“It stops breathing,” Sally said. “Its heart stops beating.”
Mikey said, “But it’s not dead?”
“Nope,” said Sally. “In the springtime, or whenever it wants to come back into the world, it thaws with the ground and its heart beats again.”
Mikey stopped when they passed a bed of clover along the side of the road, and he showed Sally how to pluck the tiny white-purple petals from the stem, how to bite on the inner tip, which was damp and sweet and edible. Sally loved spending time with Mikey. He never seemed to have a nasty opinion about anything. Like her, he seemed equally satisfied to talk or not talk, and he never asked hard questions. This suited Sally just fine. There were things she didn’t want to talk about, things that Mikey would never think to ask.
It was quiet outside, and very hot.
When they finally reached the park, Sally felt grown-up and accomplished, and she gazed around the parking lot and picnic area, seeking some sort of acknowledgment for the thing they had just done. There was only one car in the lot, a dusty old powder-blue Crown Victoria, and no one else in sight.
The two of them stared at a large map of the park behind Plexiglas. They filled their canteen at the nearby fountain, then followed the trail leading to Turtle Pond, where they had decided to eat their lunch.
Turtle Pond was the size of a football field. The water was army green and the air smelled of burned grass and sewage. Dragonflies skirted through reeds and a black flip-flop was stuck upright in the muck. A charred Budweiser can floated aimlessly a little ways out. They stood at the edge of the pond for a minute, looking for turtles, then took a seat in the shade and ate their hot, damp, and deformed sandwiches and opened the chips.
Mikey ate a Frito, then inhaled sharply and pointed out at the water. “Turtle,” he whispered. A little black head bobbed casually at the surface, six feet out from the edge of the pond. They rose to get a closer look.
“It’s okay, fella,” Mikey whispered. “You’re so good, fella.”
Sally could see down through the surface of the water that it was a box turtle, its shell no more than six inches in length. Its wary little half-closed eyes were sleepy and annoyed. Mikey inched a bit closer, Fritos in hand.
“I’ve got something for you, pal,” he said, tossing a chip in the turtle’s direction so that it landed at the water’s surface just inches from its face. The turtle’s head instantly dipped below the water, but a moment later, the chip disappeared, snatched from underneath. Mikey giggled. The sun was on his face, and his pale eyes were all iris, the color of honeydew melon.
Sally tossed another chip in, and the same thing happened. Mikey tossed in another one, this time a little bit closer in their direction, luring the turtle toward shore.
Mikey said, “I’m going to catch him if he comes close enough.”
He took a very slow step into the silt at the water’s edge, and his foot sank into it, a puddle quickly forming around his shoe. He took another step into the water, and then both feet were fully submerged. The turtle disappeared, and Mikey tossed five or six chips in a wide arc in that direction. He took another step in.
Sally said, “Don’t you want to take your shoes off?”
Mikey said, “No, there might be a leech. Then we’d have to burn it off before it sucked all my blood out. The water feels good anyhow, might keep my feet cool on the way back.”
Mikey took another big step out into the water, so that it reached his calves. He laughed and made a face.
“It is so squishy!” he said.
He looked like he was having fun, and Sally liked his idea about keeping cool with wet shoes, so she decided to follow him in.
Soon the water reached her knees.
She said, “Maybe I’ll get my shorts a little wet.”
Mikey said, “Might as well.”
Now when Sally took a step it was in slow motion, because the effort of lifting a foot out of the soft muck was so great. It felt weird, and exciting. Soon, the water was at her hip. The mud was above her ankles.
She suddenly noticed that Mikey was struggling. He was no longer laughing; his face had changed. He gripped the back of one knee with both hands as though to pry it up and out.
Sally said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m stuck,” he said. “I can’t move either of my feet . . . and I think I’m sort of sinking.”
As soon as he said this word, Sally realized that she, too, was stuck, and nearly sinking.
“Okay,” Sally said. “Here, let’s . . .” and she tried the same move, pulling on her hamstring with both hands, but this did nothing.
Mikey said, “Here, why don’t we . . .” and he struggled mightily, finally releasing one of his legs. He splashed backward into the water. With one foot out, he was soon able to finagle the other one out, too, and he paddled over to Sally. He reached into the water beneath her with his hands, trying to help. She held on to his head for balance. She felt him clawing at her legs, but before long, Mikey had gotten himself stuck again. The mud was crawling up Sally’s legs like a snake coiling up a tree. The water suddenly looked as thick and black as ink.
Mikey said, “Don’t worry.”
But Sally could see that he was starting to panic, too. They held one another’s arms for combined strength and balance, but the more they worked to free themselves, the faster they sank.
The water was past Sally’s waist. They called for help, hollering back toward the lot, but their little voices were lost in humidity that was as thick as a pillow.
Then the water was at Sally’s ribs. It smelled hot and raw and bad in her nostrils.
Sally said, “I don’t want to die!” She sobbed into the crook of her elbow. She thought of her mother and the possibility that she could come rescue them, and realized her mother wouldn’t even notice her absence until sundown, much later than that if she was out with a boyfriend. And even if her mother had been right there with them, it occurred to Sally, she had little faith that her mother would know what to do. Her mother was not the most sensible person. Then Sally thought of her father, way up in Canada. Even though she didn’t know him much at all, had never even met him face-to-face, she was almost certain he’d know what to do. But he was so far away—sometimes her birthday cards from him arrived three weeks late, that’s how far away he was. Given how difficult it seemed to get in touch with her father, Sally wondered now how long it would take someone to get ahold of him to deliver the news that his daughter had drowned in mud. She wondered if he would cry. For some reason, the thought of her father’s tears sent a strong and fast pulse beating straight to the private place between her legs.
Mikey said, “I’m going under. I’m going to find my shoes with my hands, untie them, get my feet out.”
He disappeared under the surface of the water.
Bubbles rose above him, and a bloated Frito drifted by.
Then Mikey burst upward, coughing, eyes round and wet-lashed, hair darkened and plastered to his head in spikes. He let out a sharp, barking cough. “I got out!” He emerged from the mud.
He dove down again, beneath Sally. She could feel him scratching at her left ankle, excavating, gripping her foot. She could tell it was going to work. She felt a sweet, glorious swell inside of her, an uncomplicated and unprecedented sense of reprieve. She was going to make it! Her mother would not have to come looking for her after all, would not have to pick out a funeral dress. Her father would not have to maybe cry.
Once they were out of the water, they panted and trembled and laughed in high, soft pitches. They rinsed the mud from their legs and hands. Sally pulled a small twig from Mikey’s hair. They opened the Twizzlers. Sally’s knees were starting to grow a little hair on them, and she noticed now how the fuzz shimmered in the sun.
They walked back up the trail, which was covered in acorn shells and stickery brambles, then walked up L
akeshore under a punishing sun, through ditches when the gravel on the shoulder of the road became too hot or too sharp.
By the time they reached Ingram Street, their feet were brown and bloodied and they were exhausted, weak, sunburned, out of water. They stopped in at Bakery Sczcepanski, which shared a parking lot with the Clean-Machine Laundromat, Benny’s Liquor Store, and Gary’s Grocery & Delicatessen. The woman who owned the bakery would give the children free baked goods that had expired that day if they caught her before closing time. They called her Babcia (“Grandma” in Polish). The skin of her face was as crisscrossed with lines as an old cutting board. Her bakery was decorated with framed photographs of dairy farms in Poland that had all faded to bluish gray.
On this day, Babcia provided Mikey and Sally with water and sesame cookies, and she scolded them for losing their shoes.
When they finally reached home, they drank grape sodas on Mikey’s back porch, put Band-Aids on their feet, then sacked out on the couch. Mikey fell asleep five minutes into an episode of ALF. Sally looked around the room. Mikey’s house was so clean and quiet it was like a tomb. Sally wondered if Mikey’s dad ever brought girlfriends home. Mikey had said something very strange at one point on their walk home. He had fallen quiet for a long while, then said, “My dad might’ve been gladder if I didn’t make it out of the mud.”
Sally said, “What? Why?”
“I don’t think he loves me very much,” Mikey said, and Sally noticed that Mikey was nodding as he said this.
Sally stared at him. “He has to,” she said. “It’s a rule of being a mommy or daddy.”
Sally didn’t know how she knew this, but it seemed like a true thing.
Mikey said, “Okay,” and he continued to nod.
Sally watched Mikey’s sleeping face now and realized how many times over the years she had slept next to Mikey on the bus—
because she slept more soundly on the bus than she did in her own home—how often Mikey had seen her sleeping face. Yet this was the first time she had ever seen his. His expression was as empty as the moon. The tiniest droplets of sweat decorated his nose, his cheeks were the color of bubble gum, and his dime-size cowlick, as always, invited a little clockwise swirl of the finger. It seemed inconceivable to Sally that this was the face of the person who had saved her life.
Chapter 5
It was the third week of January, and the crust of yellowy-gray snow that had encased the city of Buffalo earlier that month had received a dusting overnight, an inch of fresh crystal powder. The air was clean and quiet and wondrous, the sky a pale bowl. It was Sunday. Mikey arrived at St. Mary’s Cathedral thirty minutes before Sally’s three o’clock service.
The lobby was dark and smelled like the inside of a sweaty old baseball cap. Mikey hung his coat and brushed snowflakes from his hair. There were a dozen people in the lobby, older folks, friends of Sally’s mother, Mikey guessed. In the low light, grim and tucked within layers of black clothing, everyone there looked severe and vaguely bloodless. The priest was a flaccid-looking individual with a sad, high forehead, and he offered Mikey a nod that was both wary and polite. Mikey’s hands were frigid because he hadn’t worn gloves, and he stuffed them into his pockets, where they met his thighs and sent goose bumps to his groin.
Mikey considered whether he ought to make attempts at mingling or disappear to walk through quiet basement hallways and avoid speaking with anyone until his friends arrived. He was tempted by the thought of dark halls, dark classrooms, janitor’s closets, drinking fountains mounted low on the wall. His low-grade anxiety was brought quickly to the surface by any sort of social interaction, much less one taking place in a church, and under this sort of circumstance. He felt anxious, shaky, hollow. He wore a dark gray suit from JCPenney and a poorly knotted blue tie. His armpits felt cold and stiff, suggesting wetness. In the mirror that morning, his pale eyes had looked wet and muddled, as if they were lost, had been placed inside the wrong head.
Mikey made his way across the lobby to a small coffee setup. He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee that was not steaming, and he stirred in a packet of sugar. A chill nipped at him. Had he locked the door to his home? He had left extra food out for Friday, but was it enough? His fingernails were unclean. What would his friends think of him? Had he grown ugly and weird in the last decade? Had he grown old?
Mikey sipped his coffee, which was thin and cool, and tried to reach a relaxed pose as he gazed around the lobby. He drew his phone from his pocket and glanced at it for the time and notifications. Jimmy had called several hours earlier to say that his connecting flight was delayed and he was stranded in Denver. He had rebooked for later that day but would miss the funeral service. He said that the catering arrangements were already made at the lake house; Mikey and the others should head there without him.
Mikey’s phone showed no update from Jimmy or any of the others. He slid it back into his pocket and breathed hot air into his fists since the coffee had not warmed his fingers. He was bothered by his cold hands. It seemed like the sort of thing a person would remember about another person, especially when there was little else to say about him. The Man with Cold Hands.
Mikey glanced over toward the door, where, mercifully, Lynn was entering. He adjusted his glasses to make sure it was her, and it was.
Lynn wore a puffy green coat that nearly grazed the floor, and her head was small and pale within an explosion of curly red hair. She was with a very tall and handsome man whose bald head gleamed with moisture. As the man helped Lynn remove her coat, she caught sight of Mikey across the room. Lynn straightened up in recognition, her face broke into delight, and she called, “It’s you!”
She bounced on her toes and clapped her hands together fast and happy for a moment, then stopped, abruptly conscious of her display of joy in the somber room. Mikey made his way over to the two of them.
Lynn was very thin and her face was pocked with scars that Mikey did not remember, but her smile was generous and straightforward, her green eyes lively. For the first time in days, Mikey felt warm.
Lynn said, “Sorry to make a scene, but I don’t care if it’s a funeral! Mikey, you’re a sight. This makes me happy. Can’t believe how long it’s been. This is my boyfriend, Issa.” Her red curls were so tight it was as if each one had been formed around a pencil. Her nose was dusted with freckles.
Issa’s voice was low and rich when he said, “Pleasure.”
Mikey said, “You guys are in Pennsylvania, right? How long was the drive?”
Lynn said, “Jim Thorpe’s the name of the town. Should be five hours, but the snow slowed us down. Left at”—she glanced down at her watch, then up at Issa—“five thirty this morning?”
Issa said, “Five. Couple stops along the way.”
Mikey said, “Issa, have you been to the area before?”
Issa nodded. “Twice.”
Mikey was glad he had rehearsed easy points of small talk: the drive, weather, traffic, location of restrooms, if needed. However, he hoped that in his efforts to be calm and composed he did not seem aloof.
Lynn explained, “We’ve been back here to visit my mom a couple times, but it’s more often that she comes to us. She loses her mind over the Museum of Mason Jars in the next town over from us. You think I’m joking? She has to take the ninety-minute tour every time she visits. Last time she went, she picked up a job application for me.”
Issa corroborated this with a nod. “And one for me, too,” he said.
Mikey laughed. He said to Issa, “Lynn has told me, but I can’t remember. Where are you from, before Pennsylvania?”
“New York before that, Addis Ababa before that.”
“Is that Ethiopia?”
Issa nodded.
Mikey said, “How do you like the snowy Northeast?”
Issa said, “I don’t. But Lynn’s got this stuff in her blood.” He turned to Lynn and brushed a
little bit of snow from her hair, then placed a long arm around her. “Says she’d lose her mind without winter.”
Lynn said, “True. It’s the only good excuse to live the way I like.”
Mikey said, “How do you mean?”
“Go to bed early,” Lynn explained. “Spend all day in blankets. Watch Law & Order for ten hours straight. Eat soup from a can. All the things I love to do. But you act like that in the summertime, and everybody thinks you’re off your meds.”
Issa said, “She hibernates like a bear.”
Mikey laughed. “Lynn, are you still playing piano?”
Lynn nodded. “Although . . .” She held out her left hand to display that she was missing her left ring finger. Completely gone, down to the fist, some puckered scar tissue gathered at the top of the metacarpus.
Mikey said, “I don’t think I knew about that. Did you ever mention it in an email? When did it happen?”
“Long story,” Lynn said. “I’ll tell you later.” She hesitated as she lowered her hands to her thighs. Pale skin stretched tight over her clavicles. She tucked hair behind her ears and said, “Did you see this coming?”
“What’s that?”
Lynn nodded in toward the sanctuary. “Sally.”
“No,” Mikey said. “Did you?”
“Didn’t see it coming,” Lynn said. “But I felt it coming. Or heard it coming, I guess I should say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been working on improv sets, practicing with old jazz trio recordings,” Lynn explained. “The days leading up to her suicide, every time I sat down to play, the music that came out of me was . . .
wrong. Ugly. Oppressive. I couldn’t make sense of it until I got this news. It’s like some part of me that I don’t even know knew.”
Chapter 6
Lynn started taking piano lessons with her cousin Amy when she was four years old. Amy had taught Lynn her left from her right and the first seven letters of the alphabet before Lynn learned these things in school. One of Lynn’s earliest memories was of Amy at her side on the padded piano bench, smelling of cigarettes and vanilla-mint perfume, and Lynn’s own discovery that if she plunked down on enough keys at one time, using both full palms and strength from her upper arms, this noise was powerful enough to drown out the sound of her parents hurling insults at one another in the next room.
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