Swimming had become much more than a one-credit course to me. It had become a symbol. If I could pass swimming this summer, I would be able to make it through the next year to graduation and certification. I apologized to Cal during dinner every evening, then fell asleep before nine o’clock, and was up and gone again by seven the next morning. Cal checked off the days till the end of swimming on the kitchen calendar.
All midterms came on the Thursday of the third week. I wished they would stagger them, put some on Tuesday or Wednesday, but they didn’t.
The third Thursday of summer school dawned hot and humid. I stood on our terrace drinking my orange juice, watching the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline. Hot and red, burnishing the tops of the New York buildings across the river, gilding the bridges. My spirits rose with the sun. I could do it – swim and pass Speech and Social Studies. I went back into the kitchen and poured a thermos of coffee to keep me awake after swimming.
Mrs. Hogan lined us up at the edge of the pool. She had an assistant with her this morning, dressed in identical green camp shorts. They each had two stopwatches and somehow or other would keep each student’s time for twenty laps. Mrs. Hogan lectured us sternly: we must start with a racing dive, demonstrate one stroke up, a different one back. After that we could use any stroke we wished, but we must go for eighteen more laps. “There will be no stopping at either end. Swimming will be continuous.” A blast on the whistle and the first swimmer, Ian, was off. Three minutes later she started Amy Schwarzenbach in the second lane. I would be next to last. I sat down and pondered Mrs. Hogan while I did my breathing exercises. What could the rest of her life be like? How could she care so much? I winced. Look who’s talking.
“MacCracken! Go!”
I dove in. At least I went in head first and she didn’t call me back as she had some of the others. Ian said we’d have to go off the board for the finals – I couldn’t do that. Don’t think about the board now. Freestyle first. Flutter kick. Pull right. Pull left. Breathe, I was at the end before I knew it and almost cracked my head against the cement. I recovered just in time and turned underwater and came up to do the sidestroke back. Easy. Stretch. Pull, Scissors kick. If anything would get me through the finals it would be the sidestroke. It had become as easy or easier for me than the backstroke and I could tell where I was going.
“An old lady’s stroke,” Ian teased. “So, who do you think I am, anyway?” I’d answered.
Lap sixteen. Only four more. I can do it. I know I can. I did twenty-two yesterday. Just don’t panic or cramp. Stretch. Pull. Stay relaxed. Pretend you’re lying on your own bed … Luke. All of a sudden an image of Luke’s small body appeared above the pool. What are you doing here, Luke? I thought you were in Florida. I’ve called you seven times now and sent four postcards and you haven’t answered once. How come?
“Hey. Watch it.” I had veered off my lane and kicked the body in the next lane.
“Oh, sorry. Sorry.” Pay attention. Keep in line. Luke? Where are you? Are you okay? But Luke was gone. There was nothing above the pool now but lights, shimmering like rainbows because my eyes were full of water.
Eighteen. Turn. Pull. Glide. My shoulders ached and my pulls grew shorter. Tension. The ache must be tension. Twenty-two. Remember, you did twenty-two yesterday.
Nineteen. Turn. This is it. Come on. Don’t let your legs sink.
Ian was waving from the side of the pool. “Hey, Mac. This is it. Go out in style.” Ian had been keeping track.
I pulled long and strong – and glided like a fish until my fingers touched the wall at the shallow end. I stood up and smiled at Ian.
Luke appeared again halfway through the Speech exam. I had outlined the four types of speech problems. I. Disorders of Articulation. II. Defects of voice. III. Language. IV. Rhythm.
I knew articulation disorders. They spelled soda: substitutions, omissions, distortions, additions. Voice disorders were easy, too: pitch, pitch breaks, quality, volume.
Language was more difficult. Delayed speech and aphasia, which was a breakdown in language. There are four areas of language. But what are they? My mind wandered. Did my mother have aphasia? Her language had certainly broken down. Broken down.
There had been something strange about Luke as he hung over the swimming pool. What was it? Something different – I shook my head. Not now.
The four areas of language are – ah – I remember. Two major areas: “receptive” and “expressive.” Under “receptive” come “understandability and readability” and under “expressive” come “speakability and writeability.” A miniature image of Luke superimposed itself on my exam book. I strained to see him more clearly. Were those tears on his face? Luke never cried. Was that what was different? The image faded and I forced myself to finish the exam as quickly as possible. Just this and then Social Studies and then I would drive to Luke’s house.
As I handed in my exam I asked Andrew York if my mother’s stroke could have caused something like aphasia.
He nodded. “I’ll bring you a book, two books, in fact, one of exercises on Monday. I know what you’re feeling. My mother had a stroke when I was twelve. That’s how I got interested in the field.” I was lucky to have Andrew York. A professor who is caring and knowledgeable is one of the most important elements in a teacher’s training.
Figerito pranced around the front of the room like a peacock. Lime green was the color of the day. Matching shirt and socks, set off by white bucks and cream-colored Dacron slacks. The effect spoiled only by the patches of perspiration beneath his arms.
Amy Schwarzenbach lifted her books from the chair beside her so that I could sit down. Amy had saved me from Figerito’s ridicule by coming early (she had another class in this same building after swimming) and staking out two seats in the rear of the class by the outside door. I would wait just outside the door until Figerito’s back was turned and then slip silently into the seat Amy had saved. So far he’d never noticed.
Now I poured coffee from the thermos and offered it to Amy. She shook her head. “Good going today,” meaning swimming. I smiled my thanks and leaned back, grateful for Amy, the hot coffee, and Andrew York.
“Only one question today.” Figerito smiled at us. “I’ll write it on the board.”
DISCUSS THE SIX THEORIES OF RACE PREJUDICE.
Everyone began talking at once to everyone else. What six theories? What did he mean? What was this?
Figerito raised his hand for quiet. “What’s the problem?” he smiled.
Bedlam. Everyone shouted at once.
Figerito raised his arm again. “What do you mean you haven’t had it? It’s right in the text.”
Double bedlam. People were standing up now. We had never had a text.
“You never had a text?” Figerito mocked us. “It’s listed right here on the course description I handed out the first day. Did you think because I didn’t mention it you didn’t have to read it?”
Groans. Figerito took two turns around the classroom, then stopped and smiled at us.
“Well, don’t worry. Just in case you forgot to buy the text, I’ve had the page run off for you.” He displayed a large pile of typed pages. “Just rewrite it in your own words in the examination book, add your opinion, and leave it on the desk.”
Games. He’d been playing games. This was no way to teach teachers to teach children. I scribbled an essay and left it on the desk and got my car and drove to Falls City.
School 23 was empty, the black macadam side lot without cars or people. A school without children is a desolate place. I left my car on the street opposite the school, wanting to walk, to get in touch with Falls City again.
The city was different in the summer. Maybe it was because it was lunchtime, but shades were pulled and there were no children anywhere.
No one was outside at Luke’s project, either. I walked past three times before I gathered the courage to ring the bell at Luke’s apartment, but there was no one home.
I walked ba
ck to my car. What was the matter with me? School was over for Luke. He’d said he was going to Florida – that’s probably where he was. With his dad, fishing, swimming. I was just tired, imagining things. Well, only three more weeks for me, too, and then in August we’d go up to the country and spend time with our own children, home from college or on vacation. Just get through the next three weeks – and trust Luke.
The July days were uneventful, one so like the other I never knew what day it was. Swim, study, sleep. Then weekends in the country, stopping at my parents’ on the way up and back, guiding my mother through the beginning exercises in the aphasia manual. It was both painful and a joy to see her working hard to pick up seven raisins one by one and put them in her mouth. She was better, or so the doctor said, but she still dropped more raisins than she ate.
She had all her meals at the small dining table in the apartment, refusing to be wheeled to the dining room because she could not handle her knife and fork, was unable to find the exact location of her mouth. Unintentionally, she spilled and knocked things over and she would not do this in front of others.
My father was patient and gentle. He wheeled my mother’s chair into the garden so she could sit beside him while he weeded or tended the roses. It was a difficult time for them both, though neither complained.
Most of all, Cal and I tried to bring them a little laughter. We saved each small story that might interest or amuse them. My mother loved hearing stories of the children. She knew each small step forward that Luke had made. She still had the rare, wonderful ability of making my small accomplishments seem special. And I loved her for it. Often, though, she could not say good-bye because tears clogged her throat. Would Luke have understood? Somehow I was sure he would.
My father always walked with us to the parking lot. “Melancholy often accompanies strokes, the doctor says. It’s not always lasting.”
“Come visit,” I urged. “We could put the wheelchair on the ski rack.”
“Not yet. The doctor says not yet” He smiled at me. “We’re fine, you know. She knows you care and that’s what’s important.”
I nodded and waved as we pulled out, remembering how my mother always ran up and down our stairs, my father cautioning her to be careful, to go more slowly. He’d never need to do that again.
It was the last week. No exam in Speech, only a take-home project that involved taping young children’s speech and a paper discussing the quality and quantity of their language.
Figerito had handed out the final exam the week before. Amy Schwarzenbach said he did it to make himself look good. I didn’t know or care, I only wished to get through TSS and away from the likes of Figerito.
The last day. I saluted the sun with my orange juice, feeling strong, good. An hour later, I plopped my body off the low diving board at the pool in an almost dive that Amy and Ian had drilled me in and were sure would pass. Not the first time or the second – but finally on the third try, Mrs. Hogan did not call me back and I stroked the first of my fifty laps. Amy Schwarzenbach and Ian were finished when I was only half through, but they stationed themselves at either end and counted off the laps for me so I didn’t have to try to keep track. I had come to like swimming itself, the feeling of moving through another environment. Some primal instinct in my body was roused, and I wished that there were rocks and sand and weeds and other living organisms beneath me instead of painted blue cement.
“Forty-two,” Amy shouted, kneeling at the edge of the shallow end. I was breathing hard now and I rolled onto my back, almost floating, knowing it was not allowed, moving my arms and legs just enough not to inspire the wrath of Mrs. Hogan.
And there once again was Luke, floating in the air above me, his arms stretched wide as if he were flying – dipping, gliding like a gull against the river sky. At least I thought it was the river sky. I was back at the Thousand Islands. I rolled over and began a slow Australian crawl, pretending I was up, flying with Luke, moving with him across the sky, out of the gym, out of the state college, out of Falls City.
I felt my head touch something and my feet sank. It was Ian’s hand, cushioning my head from cement.
“Don’t stop!” he said. “Kick. Kick. Keep going. Only two more. You can do it. Just count the strokes. Count to a hundred. You can do a hundred strokes.”
Can I? Onto my side. One. Two. Three. Four … I tried to look up at the skylight to see if Luke was still there, but my head would not turn that far.
At the shallow end, Amy said, “You’re almost done. You’ve got it now, only one more lap.”
I looked around the pool as I turned. I was the only one left. I swam the last lap alone. But not quite. Amy walked beside me, counting off the strokes – and I was sure I could see a little of Luke’s blue jeans against the skylight.
“Seven and eight and – kick your feet – ten and –”
Her voice faded and I swam in a dream, moving through ghosts and voices from far away. And then Ian grabbed my hands and held them against the end of the pool.
“Okay. Okay. You did it, Mac. You swam the whole goddam fifty laps. Way to go! Breathe easy, now.”
A half hour later, Amy, Ian, and I sprawled on the grass behind the gym. They had bought a bottle of white wine to give to me. “For celebration if you passed, for consolation if you didn’t.”
There was, of course, nothing to do but open it. I toasted Amy and Ian, they toasted me and each other. State was a long way from Wellesley, but as far as I knew, nobody there had ever bought anybody a present for passing a course, or for failing it.
There was time to spare. There was no Speech class today, since there was no exam. All we had to do was drop off our tapes of children’s speech and typed comments and I had done that on my way to swimming as I passed the Speech building.
Figerito wanted us there, though.
“Gotta go,” Amy said.
Ian tipped his head back and drained the last of the wine from the bottle and then buried it in the soft dirt under a maple tree.
“You should have put a note in it,” Amy said. “So when they dig it up in a thousand years, they’ll know it was us.”
“Jeez,” Ian said. “This isn’t the Atlantic Ocean. I’m just cleaning up.”
But I noticed he touched her hand before we left and mumbled, “Pick you up at eight o’clock.”
He did not touch me. He stood with his hands in his pockets, body bent like a question mark, his head forward as he peered out at me from under his hat.
“See ya around, Mac.”
And all of a sudden he reminded me of Luke, and I answered him, promised him.
“See you, Ian.”
“He’s nice,” Amy said as we walked across the campus.
“Yes. He is.” My head and stomach felt slightly unstable, as though they were not connected to my arms and legs. Maybe drinking that wine at ten in the morning had not been such a great idea after all. I put my hand on Amy’s shoulder to steady myself as we crossed the street.
“You two should build a pool,” I said, remembering their lean, graceful bodies swimming, diving, rolling, turning in the water.
“Watch the curb,” Amy said.
A mistake. We’d lingered too long. Class had already started. Figerito was in canary yellow today and he swirled upon us as we lingered by the doorway. “Come in. Come in, little ladies. Don’t be shy.”
I slouched toward a seat in the back, imitating Ian, trying not to be visible. I wished I had a hat.
“No need to sit way back there. We’re a small group today. Come on down here, dears. Join us.”
I followed Amy to the middle of the room. The room was half empty; obviously a good percentage of the class had not come. Wiser than I. I put my hand on top of my head to adjust it. It seemed to be sloping to the right.
Canary yellow passed back and forth before my eyes as Figerito paced across the classroom lecturing animatedly about something. Big Bird. He looked rather like Big Bird. Unexpectedly he lighted beside me.
“Is it always evil?” he shouted at me.
“Pardon?” It was difficult to focus on him when he was so close.
“Evil? Wrong? Malodorous? … Well, is it?” His arms worked up and down. Big Bird flapping.
“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t have a glimmer of what he was talking about.
“Well, think. Think. You must have some opinion. Is violence always evil?”
His voice seemed far away, loud but far away as though he was shouting through a muted mike. Perspiration rolled down the side of his face and gathered in little pools at the end of each sideburn. Had I really been frightened of this man?
“Is violence always evil?” I repeated.
“Well, is it? Is it?”
I shook my head watching the perspiration patches darken on his shirt.
“No? Are you saying ‘no’?” He took a handkerchief, unbelievably bordered in yellow, out of his back pocket and mopped his face. “How can you say that? Give us an example.”
And from somewhere to the right, just beyond my head, I heard my voice telling Big Bird coolly, “Love-making can be violent without being evil.”
Silence. No one spoke. Only the squeak of chairs as a dozen or so twenty-year-old bodies turned to stare at me.
I could feel the blood rising in my own face, but my head was suddenly clear and firmly back in place.
Big Bird flapped to the front of the silent room.
“Love-making!” he squawked. “Love-making, whatever that may be, can be violent? Amazing! You learn a little something every day.”
City Kid Page 14