knowing she needed me and I couldn't be there."
"Mrs. O'Hare," Steve tried to reassure her, "I'm sure she knew a piece of your heart was *always* with her."
"Thank you, Detective, it's good of you to say that." She shut the door then, and left Steve and Maggie standing on the porch.
As they headed down the sidewalk toward the Mustang, Steve heard the distinctive thwap, thwap of a basketball hitting pavement. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mr. O'Hare in front of the garage, shooting free throws.
"Maggie, wait for me in the car, ok?"
"Querido…"
"Está bien, Mags. It'll be ok. If he tells me to go to hell, I'll just come back to the car and we can go, but I've got to try to talk to him."
"Ok. Te esperaré. I'll wait for you."
"Mr. O'Hare…"
O'Hare threw a high hard pass at Steve, and Steve caught the ball at about chest level.
"Don't bother to tell me you're sorry," the old man told him.
"I am, sir, but I know it's not enough."
"Got that right."
Steve bounced the ball a couple times, and passed it back to the old man, and turned to leave.
He'd only moved a step or two when O'Hare asked him, "You ever shoot hoops?"
"Pickup games at the park and around the neighborhood," Steve said, "but football was more my game."
O'Hare grunted. "You look the type, tall enough for basketball, but too damned heavy and slow. Well, I'm getting too old for one-on-one, but I'll bet you played HORSE."
"Sometimes, with my sister." Steve tried a small joke then, "But she could spell better than me, so I usually lost."
O'Hare snorted with laughter, made a perfect shot from the free throw line, caught the rebound, and passed the ball to Steve.
Steve stepped up to the line, bounced the ball a couple times, and lined up his shot.
"I knew what my daughter was doing," O'Hare said as Steve released the ball.
Steve's shot slammed into the garage wall a good foot above the backboard.
"That's an H," O'Hare said. He moved to the top of the three-point circle and downed another perfect shot.
"How'd you know," Steve asked as he got the rebound for himself this time and took O'Hare's place on the circle.
"I read the papers, news from around the state. Even when she changed her name, I recognized her writing style. Seems there was always a cop murdered--actually four--near where she was working. I didn't have any proof, though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to go looking for any."
Steve's shot fell short, not because O'Hare had surprised him this time, but because he had simply misjudged the force it would take to get the ball into the basket. "That's an O," he told the old man.
"I thought you couldn't spell," O'Hare said dryly.
"I learned," Steve told him.
O'Hare went to the corner of the court by the garage door, near what would have been the baseline if it had been painted on the blacktop, and sank a basket that was nothing but net.
Steve caught the rebound again, and said, "Mind if I go from the other corner? I'm a leftie."
O'Hare shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Steve dribbled the ball ahead of him until he got to the corner where he stopped and eyed the basket, determined to make the shot this time.
"She called me from LA and told me about you."
Steve sighed as the ball sailed over the basket and landed in the rhododendrons in front of the porch.
"I've got it," O'Hare said. "That's an R."
"She told you about me?" He was stunned, and suddenly realized O'Hare was using surprise to win this game.
"Yep. And about the house you shared with your dad, the ocean view, and your fireplace." O'Hare said as he went to the middle of the edge of the driveway. It would have been about half court in any gym. "She was already planning to break it off, said you were getting too close." He took his time lining up his shot, as it was a much greater distance this time, and finally sent it through the net with a swish.
Steve caught the ball, and dribbled over to where O'Hare had been standing. He knew there was no way he'd make this shot, but he'd try, nonetheless.
"I would have killed you myself then. I thought she meant you were trying to force her into…something."
Steve's shot banged off the back of the rim with an unpleasant sound, and came hurtling right back at him. He'd been surprised by what O'Hare had said again, and barely caught the ball before it smashed him in the face.
"That's S," O'Hare said, taking the ball from his hands and moving to the far corner of the court.
He sank one more perfect shot, and stepped aside to let Steve have a go.
As Steve lined up his shot, O'Hare said, "She told me I was wrong."
Steve held on to the ball, waiting for him to finish. When he seemed to have nothing left to say, Steve took his shot.
"She said she just wasn't ready to love someone yet."
The ball struck the garage at an angle, ricocheted to hit the mailbox with a 'bonggg', bounced into a tree, and rolled into the street. Steve's gasp of surprise turned into a groan of frustration as the old man trotted after the ball, saying, "That's an E."
Steve looked over at O'Hare, realizing how much he was like his own father, and said, "That's why I played football."
O'Hare walked back to the driveway, dribbling the ball, and Steve made a halfhearted attempt to guard him. To his surprise, O'Hare dodged around him, glided to the basket, and executed a perfect lay-up. Steve gaped after him and said, "Mrs. O'Hare said you hadn't heard from Lynn in three years."
"She didn't, but I did." He tossed the ball to Steve, who dribbled to the back of the court, and then came slowly forward.
O'Hare stole the ball from him, moved off to his right, turned and made a beautiful jump shot. "Lynn just couldn't talk to her mom anymore. Elizabeth got too protective, and when Lynn tried to tell her to back off, she'd get weepy. I didn't know how to tell Betsy that he only child couldn't bear speaking to her, so I just didn't."
It was O'Hare's ball, and Steve was determined to steal it, but the old man kept pivoting, keeping his back to him. Finally, the man got an open shot, and made a three-pointer with no effort. Now, he was huffing and puffing from the exertion, so he just tossed the ball to Steve and let him wander around the court, shooting at will.
Even without being guarded, Steve scored on only two of his three shots, and O'Hare said, "You ain't lying when you say that's why you played football."
"No, sir. What else did Lynn tell you?"
O'Hare caught the ball as Steve passed it to him and said, "Nothing." He dribbled up to the free throw line, and stood there, bouncing the ball listlessly. "But I know my daughter, and she did love you, Detective. The last time I talked to her, she sounded like her old self, like she was before the rape, and she loved you. Hearing her sound that happy, one last time, was a great gift to me, Detective, and I thank you for it. The old Lynn wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She would understand why you had to…do what you did, and I do, too. She would also want you to go on afterward."
The two men stood there in silence for some moments, the only sound between them being the steady thwap, thwap, thwap of the basketball hitting the pavement. Then O'Hare sniffed deeply, cleared his throat, and spat on the pavement near Steve's feet. Steve backed up a step. Without ever looking at Steve, O'Hare told him, "I'd say, 'no offense,' but I really don't give a damn if you get offended. I want you to go the hell away now, and never come back."
"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir." O'Hare ignored him, so Steve turned to go. As he walked away, Steve heard the ball go through the hoop with a perfect swish.