by Pete Fromm
“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.” He works loose another button.
“Well,” she says, “I wasn’t quite ready for this.” She touches him on the shoulder. “But, she’s kind of going crazy waiting.” He feels her walk away, hears the light clack of a stone beneath her foot.
He doesn’t open his eyes until he hears the change in the river. Not splashing, but a new surge, something the water curls around. Midge, able to reach the water on her own if he’s not right on her.
His eyes flash open, but Elmo’s in the water with her. Bent, holding both of Midge’s hands. They walk forward together. Midge’s skin white. Hers nearly as. Freckles across her shoulders, but then none. Her back tapering. Spine, as she leans over Midge, like a chain tightened beneath her skin. He looks away from the rise of her ass, the slice of her legs entering the water.
Marnie says, I don’t think I need to see this. But he knows she’ll peek, and when she does, she says, Okay, now that is just not fair.
Taz laughs, and Elmo peeks back underneath her own arm. Smiles beside the slight fall of her breast. “It’s warm,” she says.
He manages, “I know.”
“What do I do? With her? How does she swim?”
The sun dazzles off the riffle below them. “I’ll show you.”
He steps out of his clothes.
She looks upriver. Where he will never take her.
He wades in. Water coiling.
She’s gone deeper, her back to him. Holds Midge high on a shoulder. The ends of her hair wet. Snaking along her shoulder, down her back.
“Here,” he says.
He holds his hands out. They’re within feet of the line, being swept downstream. The water low, glass clear, reaching only to his ribs.
Elmo lowers herself as she turns, the water up near her neck. He drops lower, too.
The river runs just below her collarbones. The hollow at the base of her throat. Midge kicks like she’s an outboard. Elmo smiles. “She’s, like, going crazy.”
Duh, Marnie says, but he can feel her smile.
“She loves it.” He reaches toward her. His hands. “Just let her go.”
“Really?”
“Ready, Midge?” he says. “Put her flat, on her belly, on your arm.” He extends his arm, his fingers only inches from her. “Like this.”
Elmo shifts Midge, lays her out on her forearm, floating. Her legs whip.
“Swim,” he says, softly.
Elmo lowers her, Midge straining, but Elmo still holds her up.
“You have to let go,” Taz says. “All the way.”
Elmo laughs. “I don’t think . . . God, really?” She keeps laughing. “I can’t.”
Taz reaches the last bit. Touches fingers with Elmo. Slides his hand down the inside of her arm. Working his arm between hers and Midge.
He lowers his arm, taking her down too until she has to tip back her head, only her face left above water, in the sun, still laughing.
And then Midge is swimming. He lets her frog, then gives her his hand. Eyes wide open beneath the water, she grabs tight. First to one finger, then another. He pulls her up, to the surface. She sucks in a long breath. Laughs. Kicks the water.
He says, “We came here when we first knew. About Midge.” The only thing he can tell her.
God, it was cold, Marnie says.
Elmo bites her lip. Nods.
He turns Midge to face her. “Ready?” he says, and she holds out her hands.
He sends Midge off with a little push. She lets her swim, sink, then lunges and lifts her back into the air. She hauls her in, stands and kisses her. The two of them, water streaming down their faces, their sides, their arms. Skin to skin. Laughing.
Taz sinks under. So he can’t see.
And the next day she’s gone.
DAY 405
He never touches a tool. With no work to do, he sits out in the shop while Alisha is inside. Then can’t stand it, goes back in to check on Midge. Like a yo-yo. Excuse after excuse. Midge crying each time he leaves. The whole week this way. Elmo starts texting the second day. “In or out. Not both.” “Talk to her.” “She’s not me, but still.” “TAZ!”
He reads them, clicks off. He brings the snail mail in to the workbench. Junk. Bills. He studies the bank statement in disbelief. Alisha, when he does bump into her, is jumpy. Frazzled. Friday he just tells her to go. Take the afternoon. Tells her it will take a while. For Midge to get used to her. He pays her, wonders about eating, where the food will come from.
He takes Midge outside, puts her in Marnie’s car, the dust thicker, the ragtop more ragged. His spring ritual months late. He opens the hood, looks at the engine. He is not a motor guy. But he wriggles the plug wires, hooks up the jumpers, and climbs in with Midge, says, “Ready for nothing?”
Midge waits, no idea for what.
He cranks and there’s something approaching life. On the third try it fires, puffs smoke, stinks. Marnie shouts, Ha! The whole car vibrates. Midge laughs as if it’s almost as fun as peekaboo used to be. It dies, but starts again, and he keeps it revved until an idle settles in. He climbs up out of it, pulls the cables, shuts off his truck.
“This is Mommy’s car,” he tells Midge, setting her in his lap, behind the wheel, hardly room enough for him. His head scrapes the top, bulges it. She cranks at the wheel, hits the turn signal accidentally, is mesmerized by the blinking.
He squirts Armor All onto his rag. Wipes away a year’s worth of dust, more. Hits the windshield with the glass cleaner. Leaves Midge on his lap to steer as he runs down the blocks to the gas station to air up the tires. The huge risks involved. She loves it.
He’s just taken the pictures, uploaded them, is about to put the whole ad onto Craigslist, when Marko calls, like something from heaven. He’s still telling him about all the work, this huge new job, “It’s like the whole interior is finish work!” when Elmo texts again, says “I hand-picked Alisha, remember?”
A moment later it’s “Give her a chance, or I’m coming back!” and Taz loses track of anything Marko’s saying, tells him he’s got to go.
“Got work,” he texts back. “Huge job. A whole house.”
“I’ll talk to Alisha. See if she can fill in. Rudy?”
DAY 416
Rudy says he’s good for the next few weeks, and though he can’t afford the time, Taz calls crack of dawn one morning, wakes him up, asks if he can come over early, squeeze in a few minutes on his own place. Rudy’s there in minutes, clutching his coffee keg, hair a fair imitation of Midge’s morning do. He doesn’t say a word as they manhandle the old claw-foot out from under the tarps in the backyard, pull it away from Taz’s collection of pieces and parts scabbed out of rehabs over the years; a great old toilet, pedestal sink, the cookie stove, school lights and blackboards he thinks he might be able to turn into countertops, assorted lumber.
Alisha shows up while they’re in the back, is sitting on the couch with a textbook in her lap when they come in, risking hernias with the tub. Rudy nearly drops his end, starts into introducing himself, and Taz staggers, grunts, says, “Rude!” and they shuffle on.
Once in the bathroom, Rudy looks back over his shoulder, doesn’t mention, when they finally set the tub down, that there’s nothing there but subfloor, studs—that this will all have to be hauled back out if he ever actually finishes the bathroom. He just, handing over wrenches and pliers as Taz jerry-rigs the old plumbing, says, “Nice. The rustic look.”
“Thanks.”
“Um, you just needed to stew? Feeling parched?”
“It’s, she, she can’t stand the basement.”
Rudy looks at him, then back toward the living room. Then to the tub. Whispers, “So, you’re thinking get her naked in here?” He gives a low whistle. “Maybe there’s hope for you at last.”
Still behind the head of the tub, Taz shakes his head. “I just let it go too long.”
Midge starts calling for him from the crib, and Taz, jerking up, bumps his head a
gainst the rolled edge of the tub. Alisha calls, “On it.”
Rudy steps to the door, swings it shut between them and the rest of the house. With the tub in place, there’s hardly room for the two of them.
His voice still at a whisper, he jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward where Alisha sits talking to Midge. “So, who’s the new wet nurse?”
Taz nearly winces. “You’re still on that?”
“Well, yeah, but who is she?”
“Alisha. She’s the friend who—”
“Who’s on the rebound?” Rudy says. “Alisha,” he says. “Lish Delish.”
He puffs up a little as he slides around Taz, opens the door, and introduces himself to Alisha, tells her he’s Midge’s uncle. Uncle Rudy. Alisha holds Midge a little tighter.
They work like dogs, weeks’ worth, Rudy even out in the shop, carrying, sorting, keeping Taz humming on the tools. They build face frames. Raise panels, groove the inside faces of the rails and stiles. All old-school. French casements he’s never even seen before, has to take apart an old one to see how they’re made. It’s eleven before he looks at his watch. After. “Jesus,” he says.
“I’ll take the babysitter home,” Rudy says. “Not a problem.”
The house is nearly dark. One light maybe. The living room.
No. It’s over the stove. The tiny appliance bulb. They find Alisha asleep on the couch. Taz, giving one warning glare at Rudy, sneaks by, finds Midge in the crib. Thumb tucked in tight.
He pays Alisha extra, holds Rudy at bay, gives her a head start before setting him loose.
Then, alone again, he sits on the edge of the little bed. Can barely remember what to do besides shape wood, put together the pieces. His fingers tingle. Saw, jointer. Shaper, sander. Sawdust fills his hair. His pores.
He should shower. Maybe sneak down to the basement, not waking Midge. Or, the tub, soak it away.
Instead, elbows on knees, head sinking, he pulls out his phone. Turns it back and forth in his hands for minutes before texting, “How’s school?”
She answers in a second, as if she’d been waiting. “Lesson plans suck.” Then, “You?”
“Nonstop. Still behind.”
There’s nothing for a few seconds, and he texts, “Kids love you?”
“Of course. Finley, I’m not so sure about.”
He should shower. She texts, “What are you doing up so late?”
“Just finished. You?”
“Lesson plans.”
He pulls the blanket over himself. Doesn’t undress. He still has the phone in his hand when she texts, “Sleep tight.”
DAY 417
He steps out of his room. The light gray. Predawn.
He goes into the bathroom. Sits in the dark. Same as any morning. But, when he comes out, instead of heading into the kitchen for coffee, he stops in the hallway, looks down toward their bedroom.
He takes a step down the hall. A second. Stops at the doorway. Hand up on each side. Grips the casing. The room still breathes with her. That night sleeping on the shower curtain. Her lurch up the final morning. The spread of the water. He can’t believe he never bought the new mattress. He begins tapping the side of his head against the doorjamb. The first wave of nausea in months.
Don’t, Marnie says.
Taz stops, turns, walks to the kitchen. Stands there for minutes. Then turns on the burner, goes through the motions.
He chews a fingernail. Another. Draws blood. Just waiting for Rudy.
When Midge finally starts up, he flinches. He takes his cup. Heads for Midge just as Rudy walks through the door. “I got her,” Rude says, and Taz turns like a parade march about-face, swaps his coffee into the traveler and walks out to the shop. Gets started.
DAY 424
He texts. “What are you doing weekends?”
“That’s your business how?” she answers, maybe an hour later. Then almost immediately. “JK.”
“?”
“Just kidding.”
“I was thinking.”
“Must be so proud!”
He smiles. “Rude and I are going 24/7. Alisha can’t keep up.”
His phone rings. She sounds out of breath. “You want me to work weekends?”
He can’t answer for a moment. “Only if—” he starts, but she says, “I can make it over Friday after school. Just one party I’ll have to miss.”
He has no idea if she’s serious, but she dashes on, asking about Midge, about Alisha, if he’s letting her do her work, and it seems she’s practically still talking when she blows through his door Friday night, huffing and puffing as if she’s run over the mountains. “Schmidge!” she crows, dropping to her knees, bracing for the collision, their reunion something that should take place on Russian steppes.
Taz can only stand and stare.
“Oh,” Elmo says, looking over to him only after Midge struggles away, runs off to her room. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Right,” Taz says, and turns for the kitchen, the back door, the shop.
“JK,” she says.
He turns back, not quite hiding a smile. “Really,” he says, “you’re right. More work out there than I can keep straight.”
“Can I see?”
“Not quite at install yet, but maybe next weekend they’ll have the library ready for it. It got so crowded half of it’s stashed at Rude’s, all the glass doors.”
She stands up. “Next weekend, too? Tazmo and Rude?”
Midge trots back in with her stuffed Elmo, considerably bedraggled since Christmas. Sometimes Taz talks to her with it. As Marnie. She brings it to him, but Elmo intercepts her. Wriggling her hand into the pocket at the back of the head, she works the jaw. “What do you think, Midge. Can you take two weekends in a row? Think your dad can?”
“I think we’ll bear up,” Taz says, and she waves him away.
“Girl time here.”
He watches a moment more, the two of them, and goes out, back into the grind. He barely sees her again for the rest of the weekend, just stands by her car as she climbs in for the ride back to Helena. She says, “Thanks, I missed me some Midge,” and he says, “Next weekend?” and she says, “Give a shout near the end of the week. Let me know where you are.” Then she backs up, Midge waving fiercely, Elmo rolling her window down to blow her a kiss.
She does come back the next weekend too, but there are no installs yet, the flooring guys holding everybody up. She seems disappointed, and Taz walks her through the shop, shows her what he can, and she asks about maybe taking a break. “You know, before you break down yourself,” she says, and he says, “I’d love it, but . . .”
“Like, even a walk. Though it’s maybe warm enough for one more swim before the season’s over.”
He pictures it instantly, nearly shakes with it. “I’m just too jammed—”
She turns and walks away, taking Midge back in, and, later, when he comes in for coffee, she’s gone with her somewhere, again when he comes in for lunch.
She knocks at the shop door that evening, tells him dinner is ready. He can hardly stand. Another cabinet set nearly done. He asks, “Midge?”
“It’s almost eight,” she says. “She ate an hour ago. So did I.”
“Could have told me,” he says, starting to smile.
But she says, “I did,” and turns back for the house.
Midge is in the Jump-Up. Hardly notices he’s back. There’s a meal. A bowl of something. On the table. Stew, maybe.
He looks around, Elmo in the swivel chair. “I’m heading back over tonight,” she says.
“Tonight?”
She looks away. Chews on her lip.
“But—” he starts.
She looks back to him, holds him in her gaze for a moment or two, waves him toward the bathroom. “Go wash your hands.”
He does what he’s told, forgetting there’s no sink in the bathroom, and when he opens the door he’s greeted with a wave of steam. He steps back, then in. The tub is full, the air fogged. “
Bubbles?” he says.
“We went shopping,” she calls from the living room.
“I’ll just be a second,” he says.
“It’s for you.”
“The tub?”
“Even the bubbles.”
He closes the door. Looks at the twist latch. Every flake of paint picked off. Dentist tools. Stripper. Steel wool. The brass knob burnished with the oil of her skin.
He leaves his clothes in a pile in the corner. Winces when he steps in. She must have just kept draining, adding more hot. Waiting. Keeping it ready.
He closes his eyes. Fights the initial sting. Feels sweat pop along his forehead. Hears the bubbles’ tiny burstings. It’s like sliding into a new skin. He breathes. Blurs at the edges. Marnie says, We so should have finished this bathroom.
The door creaks. Elmo’s face in the gap.
“See what it’s like,” she says. “Taking a break?”
She steps in, a bowl in her hand. She leans back against the studs, watches him. His knees naked above the water. “If you’d locked yourself in here, too,” she says, but leaves it at that.
“Are you going to feed me now, too?” It’s the only thing he can think to say.
“If that’s what it takes to get you to stop hiding from everything.”
Taz looks down at the bubbles.
“I thought they’d make it easier for you. You know?” She sighs. “They never look like they do in the movies.”
“What can you do?” he says, lifting his hands in surrender, finding the bubbles cupped there. He spreads them over his chin, up his cheeks. A beard he hasn’t made since he was five. Six.
She shakes her head. “Nice,” she says. Then, “I’m not doing anymore weekends over here.”
“School?”
“No.”
He sits there with his bubble beard.
“I think you need some time,” she says.
“I know. A lot more.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“El.”
“Time for you to decide where you want to go.”
“Go?”