by Tom Perrotta
Let. Let me do it cling.
Clean.
Cleanly.
Estimated time of overtaking the Nether, handing him his coat? Approximately nine minutes. Six minutes to follow the path around the pond, an additional three minutes to fly up the hillside like a delivering wraith or mercy-angel, bearing the simple gift of a coat.
That is just an estimate, NASA. I pretty much made that up.
We know that, Robin. We know very well by now how irreverent you work.
Like that time you cut a fart on the moon.
Or the time you tricked Mel into saying, “Mr. President, what a delightful surprise it was to find an asteroid circling Uranus.”
That estimate was particularly iffy. This Nether being surprisingly brisk. Robin himself was not the fastest wicket in the stick. He had a certain girth. Which Dad prognosticated would soon triumphantly congeal into linebackerish solidity. He hoped so. For now he just had the slight man-boobs.
Robin, hurry, Suzanne said. I feel so sorry for that poor old guy.
He’s a fool, Robin said, because Suzanne was young, and did not yet understand that when a man was a fool he made hardships for the other men, who were less foolish than he.
He doesn’t have much time, Suzanne said, bordering on the hysterical.
There, there, he said, comforting her.
I’m just so frightened, she said.
And yet he is fortunate to have one such as I to hump his coat up that big-ass hill, which, due to its steepness, is not exactly my cup of tea, Robin said.
I guess that’s the definition of hero, Suzanne said.
I guess so, he said.
I don’t mean to continue being insolent, she said. But he seems to be pulling away.
What would you suggest? he said.
With all due respect, she said, and because I know you consider us as equals but different, with me covering the brainy angle and special inventions and whatnot?
Yes, yes, go ahead, he said.
Well, just working through the math in terms of simple geometry—
He saw where she was going with this. And she was quite right. No wonder he loved her. He must cut across the pond, thereby decreasing the ambient angle, ergo, trimming valuable seconds off his catchup time.
Wait, Suzanne said. Is that dangerous?
It is not, he said. I have done it numerous times.
Please be careful, Suzanne implored.
Well, once, he said.
You have such aplomb, Suzanne demurred.
Actually never, he said softly, not wishing to alarm her.
Your bravery is irascible, Suzanne said.
He started across the pond.
It was actually pretty cool walking on water. In summer, canoes floated here. If Mom could see him, she’d have a conniption. Mom treated him like a piece of glass. Due to his alleged infant surgeries. She went on full alert if he so much as used a stapler.
But Mom was a good egg. A reliable counselor and steady hand of guidance. She had a munificent splay of long silver hair and a raspy voice, though she didn’t smoke and was even a vegan. She’d never been a biker chick, although some of the in-school cretins claimed she resembled one.
He was actually quite fond of Mom.
He was now approximately three-quarters, or that would be sixty percent, across.
Between him and the shore lay a grayish patch. Here in summer a stream ran in. Looked a tad iffy. At the edge of the grayish patch he gave the ice a bonk with the butt of his gun. Solid as anything.
Here he went. Ice rolled a bit underfoot. Probably it was shallow here. Anyways he hoped so. Yikes.
How’s it going? Suzanne said, trepidly.
Could be better, he said.
Maybe you should turn back, Suzanne said.
But wasn’t this feeling of fear the exact feeling all heroes had to confront early in life? Wasn’t overcoming this feeling of fear what truly distinguished the brave?
There could be no turning back.
Or could there? Maybe there could. Actually there should.
The ice gave way and the boy fell through.
Nausea had not been mentioned in The Humbling Steppe.
A blissful feeling overtook me as I drifted off to sleep at the base of the crevasse. No fear, no discomfort, only a vague sadness at the thought of all that remained undone. This is death? I thought. It is but nothing.
Author, whose name I cannot remember, I would like a word with you.
A-hole.
The shivering was insane. Like a tremor. His head was shaking on his neck. He paused to puke a bit in the snow, white-yellow against the white-blue.
This was scary. This was scary now.
Every step was a victory. He had to remember that. With every step he was fleeing father and father. Farther from father. Stepfarther. What a victory he was wresting. From the jaws of the feet.
He felt a need at the back of his throat to say it right.
From the jaws of defeat. From the jaws of defeat.
Oh, Allen.
Even when you were THAT, you were still Allen to me.
Please know that.
Falling, Dad said.
For some definite time he waited to see where he would land and how much it would hurt. Then there was a tree in his gut. He found himself wrapped fetally around some tree.
Fucksake.
Ouch, ouch. This was too much. He hadn’t cried after the surgeries or during the chemo, but he felt like crying now. It wasn’t fair. It happened to everyone supposedly but now it was happening specifically to him. He’d kept waiting for some special dispensation. But no. Something/someone bigger than him kept refusing. You were told the big something/someone loved you especially but in the end you saw it was otherwise. The big something/someone was neutral. Unconcerned. When it innocently moved, it crushed people.
Years ago at The Illuminated Body he and Molly had seen this brain slice. Marring the brain slice had been a nickel-sized brown spot. That brown spot was all it had taken to kill the guy. Guy must have had his hopes and dreams, closet full of pants, and so on, some treasured childhood memories: a mob of koi in the willow shade at Gage Park, say, Gram searching in her Wrigley’s-smelling purse for a tissue—like that. If not for that brown spot, the guy might have been one of the people walking by on the way to lunch in the atrium. But no. He was defunct now, off rotting somewhere, no brain in his head.
Looking down at the brain slice Eber had felt a sense of superiority. Poor guy. It was pretty unlucky, what had happened to him.
He and Molly had fled to the atrium, had hot scones, watched a squirrel mess with a plastic cup.
Wrapped fetally around the tree Eber traced the scar on his head. Tried to sit. No dice. Tried to use the tree to sit up. His hand wouldn’t close. Reaching around the tree with both hands, joining his hands at the wrists, he sat himself up, leaned back against the tree.
How was that?
Fine.
Good, actually.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this was as far as he got. He’d had it in mind to sit cross-legged against the boulder at the top of the hill, but really what difference did it make?
All he had to do now was stay put. Stay put by force-thinking the same thoughts he’d used to propel himself out of the med-bed and into the car and across the soccer field and through the woods: MollyTommyJodi huddling in the kitchen filled with pity/loathing, MollyTommyJodi recoiling at something cruel he’d said, Tommy hefting his thin torso up in his arms so that MollyJodi could get under there with a wash—
Then it would be done. He would have preempted all future debasement. All his fears about the coming months would be mute.
Moot.
This was it. Was it? Not yet. Soon, though. An hour? Forty minutes? Was he doing this? Really? He was. Was he? Would he be able to make it back to the car even if he changed his mind? He thought not. Here he was. He was here. This incredible opportunity to end things with dignity was right in his hands.<
br />
All he had to do was stay put.
I will fight no more forever.
Concentrate on the beauty of the pond, the beauty of the woods, the beauty you are returning to, the beauty that is everywhere as far as you can—
Oh, for shitsake.
Oh, for crying out loud.
Some kid was on the pond.
Chubby kid in white. With a gun. Carrying Eber’s coat.
You little fart, put that coat down, get your ass home, mind your own—
Damn. Damn it.
Kid tapped the ice with the butt of his gun.
You wouldn’t want some kid finding you. That could scar a kid. Although kids found freaky things all the time. Once he’d found a naked photo of Dad and Mrs. Flemish. That had been freaky. Of course, not as freaky as a grimacing cross-legged—
Kid was swimming.
Swimming was not allowed. That was clearly posted. No Swimming.
Kid was a bad swimmer. Real thrashfest down there. Kid was creating with his thrashing a rapidly expanding black pool. With each thrash the kid incrementally expanded the boundary of the black—
He was on his way down before he knew he’d started. Kid in the pond, kid in the pond, ran repetitively through his head as he minced. Progress was tree-to-tree. Standing there panting, you got to know a tree well. This one had three knots: eye, eye, nose. This started out as one tree and became two.
Suddenly he was not purely the dying guy who woke nights in the med-bed thinking, Make this not true make this not true, but again, partly, the guy who used to put bananas in the freezer, then crack them on the counter and pour chocolate over the broken chunks, the guy who’d once stood outside a classroom window in a rainstorm to see how Jodi was faring with that little red-headed shit who wouldn’t give her a chance at the book table, the guy who used to hand-paint bird feeders in college and sell them on weekends in Boulder, wearing a jester hat and doing a little juggling routine he’d—
He started to fall again, caught himself, froze in a hunched-over position, hurtled forward, fell flat on his face, chucked his chin on a root.
You had to laugh.
You almost had to laugh.
He got up. Got doggedly up. His right hand presented as a bloody glove. Tough nuts, too bad. Once, in football, a tooth had come out. Later in the half, Eddie Blandik had found it. He’d taken it from Eddie, flung it away. That had also been him.
Here was the switchbank. It wasn’t far now. Switchback.
What to do? When he got there? Get kid out of pond. Get kid moving. Force-walk kid through woods, across soccer field, to one of the houses on Poole. If nobody home, pile kid into Nissan, crank up heater, drive to—Our Lady of Sorrows? UrgentCare? Fastest route to UrgentCare?
Fifty yards to the trailhead.
Twenty yards to the trailhead.
Thank you, God, for my strength.
In the pond, he was all animal-thought, no words, no self, blind panic. He resolved to really try. He grabbed for the edge. The edge broke away. Down he went. He hit mud and pushed up. He grabbed for the edge. The edge broke away. Down he went. It seemed like it should be easy, getting out. But he just couldn’t do it. It was like at the carnival. It should be easy to knock three sawdust dogs off a ledge. And it was easy. It just wasn’t easy with the number of balls they gave you.
He wanted the shore. He knew that was the right place for him. But the pond kept saying no.
Then it said maybe.
The ice edge broke again, but, breaking it, he pulled himself infinitesimally toward shore, so that, when he went down, his feet found mud sooner. The bank was sloped. Suddenly there was hope. He went nuts. He went total spaz. Then he was out, water streaming off him, a piece of ice like a tiny pane of glass in the cuff of his coat sleeve.
Trapezoidal, he thought.
In his mind, the pond was not finite, circular, and behind him but infinite and all around.
He felt he’d better lie still or whatever had just tried to kill him would try again. What had tried to kill him was not just in the pond but out here too, in every natural thing, and there was no him, no Suzanne, no Mom, no nothing, just the sound of some kid crying like a terrified baby.
Eber jog-hobbled out of the woods and found: no kid. Just black water. And a green coat. His coat. His former coat, out there on the ice. The water was calming already.
Oh, shit.
Your fault.
Kid was only out there because of—
Down on the beach near an overturned boat was some ignoramus. Lying face-down. On the job. Lying down on the job. Must have been lying there even as that poor kid—
Wait, rewind.
It was the kid. Oh, thank Christ. Face-down like a corpse in a Brady photo. Legs still in the pond. Like he’d lost steam crawling out. Kid was soaked through, the white coat gone gray with wet.
Eber dragged the kid out. It took four distinct pulls. He didn’t have the strength to flip him over but, turning the head, at least got the mouth out of the snow.
Kid was in trouble.
Soaking wet, ten degrees.
Doom.
Eber went down on one knee and told the kid in a grave fatherly way that he had to get up, had to get moving or he could lose his legs, he could die.
The kid looked at Eber, blinked, stayed where he was.
He grabbed the kid by the coat, rolled him over, roughly sat him up. The kid’s shivers made his shivers look like nothing. Kid seemed to be holding a jackhammer. He had to get the kid warmed up. How to do it? Hug him, lie on top of him? That would be like Popsicle-on-Popsicle.
Eber remembered his coat, out on the ice, at the edge of the black water.
Ugh.
Find a branch. No branches anywhere. Where the heck was a good fallen branch when you—
All right, all right, he’d do it without a branch.
He walked fifty feet downshore, stepped onto the pond, walked a wide loop on the solid stuff, turned to shore, started toward the black water. His knees were shaking. Why? He was afraid he might fall in. Ha. Dope. Poser. The coat was fifteen feet away. His legs were in revolt. His legs were revolting.
Doctor, my legs are revolting.
You’re telling me.
He tiny-stepped up. The coat was ten feet away. He went down on his knees, knee-walked slightly up. Went down on his belly. Stretched out an arm.
Slid forward on his belly.
Bit more.
Bit more.
Then had a tiny corner by two fingers. He hauled it in, slid himself back via something like a reverse breaststroke, got to his knees, stood, retreated a few steps, and was once again fifteen feet away and safe.
Then it was like the old days, getting Tommy or Jodi ready for bed when they were zonked. You said, “Arm,” the kid lifted an arm. You said, “Other arm,” the kid lifted the other arm. With the coat off, Eber could see that the boy’s shirt was turning to ice. Eber peeled the shirt off. Poor little guy. A person was just some meat on a frame. Little guy wouldn’t last long in this cold. Eber took off his pajama shirt, put it on the kid, slid the kid’s arm into the arm of the coat. In the arm were Eber’s hat and gloves. He put the hat and gloves on the kid, zipped the coat up.
The kid’s pants were frozen solid. His boots were ice sculptures of boots.
You had to do things right. Eber sat on the boat, took off his boots and socks, peeled off his pajama pants, made the kid sit on the boat, knelt before the kid, got the kid’s boots off. He loosened the pants up with little punches and soon had one leg partly out. He was stripping off a kid in ten-degree weather. Maybe this was exactly the wrong thing. Maybe he’d kill the kid. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. Desperately, he gave the pants a few more punches. Then the kid was stepping out.
Eber put the pajama pants on him, then the socks, then the boots.
The kid was standing there in Eber’s clothes, swaying, eyes closed.
We’re going to walk now, okay? Eber said.
Not
hing.
Eber gave the kid an encouraging pop in the shoulders. Like a football thing.
We’re going to walk you home, he said. Do you live near here?
Nothing.
He gave a harder pop.
The kid gaped at him, baffled.
Pop.
Kid started walking.
Pop-pop.
Like fleeing.
Eber drove the kid out ahead of him. Like cowboy and cow. At first, fear of the popping seemed to be motivating the kid, but then good old panic kicked in and he started running. Soon Eber couldn’t keep up.
Kid was at the bench. Kid was at the trailhead.
Good boy, get home.
Kid disappeared into the woods.
Eber came back to himself.
Oh, boy. Oh, wow.
He had never known cold. Had never known tired.
He was standing in the snow in his underwear near an overturned boat.
He hobbled to the boat and sat in the snow.
Robin ran.
Past the bench and the trailhead and into the woods on the old familiar path.
What the heck? What the heck had just happened? He’d fallen into the pond? His jeans had frozen solid? Had ceased being bluejeans. Were whitejeans. He looked down to see if his jeans were still whitejeans.
He had on pajama pants that, tucked into some tremendoid boots, looked like clown pants.
Had he been crying just now?
I think crying is healthy, Suzanne said. It means you’re in touch with your feelings.
Ugh. That was done, that was stupid, talking in your head to some girl who in real life called you Roger.
Dang.
So tired.
Here was a stump.
He sat. It felt good to rest. He wasn’t going to lose his legs. They didn’t even hurt. He couldn’t even feel them. He wasn’t going to die. Dying was not something he had in mind at this early an age. To rest more efficiently, he lay down. The sky was blue. The pines swayed. Not all at the same rate. He raised one gloved hand and watched it tremor.
He might close his eyes for a bit. Sometimes in life one felt a feeling of wanting to quit. Then everyone would see. Everyone would see that teasing wasn’t nice. Sometimes with all the teasing his days were subtenable. Sometimes he felt he couldn’t take even one more lunchtime of meekly eating on that rolled-up wrestling mat in the cafeteria corner near the snapped parallel bars. He did not have to sit there. But preferred to. If he sat anywhere else, there was the chance of a comment or two. Upon which he would then have the rest of the day to reflect. Sometimes comments were made on the clutter of his home. Thanks to Bryce, who had once come over. Sometimes comments were made on his manner of speaking. Sometimes comments were made on the style faux pas of Mom. Who was, it must be said, a real eighties gal.