Pontoon

by Garrison Keillor

  “Okay, Grandma,” said Kyle, “let’s get the show on the road.”

  He waded gingerly into the water, on the sharp rocks, harnessed to the trapeze, the great parasail above him, and he staggered a couple times, pushing the skis ahead of him with his feet and then his knees until he was in water up to his thighs. He sat down and slipped his feet, first the left, then the right, into the foot holsters, and Duane gunned the motor and the towrope went taut and Kyle rose up on the water and skied over the waves, his knees bent, the towbar lashed to the trapeze. The little crowd watched the slender figure in the red swim briefs go skimming across the water and Roger said, “Mother would have loved this.” As the boat made its turn, Kyle appeared to adjust the trapeze, the towbar clamped to it, as the bowling ball swung between his knees, and Barbara pulled out her camera. Raoul had a videocam out. “Here he comes!” said Raoul. But something was wrong—he wasn’t lifting off the water. Mr. Hoppe waved his arm in a circle to tell Duane to pick up speed. “He must’ve adjusted the trapeze wrong,” said Roger.

  And then the speedboat swerved, and they saw why—two giant fiberglass ducks were racing across the water, strewing pink flower petals from their butts—Was the Detmer wedding now on again? There were people inside, pedaling, propelling them, crookedly, slewing around.

  The speedboat was racing due north when it swerved again. The Agnes D had just come into view from behind the point, its deck crowded with men in pale blue and green and violet shirts and pants, a trail of black smoke rising from the barbecue. The men on deck were singing lustily what sounded like a hymn to alcohol, their arms linked, the boat riding extremely low in the water but that troubled them not at all, they were brothers united, champagne can do that to you. Loping along the shore, plunging through bushes and tall weeds, came the young theologian Fred, followed by Bruno the fishing dog; stink waves rising, a dead fish in his mouth, he was wheezing. The Agnes D’s prow was a couple inches above water and the engine was almost submerged. It gave off a sucking and sobbing sound. Duane cut sharply to the left to avoid the pontoon boat and at that moment Kyle lost his balance—the bowling ball between his legs swung to the right and he fell, still harnessed to the trapeze—Barbara cried out, “Jesus Christ”—the skis flew off him and he disappeared under the para-sail which came skimming over the waves with him in the harness, dragged at high speed underwater. They could see his pale body racing submerged through the water—“Stop! Stop!” Barbara cried, clutching Muffy—and then they saw his red swimsuit and the Velcro belt and the green bowling ball, all three, torn from his body by the sheer force of the water—and then the parasail lifted into the air, carrying Kyle aloft. Oh God have mercy. Oh Jesus have mercy. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said Muffy. Kyle hung from the trapeze, entangled in the towrope, stark naked, his legs pedalling, fifty feet in the air, and that blind idiot Duane at the controls with his eyes on the pontoon boat and its drunken crew and the ducks who had turned and headed north. The gap was narrowing and he cranked the speedboat directly in front of the pontoon boat whose crew stopped singing now and clutched the rails as the Agnes D pitched violently left to right in the speedboat’s wake. The Danes would’ve hung on except for the barbecue tipping over—hundreds of red-hot coals came skittering across the deck like a manifestation from the Book of Revelation and over the rails the pastors dove. Twenty-four manly forms belly-flopped in the water—only four feet deep, thankfully—as the boat righted itself and plowed ahead toward the shore. Duane steered around the ducks who had split up and, still planing at high speed, he roared past the mourners.

  It appeared to Barbara that something about flying had excited her son—yes indeed that was most certainly true. Yes, that was certainly true—the Ladies Circle ladies were studying the stones at their feet as if on a field trip. Pastor Ingqvist was deep in thought. Phrases of old sermons ran through his head—our earthly journey—incorruptible from the corruptible—dust from whence we have come—the Lord’s mercy is measureless. And then he saw the naked young man fly by, arms spread, harness around his waist, high in the air, a large pink bird. Oh Absalom, my Absalom—

  “Oh Jesus God, have mercy,” said Barbara, and Muffy said, “on us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” Mr. Hoppe and Roger were waving and shouting at Duane to stop. Raoul in his distress at seeing the bowling ball containing Evelyn sink below the waves had pressed the PLAY button and Andy Williams sang “Moon River, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style someday” as the naked young man flew in the clear blue sky and the parasail banked and now a hot-air balloon came drifting at low altitude over the tree line.

  “Oh dear God,” said Barbara. It was startling, as if a barn had come floating into view. “You hired a balloon too?” said Raoul. “Why didn’t we have him drop Evelyn off?”

  It was blue and green, silver and gold, a magnificent silken bag from which hung a golden wicker basket and the kerosene burner on a frame above it, a man in a white naval outfit and officer’s cap, his hand on the rope that pulled the switch that fired the burner, scanning the water below for the wedding couple he was to scoop up and carry away, descending, descending. The naked Kyle spotted the balloon as Duane made the turn and the parasail appeared to be on a collision course with the balloon—Kyle let out a high-pitched yelp, but Duane was busy steering around the men floundering in the water and the giant ducks paddling in circles and the crewless pontoon boat. He had more than enough to contend with!

  “God have mercy, Jesus have mercy,” cried Barbara. “Jesus have mercy,” said Muffy, her hands pressed together, her eyes shut tight.

  Fred the theologian had now joined the group of mourners. Mr. Hoppe smelled the dog and picked up a stone and pegged it at him and hit him in the hindquarters. “Beat it!” he yelled. Fred was thrilled by the sight of the Danes floundering in the water, trying to escape from the 18-foot fiberglass ducks, which seemed to be pursuing one after another of them. He was delighted. It spoke to his heart. They had slandered America and gotten drunk on champagne and fled from an old dog and now they were paying the piper.

  Suddenly, there came a monstrous roar and a mighty flame burst from the burner of the balloon, the pilot attempting to ascend, but alas he overshot with the throttle and the flame ignited the bag, burnt a hole through the tip of it, and the rigging caught on fire, all in a few seconds, as the naked young man flew on, towed by the crazed Duane, and the ropes parted, the basket and burner and pilot dropped into the water with a great ker-shroom-mm—big pieces of burning silk drifted in the air like fiery sails and the naked boy heading straight toward them and a fiery death—“Oh God, no,” cried Barbara—and Kyle flying onward threw his weight to the left and the parasail banked and missed the flaming silk by inches—a little burst of dark cloud appeared where he emptied his bowels—and flew on. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, God be praised.

  Roger was in the water now up to his knees, yelling at Duane to stop, goddamn it, stop the boat!! The two giant ducks came aground nearby grinding up on the rocks. The Danes were straggling out of the water—one of them, stepping on a chain, fetched up the bowling ball and brought it to shore where Raoul took it in his arms, weeping, Andy Wiliams still singing about the river and the huckleberry friends—and finally Roger got Duane’s attention. The blind fool looked up and behind him, where any pilot pulling a parasail should have been focused all along, and saw his friend naked, flying, helpless, and he made a beeline for shore. He promptly caught the edge of the sandbar and ran aground, shearing the pin, and the towrope lifted the stern slightly, then snapped, and the naked man glided overhead on his parasail. Oh God have mercy. God forgive us. He glided over the mourners, a great shadow passing on the ground, and cleared the spruce trees behind them, and set down in the field beyond, where Mr. Hansen had his raspberry bushes. He yelped twice and then was silent.

  Bennett turned to go to the rescue, and Barbara put a hand on his arm and said, “Let him be. Kyle likes to do things himself.” She looked out at the lake strewn w
ith wreckage and dotted with survivors and thought that it was the most exciting day she had spent in years. She was exhilarated. Most memorial services she’d ever attended were quiet sodden affairs and Mother’s was nothing but gangbusters. Pastor Ingqvist was hauling these foreign men out of the water slopping and dripping and muttering things in their singsong guttural tongue and Duane waded to shore pulling his speedboat behind him saying that he wished people would watch where they were going for Chrissake and the Swanson twins climbed out of the giant duck decoys and explained that Debbie paid them $25 apiece to do it and what were they supposed to do with these ducks now? And the man in the white sailor suit towed his basket and burner up on the rocks and said that whoever had planned this wedding had done a pretty lousy job of it and he regretted ever having agreeing to be in it. It would be the last favor he would ever do for anybody, that was for sure.

  “Debbie went back to California,” said Pastor Ingqvist. “The wedding got cancelled.”

  “Why isn’t she here? Why didn’t she tell me? Why couldn’t there have been a little warning?” He was distraught. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m all wet, the balloon is ruined, probably the burner too.”

  Pastor shrugged. People forget. Especially in summer. Happens all the time.

  The chaos was marvelous, Barbara thought. Her arm was around Muffy who didn’t get scared when the pontoon tipped or when the balloon caught on fire: her eyes were still closed. “It’s okay, baby. Everybody’s okay. The dog is gone.” Muffy said, “I like some dogs but not that dog.” She gripped Barbara’s hand. The Danes sloshed around, the giant ducks bumped against the rocky shoreline, Duane stood in the water with his boat and bitched that his eyes hurt and asked Roger to help lift it out of the water for him, the balloonist stamped his foot (Goddamn!), the ladies of the Circle huddled like buffalo in a snowstorm, Myrtle jabbering at them about how Catholics don’t go in for cremation for this very reason goddammit, Raoul was trying to repair the plaster cap that held the ashes in the bowling ball which had jarred loose when it landed in the drink. He knelt with the ball in his arms, tamping down the ashes. “I’ve got you, my darling,” he said. “You’re all right now.”

  And the others—Paul and Bennett, Ruby, Harold, Bud, Mr. and Mrs. Berge—standing in place, calm, looking as if a balloon-parasail-pontoon-decoy disaster was what they had been expecting all along and now it was over and they were waiting to see what might come next.

  “Are you all right?” It was Pastor Ingqvist, his hand on her elbow. “Never been better in my life,” said Barbara.

  24. THE KISS

  Kyle is taking his sweet time coming out of the raspberries, she thought. Probably he was embarrassed about the whole thing and girding his loins to march back and face the music. Oh sweetie, you don’t know how beautiful that was. Why didn’t I think to get it on video?

  She asked Raoul. “Did you get it on video?” He said he’d gotten some of it and so then the camera had to be passed around for people to savor the near-collision of the speedboat and the pontoon and the little figure flying under the giant wing. Duane looked at it and Barbara and one of the Danes, who laughed a big Danish laugh, and the balloonist said, “Well, I’m glad you’re amused. I wish I were.” And then they heard Kyle singing, or chanting—and turned, and there he was, holding a rhubarb leaf to cover himself. His arms were scratched and he’d gotten muddied up in the landing, but he was walking. Limping, actually.

  His face was all red and rubbery. He was crying, poor sweetheart. He came down the slope, saying something that sounded like I’ve been so bad, I can’t believe how bad I’ve been. Bennett said, “Kyle, you okay?”

  “Bad,” said Kyle. He was trying to catch his breath. And then he saw Pastor Ingqvist.

  “I need you to pray for me,” he said. And then he started blubbering again.

  “Honey, you need to come home and let me put something on your arms,” said Barbara.

  “I need forgiveness,” he said. “I have gone astray.” He looked her in the eye. “I did bad stuff, Mom.”

  “It’s okay. I understand—”

  “No, you don’t. It’s wrong!” He turned toward Pastor Ingqvist who had backed up a couple of steps. “I need prayer. Now.” And he knelt down on the grass at the pastor’s feet and bowed his head. In fact, he prostrated himself. He pressed his forehead to the ground. “Your sins are forgiven,” said Pastor Ingqvist, “as Christ has forgiven me, and let us rejoice in the gift of God’s salvation.”

  Barbara looked around for something to cover up Kyle’s bare butt. She thought of taking off her own shirt and then thought better of it. “Give me your shirt,” she said to Roger. He hesitated, startled. “Just do it,” she said.

  And then she smelled the dreadful odor of the dog. He came down out of the trees where Mr. Hoppe had driven him. His rheumy eyes were fixed on Kyle and he stepped forward stealthily as if hunting down a possum. The crowd parted for him. “I do not like this dog,” said Muffy. Mr. Hoppe looked around for a stick but the dog kept coming. He approached the prostrate figure from behind and greeted him as dogs have so often greeted people and the feeling of that cold wet nose on that exact part of his body shocked Kyle like a live wire—he leaped up with a shriek and dashed into the water and rolled around in the shallows, groaning and whimpering.

  Roger took off his good white shirt and Barbara took it and stepped into the water. “Come out of there right now, I’m taking you home,” she said. She got hold of one arm and pulled him to his feet and wrapped the shirt around his middle. “Don’t be a crybaby,” she said. “We all make our mistakes. Just live with it and try to do better next time.” She steered him up the rocky beach.

  Mr. Hoppe had put down his Viking sword and gone to fetch the parasail, which was in a rather crumpled condition, some struts broken, the fabric torn. And Bennett waded into the lake and came up with several bottles of champagne. He loosened the cork of one and popped it high into the air and put the foaming bottle to his lips. He gave it to Raoul and opened another for Barbara who handed it to Pastor Ingqvist. “I believe this is yours,” she said.

  He smiled. “Barbara,” he said, “it’s okay if you say no, but I have to ask: would you mind if I said a prayer?”

  Well, no, she wouldn’t mind exactly, if you put it that way. She might not feel any strong particular need for prayer at this point but she wouldn’t mind one. She had heard thousands of prayers. What was one more?

  He looked around and shushed the Danes and Craig the balloonist who was on his cell phone trying to reach his brother who was supposed to pick him up at two, and they all bowed their heads, including Kyle, who was shivering now, with Barbara’s arm around him.

  “Our faithful Father in heaven, thank you for this day you have given, and thank you for the life of our sister Evelyn as we commend her spirit to your love and care. And thank you for your safekeeping this afternoon at a moment of danger. And now guide us safely home, Father. We ask it in Jesus’ name—”

  And before the Amen came the voice from heaven singing, “Treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel, but love me …” The figure under the parachute was golden, flashing in the sunlight, and the voice was sweet and mellow. He appeared to be aiming for the same field Kyle had crash-landed in. Bennett waved his arms in warning and the voice said, “I’m coming, sweetheart. I’m on my way.” He came down at a steep angle and then angled the chute expertly to land on his feet on the rocky shore. He was a fleshy man in gold lame and black boots, and he gathered the chute with both hands as it fell around him and he gave them a big lopsided grin. His hair was black and well-oiled and swept back along the sides and his aviator shades rode on top of his head. You could see the tiny microphone taped to his cheek. The loudspeaker was in his fanny pack. He said, “Where’s the bride and groom? They in a hurry to start honeymooning?” He winked at Barbara. “I flew in from the coast and boy, are my arms tired.” He flapped his arms and shrieked like a seagull.

  “This isn’t a wedd
ing, it’s a memorial service,” said Barbara.

  Raoul held up the bowling ball. “This is Evelyn,” he said. “She’s sorry she missed you.”