Garden Lakes

by Jaime Clarke

  Ten minutes later, we met up on the dry lake bed, having raced to our houses and changed for sports, meaning soccer, which, after cooking, was Mr. Hancock’s other passion. The sophomores were waiting for us on the makeshift field, their punctuality presumably the result of a harangue some minutes earlier. Mr. Hancock himself appeared in his usual attire, as did Mr. Malagon, who meandered out to the field from class. Mr. Malagon had lobbied unsuccessfully for baseball instead of soccer, but, having lost his treasured philosophy class, Mr. Hancock would not be defeated on this score. He roused fear in the heart of every administrator with the image of teenage boys wielding baseball bats and throwing fastballs through windowed strike zones. Mr. Hancock took the further step of itemizing a list of equipment needed for baseball, complete with slightly inflated prices. He presented this list with a soccer ball tucked under his arm, the only essential equipment needed for a soccer match. The administration rebuffed Mr. Malagon’s idea of substituting baseball for soccer; the decision came to him via the same route as his suggestion—in passing—so Mr. Malagon was unaware of Mr. Hancock’s rigorous campaign.

  The sun blazed down on us. Mr. Hancock passed around tubes of sunblock, and we spread it over our arms, legs, faces, and backs of our necks and ears. We massaged sunblock into our hair like shampoo, as we’d been doing since we were old enough to play outside. The lake bed was polluted with the smell of coconut.

  Mr. Hancock, whose departure from Garden Lakes would set off a chain reaction from which we’d hardly recover, divided us into two random teams, mixing fellows and sophomores. Sprocket would be the goal judge, a specialized referee needed for the Garden Lakes brand of soccer: The game would be played half-field because of the scarcity of goal equipment. Mr. Malagon, who turned out not to be what we’d all built him up to be, helped Sprocket maneuver down the slope, and he rode past us carrying two orange pylons from the supply shed on his lap. He placed them an equal distance apart at Mr. Hancock’s instruction. Sprocket would call balls in and out. Another position not found in Major League Soccer was the ball spotter, a position of importance that was stationed behind the goal and whose job it was to track down goals and errant kicks so play was not suspended while someone chased the ball down Garden Lakes Parkway. Mr. Malagon and Mr. Hancock would each referee one side of the field, calling out the team captain’s name to indicate which team would corner-kick or throw in. The remaining players stood as substitutions on each sideline. Since the half-field made play immediate, the goalies were to step out of the box when their team was on offense.

  Figs was the natural choice for captain of his team; so too was Hands. Figs designated Lindy as the goalkeeper for his team; Hands chose himself. Sprocket wheeled himself near the goal line as Mr. Hancock flipped a coin to determine play. Hands—who would one day lead his family’s sixth-generation brewery to ruin by distrusting the CFO, whom he considered a rival for his wife’s affections—called, “Heads.” The quarter bounced on the dirt field, and it was a moment before the dust shrouding the coin settled. Tails. Mr. Malagon and Mr. Hancock withdrew to the sidelines, their breath rattling the tiny wooden balls inside their whistles. Mr. Hancock bounce-passed the ball to Figs, who raised his arms and called, “Ball in,” passing it to Smurf, who caught the ball with the side of his foot, the muted thud sounding as if it might have hurt. Smurf, whose expert slander would end his future female colleague’s real estate career, showed no sign of pain, though, and crisscrossed the ball away from charging defenders. Smurf passed the ball cross-field to Assburn, and he advanced it toward the goal by faking out Warren. Hands danced inside the goal, his palms sweaty. Each of his athletic feats—buzzer beaters on the basketball court, long balls on the baseball diamond, touchdowns on the gridiron—was prefaced with the same rush, the same sick feeling inside. Hands jogged in place as the soccer ball whizzed side to side across the playing field, negotiating its way toward the goal. Roger ran alongside Smurf, who was trying to corral the ball on a wayward pass from one of the sophomores. The defenders converged when they saw Smurf make a move for the goal. Hands positioned himself with his legs spread wide, ready to pounce. Roger poked the ball away from Smurf, but Smurf leaped over the runaway ball, stopping it with his heel. Mr. Hancock and Mr. Malagon squared off across the field, moving with the action. Smurf passed the ball to Figs right as he charged ahead of the defenders. Figs stutter-stepped and punted the ball at the goal. Hands put his body in the ball’s path, and the ball arced off his left arm.

  “Out!” Mr. Hancock called.

  Mr. Malagon had scarcely put the ball back into play when a scrum broke out. Mr. Hancock’s whistle fell from his mouth as he ran toward midfield. Mr. Malagon was bent over Lindy, who was rolling in the dirt, cradling his left arm.

  Lindy’s screams increased in pitch as Mr. Malagon and Mr. Hancock sorted out what had happened. Defenders closest to the play claimed Roger had deliberately collided with Lindy when it was clear that Lindy had stolen the ball cleanly from Roger. Other players were less sure of the play. Some alleged to have seen Roger flailing his arms, indicating that he was out of control when he smashed into Lindy, who by now was lying prostrate with his eyes closed, he left arm immobile. Roger did not testify in his own defense. He listened coolly as the different versions were replayed, taking count of who was saying what. As Mr. Malagon tended to Lindy—who would one day in his thirties die in his sleep, leaving behind a devastated family—by testing the flexibility of Lindy’s left arm, Mr. Hancock pulled Roger aside and asked him what happened.

  “It was an accident,” Roger said.

  Mr. Hancock did not pursue the question and instead turned to Mr. Malagon and Lindy.

  “He needs medical attention,” Mr. Malagon said.

  “More than a sling?” Mr. Hancock asked.

  Mr. Malagon nodded.

  Figs volunteered to pull one of the two Jeeps around, but Mr. Hancock assured us that only he and Mr. Malagon would ever get behind the wheel of either vehicle. Mr. Malagon pointed out that it was close to the dinner hour, which meant Mr. Hancock was needed elsewhere. “Why don’t we have everyone shower up, and I’ll run Brian to the emergency room,” Mr. Malagon said.

  Mr. Hancock hesitated. He knew what Mr. Malagon said made sense, but he speculated as to the seriousness of Lindy’s injury (though the distressed look on Lindy’s face authenticated the necessity for the trip to the hospital). “We’ll set a place for Mr. Lindstrum at the dinner table,” Mr. Hancock said, though the remark was directed more at Mr. Malagon than at Lindy.

  The half an hour of free time added to the schedule by the abrupt end of sports left us disoriented. Some went to their rooms; others began their showers early, opting to use the time to relax before dinner. Mr. Hancock prescribed ten-minute showers for the sophomores, then herded their wet heads into the kitchen to undertake the evening meal: coq au vin. The sophomores had spent their afternoon cleaving poultry hindquarters, and while the rest of us played cards or grabbed a nap, the kitchen was busied with the shellacking of chicken legs with Mr. Hancock’s magical red-wine sauce, a sauce made with one less bottle of wine, said bottle residing in Adam Kerr’s bottom dresser drawer. Kerr was generally regarded as one of the more audacious sophomores. He once climbed onto the roof of Randolph to spy an accident that had stopped traffic on Central Avenue (and received a three-day suspension because of it).

  Smurf joined Figs and Hands in a quick game of five-card draw. “Everyone’s in their rooms,” Smurf said about his own residence. He looked at Figs. “Roger’s going to get you, you know that, right?”

  Figs shrugged and asked for two cards. “I don’t see how.”

  Hands glanced at Figs and then looked away at his cards. “Yeah,” he said.

  Smurf folded. “Fuckin’ guy bulldozed Lindy. Won’t be surprised if Lindy’s arm is busted to pieces.”

  There was a knock and the front door opened.

  “Never guess what Assburn has,” Warren said, pulling up a chair.

  “Whate
ver it is, I’m sure he’s not the original owner,” Figs said. “You in?”

  Warren rapped on the table and Figs dealt him in.

  “He’s got a mobile phone,” Warren said, picking up his cards.

  “What—did he steal Hancock’s?” Figs asked. The school alleviated parental anxiety by providing Mr. Hancock with a mobile phone, which he kept in a locked box under his bed.

  “Guess all that talk about him not being a klepto is bullshit,” Hands said. “Figured it was.”

  “Does it work?” Smurf asked.

  “Yeah, he turned it on,” Warren said, discarding. “One.”

  Hands folded.

  “Did he let you use it?” Smurf wanted to know.

  “Didn’t ask,” Warren said, uninterested in the story. “You guys see the way Roger knocked out Lindy?”

  “I was right next to him,” Figs said. “Roger got this look.”

  Smurf excused himself and the front door opened and closed, but the exchange about Lindy and Roger continued without a beat, and without consensus. Farther down Regis Street, Assburn denied to Smurf that he had a mobile phone. Smurf called him a liar, but Assburn stuck to his story. “Damn liar,” Smurf said again.

  The move to the dining hall was less a shuffle toward a meal than it was a rush to keep an important appointment. Fellows walk-skipped to dinner, and we all fell into formation as the waiters brought steaming plates of coq au vin and garlic mashed potatoes.

  As promised, a place for Lindy had been set at Figs and Hands’s table. The place setting brought stares from the other tables and from the sophomore waiters, who no doubt knew something big was at stake. Roger glided to his table without paying tribute to Lindy’s empty chair. He hunkered over his plate and tore into the juicy meat, ravenous.

  Mr. Hancock took his seat at the center table, sophomores flanking him. As the meal progressed—seconds on mashed potatoes, more chicken (“It’s not chicken, boys, it’s coke-oh-van”)—Lindy’s ultimate disfigurement grew in our minds. We imagined him in a body cast, or worse. Out the windows the sun continued its tyranny of the sky, but we anticipated the pink light that always preceded sundown (“It’s all the crap in the air,” Lindy had told us) and collectively worried about the ramifications of Lindy and Mr. Malagon’s absence after dark.

  We held our breath as the sound of talking echoed through the outer hall. Mr. Hancock did not look up from his slice of crushed pineapple–sour cream pie, the delectable concoction we weren’t enjoying as we might. Mr. Malagon’s frame filled the doorway, blocking out Lindy, who seemed to be struggling in the background, his left arm in a plaster cast up to his elbow. He was struggling, but not because of his useless appendage. His right arm was rendered useless too by a cylindrical package wrapped in butcher paper. The package caught Mr. Hancock’s attention. Mr. Malagon leaned in and whispered something to Mr. Hancock, causing Mr. Hancock to grimace.

  “It’s a telescope,” Lindy said, taking his seat. A waiter brought a plate of coq au vin and mashed potatoes, while another set down a plate of baked apples sprinkled with cinnamon.

  “How did you get a telescope?” Hands asked.

  “Mr. Malagon bought it for me,” Lindy said between bites.

  “Does your arm hurt?” Figs asked.

  The whole room was listening to the conversation.

  Lindy shook a tumor the size of a roll of quarters in his pocket, the bottle of painkillers rattling like a baby’s toy. “Can’t feel a thing,” he said, smiling.

  Mr. Hancock spoke to Mr. Malagon gravely, referencing the package at Lindy’s feet, obviously aggrieved. Mr. Malagon concentrated on his dinner, looking up only to take a drink.

  Lindy described the hospital, how his mother had raced to the emergency room, thinking that his injuries were life threatening. Lindy became animated when he told the part about the telescope. “Mr. Malagon says we can look at the stars during free time,” Lindy said. “Bet they look pretty good out here at night.”

  “If we’re still awake when the sun goes down,” Hands said. “Christ, I could use a nap.”

  At the next table over, Roger was avidly not listening to Lindy’s tale. He rattled the ice in his glass, unnerving Reedy. Some of us noticed Reedy’s unnatural circumnavigation of the dining hall—taking the long way around to the soda machine, hoping to stay out of the willful rotation that threatened to bring him into Roger’s airspace.

  Adam Kerr brought Roger another drink, staring down at him after he delivered the too-full glass, which slopped over, a dark stain spreading across the tablecloth.

  “What are you looking at?” Roger asked in a way that froze everyone within earshot.

  “Not sure,” Kerr said bravely. “Trying to figure it out.”

  Roger stamped the top of Kerr’s foot with as much weight as he could bring while sitting down. Kerr yelped and hopped on one foot.

  “What’s going on over there?” Mr. Hancock asked.

  “Dixon—,” Kerr began, but Hands jumped in: “Nothing, sir. He tripped over Roger’s chair. That’s all.”

  Satisfied with Hands’s explanation (though perhaps not believing it), Mr. Hancock returned to his conversation with Mr. Malagon, who was forking a piece of pie cut from the reserve kept for the sophomores into his mouth.

  Roger glared at Kerr, who in turn glared at Hands. Hands raised his eyebrows, communicating to Kerr that he was not taking Roger’s side, but that Kerr should not cross a fellow. Kerr heard the message and limped away.

  The fellows adjourned in groups to Regis Street for the reading hour; the hour after dinner but before tutoring allowed for us to read over Mr. Malagon’s handout. Although the reading hour was unpoliced, we all honored the rules—each fellow must read in his room, no talking, no congregation in any room—not out of respect for one another’s space and time, but because the reading hour was a chance to get forty winks before the sophomores arrived for tutoring.

  As the hands on the kitchen clocks reached for eight, the tutoring groups dissolved into informal salons, topics covered including the food at Garden Lakes, disbelief that we’d been at Garden Lakes for only one day, and that it would be weeks before we could contemplate the Open House. Fellows rubbed their tired eyes and yawned symphonically. Word was passed that Lindy was going to set the telescope up in the dry lake bed, and while most of us were fatigued into near muteness, we ventured out, our footprints from the ill-fated soccer game earlier that day transforming the lake bed into the scene of a possible lunar landing, or alien invasion, or so we liked to imagine.

  Lindy extended the cheap tripod that came with the telescope. Figs helped him raise it until the telescope rested near eye level, the smooth cylinder bobbing precariously on the tripod’s crossbar. Lindy adjusted the eyepiece, tapping the telescope up or down, dialing into the sky’s frenetic designs. He located the moon, the glimmer of Mercury deep in the moon’s backyard. He called out the constellations as he found them—Hercules, Lyra, Sagittarius, Scorpius—the stars undulating as if the sky were an immense lake, the depths of its black waters limitless. Lindy believed his father and brother floated in the wake of these constellations, watching over him and his mother. He didn’t believe in heaven; the concept was too obviously man-made, constructed out of human desire and fear, but he believed in the longevity of a person’s essence, and the belief gave him comfort as he searched the skies, his father’s tremulous laugh and his brother’s endless kidding alive in the stellar oceanography.

  Lindy had long abandoned the search for answers as to why his father and brother were struck head-on by another boat, thrown into Lake Pleasant. Lindy was to have made the trip with them, but had been laid up by a summer cold. His mother hated the water and was instead home tending to her sick son when the sheriff’s department knocked on their front door. For a time, the details obsessed Lindy: the inebriated pilots of the other craft (who were also killed instantly), his father and brother hitting the water headfirst. Did it look to bystanders that they’d dived out of harm�
��s way? The thought of their mouths and noses filling with water, their lungs distended and shapeless like water balloons, slowed Lindy’s own breathing. For weeks after the accident, he labored under the torment of what he guessed was an unusually potent virus, but his mother had been stricken with the same disease that prohibited Lindy from waking before noon and from falling asleep before the sun started to rise. Junior year brought an audience of eager ears, but no one approached Lindy about the story. To Lindy, the deaths had become part of his heritage, a personal history too intimate to share with strangers. He and his mother had sworn a pact to carry on, to not let the sudden emptiness in their lives overtake them.

  Staring through the telescope a summer later, Lindy felt like he’d kept a promise, the halos and coronas glowing overhead comforting him, affirming that he was a small but valuable part of something larger. Lindy didn’t realize he’d expressed this sentiment aloud, an awkward silence descending on the group of stargazers. Even Smurf and Assburn, who had been arguing in whispers about whether or not Assburn did indeed have a mobile phone, quieted.

  Warren peered through the telescope. “So what you’re saying is that the sky is full of gods,” he said.

  Realizing that we thought he was talking about the heavens in the abstract, Lindy expounded on Warren’s comment. “They’re all up there,” he said. “Venus, Mars, Saturn, Cupid, Juno, Neptune, Jupiter—depending on where you’re standing, they’re all hovering, ruling the sky.”

  “Neptune was Poseidon in Greek mythology,” Sprocket added. “All the Roman gods had Greek names.” Sprocket was one of the few students handpicked by Mrs. Haberman for Advanced Latin. “Venus is Aphrodite, Mars is Ares, Saturn is Cronus, Cupid is Eros, Jupiter is Zeus. . . .”

  “Same god, different name,” Warren said, raising his face toward the moon.