by P. D. Kalnay
“You all right?” Mr. Ryan asked.
“Yeah, it just went down the wrong way.”
“Jack, you will order appropriate swimsuits for Ivy,” Gran said.
The way she said the word appropriate made me sound like a pervert. I did my best to push the image of Ivy in a string bikini out of my head.
Chapter 6 – Unanswered Questions
Ivy came up to my room after dinner. She gave the big TV a wistful glance and sat down in the second chair by my desk. I hadn’t gotten around to taking her chair back out of my room during the time she’d been away.
“Will this take long?” Ivy asked. “I’m only half done the bowstring.”
“It won’t take much longer than it takes for you to choose,” I said. “But, I’d like to talk first, if that’s OK?”
“I really should get back to making the string.” Ivy was staring into her lap.
“I didn’t get to talk to you, or Mr. Ryan before you left. I’ve got about a million questions that need answering. What was all that stuff out in the woods? Who are you? What were those wolf things? Why did they want to kill us? What’s Mr. Ryan’s deal? And who was that dragon lady?”
That seemed like enough to start with, and I cut myself off. I couldn’t get answers out of Gran, but Ivy was another matter. Then, she started crying and my resolve disappeared. I sat in my chair not knowing what to do. Finally, she pulled herself together.
“Are we friends?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, you know we are. What does that have to do with it?”
“I know I’m asking a lot—on a day when you’ve already given me a gift—but will you do something even greater?”
“Yeah.” I agreed immediately. Anything to stop the crying.
She looked up and smiled through her tears. Ivy was one of those rare girls who still look good when they cry.
“Jack, it’s unwise to promise things without asking what they are.”
“I trust you.”
She had killed a demon wolf with her arrow and saved my life.
“Then please, for me, ask no questions about that night… or any of it.”
“But–”
“I promise I’ll answer all of your questions. I’m asking you to let me do so in my own time and not to press Mr. Ryan, or your grandmother, for those answers.”
She stared into her lap, looking dejected. How do you say no to that?
“Fine, but you have to tell me everything, this summer. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. Thank you.”
Damn, I was sure I’d finally get some straight answers. Ivy turned on the laptop and smiled at me.
“I remember your instructive lessons,” she said with a laugh.
That was a good joke, all things considered, and I laughed along with her. Ivy stopped laughing when she saw how little fabric went into ‘swimming clothes’. She flipped through page after page, becoming increasingly distressed. Things only got more awkward from there.
“These are scandalous,” Ivy said. “Those women are as good as naked!”
“What about these one-piece suits? Those are what girls on swim teams wear. They’re the least revealing ones we’re going to find.”
Yeah, I knew there were also swimsuits with little skirts attached and frills that hang over the chest—but give me a break—I’d already had to give up on the bikinis. Ivy stared at the model on the screen for minute or two.
“Fine,” she said. “Get me one of those.”
“What size?”
“My size obviously.”
I looked down at Ivy with a bad feeling growing in my gut.
“I don’t know women’s sizes for clothing or anything,” I said. “Don’t you know what size you are?”
Ivy’s glare said no.
I Googled sizing charts. That wasn’t any help, since I didn’t have a measuring tape, and Ivy wasn’t willing to let me take the necessary measurements anyway. I threw down the gantlet.
“What sizes are your bra and panties? We’ll guess from those.”
It took five minutes, and the internet’s assistance, to convince Ivy that I hadn’t invented the notion of bras out of a perverted desire to see women’s chests in bondage. After those incredibly embarrassing five minutes, it was determined that Ivy didn’t wear any supporting items under her sundresses. I had trouble thinking about much else after that. Finally, I ordered ten swimsuits: two different colours, in five petite sizes. The cost of return shipping seemed like a bargain. Ivy had already fled my room by the time I ordered them. Amazon kindly suggested additional items that other customers (presumably girls) had ordered after buying the same swimsuits. I was about to close the page when a pair of butterfly hair clips caught my eye. They were only ten bucks, and Ivy liked butterflies, so I added them to the cart. It was a small addition to my eight hundred dollar swimsuit shopping spree.
***
The next day was Saturday. I hadn’t started a new project after finishing the necklace, and for the first time in a long time, I hadn’t bothered to set the alarm on my clock radio. I also hadn’t gone to bed very early; it was with a high level of grumpiness that I answered the loud knock at my door. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and checked the time… 6:30 a.m.
“What?” I asked the horrible person who continued to knock.
Mr. Ryan opened the door and poked his head in.
“You planning on sleeping all day?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Daylight’s wasting,” he grinned. Mr. Ryan’s grin had a distinctly evil look to it. “You’ve got five minutes to meet me out front for our run.”
Run? My tired brain tried to understand what was happening. Mr. Ryan always began our days of training with a short run to warm up. After breakfast. I got up and pulled the curtains open. Wasting daylight? What daylight? I hurriedly pulled on sweats and my running shoes. Mr. Ryan was nicer, and far more talkative than my grandmother, but he was equally scary. He was also very strict concerning training. I’d only slacked a couple of times last summer, but I knew better than to do so again… or to be late. I checked the glowing numbers on the clock radio. Crap. My run would have to begin then and there.
Mr. Ryan only waited until he saw me come out before heading off down Gran’s long driveway. Our runs always followed the gravel road ending at Gran’s property. For most of the previous summer, the running had been harder on Mr. Ryan than me. Things had changed. We ran twice as far as we’d done before, and I thought I might cough out a lung by the end. Mr. Ryan was sweaty, but not out of breath.
“You been running over the winter?” he asked.
“No,” I wheezed out. “Not since you left.”
“I can tell. With those long legs you should leave me in the dust. Have you been getting any exercise?”
“I’ve been doing the sword katas, and swimming,” I said. “And a bit with the punching bags.” I had put on the boxing gloves… twice.
“No wonder you’re so out of shape.”
FYI, I wasn’t out of shape by any reasonable standard. Athletic would have been one of the first words used to describe me.
“You can show me your sword forms tonight after dinner,” he said. “We’ll run before you go to school until summer holidays.”
That would leave me eating breakfast on the bus.
“And then?”
“We’ll keep running every morning after too.” Mr. Ryan gave me a grin devoid of sympathy. “Time for breakfast. We have a long morning ahead.”
I always try to see the good with the bad in any situation. The good, was that Mr. Ryan obviously planned to keep training me like nothing had changed at the end of last summer. I was stewing over that all winter and unsure how I’d bring it up. The point was moot. The bad, was that Mr. Ryan had turned all tireless-terminator-robot-from-the-future, and it was looking like his instruction would be crazy intense. Breakfast went by in the blink of an eye. Our
morning practice was entirely grappling. Mr. Ryan’s blend of judo, wrestling, jujitsu, and who knew how many martial arts left me bruised and sore. I was so sweaty and stinky that I took pre-lunch shower.
***
Ivy was helping herself to lunch when I got to the little dining room.
“Hello, Jack,” she said. Her greeting came with a friendly smile that last summer hadn’t started with.
“Hi,” I said. I filled a plate with sandwiches and eased myself into the chair across from her. Mr. Ryan said the first practice sessions would hurt the worst, until my body got used to the sparring again.
“You look sore,” Ivy said. “Did you start training with Mr. Ryan again?”
“Yeah, at 6:30. He’s gotten a lot more intense.”
I had to hold in asking her why she thought that was.
“Will you have time to put the target out for me after lunch?”
“No problem,” I said. “Did you finish a bowstring?”
“Two. I worked on a spare this morning when I was certain the length was correct.”
“Did you try drawing it? I had to guess at the weight without you being here.”
“It is heavy for me,” Ivy said. “But I’ll become stronger using it. In a month, the extra pull will be nothing. Where did you put the arrows you shortened?”
“Down in the workshop still. I’ll grab them after.”
Ivy didn’t eat much, and she was done her sandwich in a few minutes. Then she watched me eat. I’d planned on a nice leisurely lunch, but even though she didn’t say anything, it was obvious she was impatient to get going. Finally, I crammed in the last half sandwich, whole.
“I’ll meet you out back,” I mumbled around the bread and egg salad.
Ivy offered to help carry the target, but our height differences made it impractical. I half carried, half dragged it to the end of the yard myself. To be honest, I was pretty pumped to see how my bow would perform. Ivy had used up the original paper targets last summer, but I’d ordered a bulk pack of fifty, months earlier, and I pinned one on with a long nail in each corner. Mr. Ryan had come out back too. He was examining my handiwork when I finished setting up the target.
“This is a beauty,” Mr. Ryan said, handing the bow back to Ivy. “You did a masterful job of it, Jack.”
“Thanks,” I said. I was unused to getting a lot in the way of praise. “It looks good. Shooting it is the real test.”
“It looks wonderful,” Ivy said. “I know it will perform wonderfully.”
“One way to find out,” Mr. Ryan said, stepping back to give Ivy room.
Ivy’s first arrow skimmed the top of the target and tumbled away towards the forest. Her second landed on the upper edge of the blue ring, slightly to the left. After that, she put every arrow in the gold, neatly spaced, about an inch apart. When the twentieth arrow quivered near the bottom of the gold bull’s eye, Ivy finally lowered the bow and gave me a wide smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s perfect.”
I found the first arrow at the edge of the property while Ivy collected the others from the target. Mr. Ryan stood, examining the bow again, fifty yards back, where Ivy shot from. He held out his hand when we returned.
“Would you mind if I try it?” he asked Ivy.
“Not at all.” She handed him one of her arrows.
The arrows were too short for Mr. Ryan, and he had to hold his arm with an exaggerated bend to shoot the small bow. His single arrow flew in a low arc, landing dead centre in the middle of the gold. That he was an amazing archer too—didn’t surprise me. Mr. Ryan gave the bow back to Ivy.
“A real beauty, Jack,” he said again before going to the house.
I sat on the grass, watching Ivy shoot, for most of the afternoon. I gave the bow a try myself at one point. Only one of my five arrows hit the target, and I returned to being a contented audience member.
Chapter 7 – Watering the Ivy
I’d made a promise to Ivy, not to ask questions, but I wasn’t happy about it. Those questions nagged at me every single day. Most days, I pushed the dissatisfaction down deep inside with all the rest from the last fifteen years. On other days, it threatened to bubble to the surface like molten magma. Mr. Ryan’s training made the difference and kept Mount Jack from erupting. He taught me to channel my emotions into the workouts; to clear my mind, and let go of everything, except what I was doing. Day by day, I became better able to find the same focus during sparring that came naturally when I made something. Some days were better than others.
The last three weeks of high school were exhausting, and not because of exams or last minute final projects. School was easy, if unpleasant. I was rocking A’s in everything. Nobody would look at my report card, but if they did… they’d see all A’s. The problem was the lack of sleep. Mr. Ryan had shaved off over an hour in the morning with his runs, and we’d resumed evening sword practices after dinner. I’d kept up the sword forms each night over the winter, and I think Mr. Ryan was satisfied with my progress. The weapons forms interested me more than empty-handed martial arts, so it had been easier to stick with them. I’d thought Ivy only wanted a few days, or possibly a week, to decide how to answer my questions. By the time school finished, she’d given no indication she intended to do so at all.
My grandmother informed me at dinner, after the last day of school, that I’d begin teaching Ivy to swim. The swimsuits had arrived the week before, and Ivy had selected green and blue ones in her size. Two pink butterfly hair clips had come with the swimsuits, but I’d set those aside. Ivy and I agreed to meet at the pool at one o’clock for her first lesson. I arrived early and swam a few laps. There’d been no time for swimming since Mr. Ryan returned.
“Jack!” Ivy shouted.
I stopped swimming and stood up in the middle of the pool. Ivy stood, just inside the doorway, in a striped bathrobe. As far as I knew, Ivy only owned a single pair of shoes and she wore them grudgingly. Seeing her bare feet, I reminded myself to order her a pair of flip-flops.
“This looks like a different room,” Ivy said. “It must have taken a great deal of work to get it so clean.”
“A fair amount,” I said. Nobody else was answering questions; I wasn’t in the mood to tell my secrets.
Ivy walked around, examining the tile-work and the mermaids at the bottom of the pool. She was obviously stalling.
“You gonna to get in the water?” I asked.
“I thought I might watch for the first few lessons, and learn by… observation.”
“You can’t learn to swim by watching,” I said. “You don’t have to be scared. The whole pool is shallow enough for you to keep your head above water.” I couldn’t resist adding, “On tippy toes.”
“Is the water cold? I don’t like cold water.”
“The water is as warm as the air in here.” She was definitely stalling. “I bought you a reward for braving the pool for the first time.” I didn’t mention it was cheap plastic hair clips more suited to an eight-year-old.
“A reward?”
By the way she said the word, I knew I had her.
“You have to get in the water to earn it.”
This got intense consideration.
“Turn around while I disrobe,” Ivy said.
“What?”
“I don’t want you watching me.”
“It’ll be difficult to teach you without looking at you,” I said. Another thought occurred then. “You are wearing a swimsuit under that aren’t you?”
“Stop being such a pervert, and turn around until I’m in the water.”
I knew most of Ivy’s expressions, so I knew she wasn’t going to budge. I turned my back to her.
“No peeking,” she commanded.
A good minute passed.
“Are you getting in?” I asked.
“I’m preparing myself.”
“Maybe I’d better take a small look,” I said.
A scream and a surprisingly loud splash came from the pool beh
ind me. Then there was a lot more screaming and splashing. I turned to see Ivy thrashing wildly and yelling like a shark had her by the legs. You shouldn’t try to grab a drowning person, in most cases, because they tend to pull you under, resulting in two victims. But I stood over two feet above the water line, and Ivy was tiny, making the risk low. Ivy was in full panic mode, and I believe she’d forgotten I was in there with her. Getting a hold of her was harder than you might think. Finally, I held her under her arms and lifted her almost half out of the water. It cost me a sore nose and some scratches before she calmed down and went limp.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
Ivy nodded. I was pretty sure some of the wet on her face consisted of tears.
“I’m going to set you down now,” I said.
She shook her head and grabbed my arms so hard it hurt.
“I’ll go slowly until your feet are on the bottom,” I said as calmly as I could.
“Do it,” Ivy said.
You’d have thought I was lowering her into acid by the expression on Ivy’s face. Finally, I wasn’t holding any of her weight. On tiptoes, her chin hovered just above the surface.
“You can stop fondling me now,” she said. “I can stand on my own.”
Let the record show… I’d done zero fondling.
“You’re welcome,” I said, removing my hands. “Why didn’t you use a ladder or slip in from the side.”
Ivy spun about and looked at the ladder a few feet away.
“I didn’t notice them. A good instructor would have pointed them out.”
I let that slide.
“Let’s start with treading water,” I said.
Ivy swallowed a little water, but got the rough idea behind treading water. The pool was barely deep enough for me to show her. Next, I taught her how to float on her back. She’d only do it if I held her shoulders. Finally, I slowly towed her back and forth for lengths of flutter kicks. Not counting the initial scratching, I felt pleased with swimming lessons. Ivy looked great in a swimsuit, and I got to hold her hands for a good hour. Sometimes, it’s important to savour the little things in life. I’d hung a clock on the pool room’s wall, and I ended the lesson when dinner was only a half hour away. Ivy had seemed nervous for most of the lesson, and she hurried up the ladder when I said it was over.