Chapter 3 - THE NAME MILES GREW UP HATINGDavid Carter did not like the 1974 photograph.
He liked it even less that Miles had found it.
“They could’ve been at the same event.”
Miles stared at him across the kitchen table.
“They’re standing shoulder to shoulder.”
“So?”
“Dad.”
David drank coffee.
It was six in morning.
Miles had returned.
No sleep.
“You said Grandpa refused to talk about Harold because Harold ruined him.”
“I said your grandfather never talked about him.”
“You also said Harold betrayed him.”
“That was always understood.”
“By who?”
David’s jaw tightened.
“My father.”
“Did he say it?”
David stared.
Miles leaned forward.
“Those exact words.”
“No.”
There.
Small.
But important.
“So where did you get it?”
“From everything that happened.”
“That’s not the same.”
“You weren’t there.”
“Neither were you.”
David’s face changed.
He had been a child in 1958.
Five years old.
Miles suddenly realized.
“You were five.”
David looked down.
“Yes.”
“So you don’t remember scandal.”
“I remember what came after.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather angry. Broke. Humiliated.”
David’s voice hardened.
“Men would stop talking when he walked into stores. People whispered. He took warehouse jobs. Drove delivery trucks. Your grandmother worked nights.”
Miles listened.
“That’s what I remember.”
“And Harold?”
“Never around.”
“But 1974 photo.”
David shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Could they have reconciled?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
David looked away.
Exactly.
Miles pushed phone across.
Newsletter caption:
Benson-Carter Community Court opens in West Los Angeles following neighborhood fundraising campaign.
David read.
His hand tightened.
“You never saw this?”
“No.”
“It has Grandpa’s name.”
“I know.”
“And Harold’s.”
“I can read.”
Miles sat back.
“Maybe story’s wrong.”
David slammed hand lightly on table.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Do not turn your grandfather into a liar because you found three newspaper clippings.”
“I’m asking.”
“You’re accusing.”
“I’m asking.”
David got up.
“Miles, your grandfather did everything for this family.”
“I know.”
“He worked until seventy-three.”
“I know.”
“He paid for my school.”
“I know.”
“He helped your mother when you were born.”
“I know.”
“Then maybe don’t dig around trying to turn his hardest years into entertainment.”
Miles’s anger rose.
“This isn’t entertainment.”
“You met Harold for five minutes.”
“And you hate him based on something Grandpa never actually said.”
David stopped.
For a moment, Miles wished he could take sentence back.
Then David said:
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He went to hallway closet.
Returned with a small metal cashbox.
He unlocked.
Inside were papers Miles had never seen.
One old article.
A handwritten note.
A yellowed envelope.
David took article.
Headline:
CARTER AND BENSON SUSPENDED PENDING INVESTIGATION
He handed.
Miles read.
Sports authorities had questioned both players.
Leon reportedly denied accepting money.
Harold refused detailed comment.
One line:
Sources indicated Benson may possess knowledge of betting contacts connected to Carter.
Miles looked up.
David said:
“There.”
“What?”
“He knew.”
“That doesn’t prove he betrayed him.”
“He knew and didn’t clear him.”
“Maybe he couldn’t.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t.”
Miles read again.
“Did Harold ever accuse Grandpa publicly?”
David said nothing.
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Then how did he destroy him?”
“By staying silent.”
Miles paused.
Interesting.
If Harold knew Leon was innocent, silence could damage.
But why?
David looked at envelope.
Miles noticed.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that about things.”
David’s fingers closed over it.
“It’s from your grandfather.”
“To who?”
David did not answer.
Miles stood.
“Dad.”
David looked suddenly older.
“Some things were his.”
“To who?”
David whispered:
“Harold.”
Miles froze.
The envelope was addressed in Leon Carter’s handwriting:
HAROLD BENSON
Below:
IF I DIE BEFORE I CAN SAY IT MYSELF.
Miles stared.
“You never delivered this?”
David’s face tightened.
“He gave it to me near end.”
“When?”
“Six years before he died.”
“He wanted Harold to have it?”
“He told me not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“He said if he couldn’t handle something himself, then maybe later.”
“Later when?”
David looked away.
“He died.”
“And you kept it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever was inside, I didn’t want that man using it to rewrite history after Dad couldn’t answer.”
Miles stared in disbelief.
“You don’t even know what it says.”
“No.”
“You never opened?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve spent years protecting a story from a letter you refuse to read.”
David stood.
“Enough.”
Miles’s voice rose.
“You told me Harold destroyed Grandpa.”
“He did.”
“How do you know?”
David shouted:
“Because my father lost everything!”
Silence.
David’s breathing heavy.
Miles softer:
“Maybe Harold did too.”
David looked at him.
Miles continued.
“I found pro tryout records.”
David’s face flickered.
“You knew?”
David whispered:
“Dad once mentioned Harold was better than him.”
Miles stared.
David had left that out.
“Then why didn’t Harold go pro?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
Miles looked at envelope.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“It belongs to Harold.”
“No.”
“Grandpa wrote his name.”
“No.”
Miles almost grabbed.
Stopped.
This was father’s house.
He took breath.
“Fine.”
He walked toward door.
David called:
“Where are you going?”
Miles turned.
“To ask Harold himself.”
David’s face went white.
“Stay away from him.”
Miles opened door.
“For the first time in my life, Dad…”
May you like
He looked at envelope.
“…I don’t think you actually know why.”
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