I called the Schell house immediately afterward to thank and congratulate Katie, but only reached the answering machine, which always made me feel like a phony performing for Mr. and Mrs. Schell. I hung up a few moments after the beep, suddenly struck by an undeniable guilt in having co-opted Katie for the purpose of winning her sister. I confronted this guilt over the following weeks of idle afternoons with the Schell girls—Emily was now Katie’s and my official a fter-school chauffeur—when I challenged myself to militant avoidance of less than sincere questioning, or laughing, or any variation on those themes. Even as the autumn leaves reached the stride of their sleepy downfall, when Katie relapsed and was rendered more or less bedridden, I never resorted to platitudes or false tenderness or pity. When I visited Katie in the hospital I visited her because I was inspired by her truculence in the face of her pockmarked doctor and his know-it-all assistants. I visited her because I didn’t feel the need to make a fraud of myself in order to win her ease and affection. I visited her because most of the time I managed to distract her enough to make her laugh, and my response to this laughter was one of the cleanest sentiments I’d ever known.
So now can I admit the pride I felt in winning Katie Schell’s approval and implicit support in pursuing her sister? The hope I gleaned from the knowledge that I’d passed a checkpoint where even Emily’s closest girlfriends were stopped short? I won Katie’s favor to a degree that Emily was soon asking my advice on how to better encourage her sister to comply with her doctor’s instructions and stop threatening to replace him with a bee venom therapist. She even started loosening the reins on her infamous self-discretion (which I somehow related to her walking and talking much faster than before), giving me hope that we’d soon engage in a less ambivalent course of romance. Of course Mrs. Schell still remained an obstacle, but whatever efforts she made to discourage our friendship probably only pushed Emily even closer. At least it added an element of danger to things, which in my mind made our courtship even more bittersweet.
Eight
That first winter in Des Moines I grew a final inch and a half, cut fifteen pounds, and by some feat of smitten bravado outwres tled my four main competitors for a slot on the varsity squad. I credit much of this success to Emily’s techniques of thespian vicariousness that allowed me to wrestle as a man more muscular than myself. “Who are you?” she would ask me. “The Great Dan Gable,” I’d answer. “The greatest there ever was. The lightweight from Waterloo who won state three years in a row.” But most of my free time was dedicated to Gable-esque training routines and even my lazy afternoons with the Schell girls were forced to the fringes. Weeknights were occupied by three-hour practices that left us so drained we could barely make the steps up to bed, while weekends were dedicated to tournaments and Saturday-night celebrations relegated to team movies and celery sticks, the “negative food” that supposedly took more calories to digest than it contained. I wrestled at one hundred forty pounds, despite a natural weight of one hundred fifty-five. Half my mornings before school were spent in a rubber workout suit riding a stationary bike. On match days I transferred the same routine to the sauna in order to lose as much water weight as possible before the afternoon weigh-in. Occasionally I’d receive a note from Coach Grady excusing me from French, which in view of the emphasis on crepe-making and Gérard Depardieu screenings, was considered a faux pas subject for wrestlers. When Grady noticed too many of us appearing fatty-jowled and energetic, he’d shut off the water fountain at some secret underground source, then post an OUT OF ORDER sign so no one could accuse him of mistreating us. The wrestling room thermostat was often OUT OF ORDER as well, cranking itself up to ninety degrees in synch with his fantastical temper. Grady even taught a geography class for wrestlers that he split between rote statistical memorization (capital populations, square footage of city centers, percentage of religious minorities, etc.) and film review of the previous week’s matches.
We were a tightly glued unit, if not by our hunger, then by the chorus of our coach’s cries for a return to the furious days of national champions and Olympic contenders that our team had known under his own tutelage in the seventies and eighties. But unlike Smitty—my undaunted comrade, bound to the sport by filial duty—my reasons for sticking with the program had greatly changed since the early Davenport days when it was enough just to view myself as a scrapper and socially esteemed brute who didn’t turn his back to anyone. Given the new dedication required of me, my expectations of the sport swelled in proportion with its demands. I now required answers from my opponents, considering each of them an unwitting host to a particular question related to my quest for futuristic certainty. “Will I ever hump that older Perkins hostess and reputed emotionally detached cherry-popper who’ll teach me all the tricks for expert sex with Emily Schell?” I’d puffed my chest out and throw my chin in the air as I marched onto the mat. “You tell me, Anthony Turner. You Mason City son of a bitch.”
But I lost more matches than I won and by Christmas break I was hungry, depressed, and at great risk of losing the faith that I would ever know Emily Schell as more than a friend. Our entire socialization was now taking place in the confines of a religious arts course that met once a week and was only subsidized by lesser, more random encounters reigned upon by nagging teachers and student show-offs. (The effect of these installments could be compared to the sexual teasing of a circus elephant in an overcrowded tent moments before his juggling act.) I can’t count the number of times that, in grave hunger and frustration, I nearly succumbed to a midnight spaghetti binge and subsequent trip to West Des Moines for a tree-climbing, love-pronouncing, second-story proposition. In Emily’s absence music was just racket, the brightest and most fantastical clouds no more than loitering vapor. I’m now reminded of a night I spent slumped over my bedroom desk listing the health hazards of wrestling and the benefits of quitting when she called to report the news that Katie’s MS symptoms had officially remitted. (While My Ántonia contains no shortage of pickle references, I’ve since scoured its pages only to find, time and time again, in differing editions, that there exists not a single pickle in the pastoral picnic scene Katie related during my first hospital visit.) The pain in her legs had fallen to a minimum, which implied a return to what the Schell family called her “big time” mood or, in its most extreme form, her “great balls of fire” mood. Feeling an immediate remission of my own, I learned that Katie’s initial resurgence manifested itself over a hardworking Saturday spent choreographing a front-yard Christmas display, which included a life-sized Santa Claus gleefully whipping his reindeer. By noon she’d already hung enough strings of light to safely reach her goal of doubling the electric bill. Then she wrapped the mailbox in a garland and lined the driveway with illuminant candy canes, all the while arguing the case for her father’s purchase of an artificial snowmaker in case Mother Nature refused to comply with the Christmas spirit. Apparently Mrs. Schell was in a big-time mood as well, as Emily explained:
“Yesterday, out of nowhere, she bought eggnog and rum and called all the girls from her tennis team over. It started off pretty tame, with holiday music, a bunch of middle-aged girls making pine wreaths for their front doors—”
“She didn’t call me over. I like eggnog and rum. Your mom and I have more in common than I thought. I have a pretty good backhand, too. It’s two-handed.”
“My mom will be thrilled to know,” she said. “The point is that by about five o’clock she was feeling pretty good. I can’t say she was drunk, but she was pretty good and tipsy. That’s when my dad showed up from the basement with an old guitar. There was no way she could say no with her friends all buzzed up, hooting and cheering her name. Well, let’s just say I learned a little something about Maureen Schell. Not only can she play, but the woman can friggin’ sing.”
“Where did this guitar come from? What other secrets is she keeping? Do you even know this woman?”
“I thought I did. Have you ever heard a song called ‘Edelweiss’?”
“My mom’s got a music box that plays ‘Edelweiss.’ The Sound of Music is her favorite movie.”
“Well, we practically grew up watching that movie. Every time we had a babysitter we watched it, and Katie knows all the lines by heart. I’m talking verbatim.”
“Did you know your mom even had a guitar?”
“Hang on,” she said, the sound of her voice immediately reverberating. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Merry Christmas, George Flynn,” Katie said, after a long pause. “Can you believe it? It’s unreal, isn’t it? Did you know my mom used to be Southern Baptist? She converted after she met my grandma Schell, who when you meet her someday you’ll see that she wears rosaries like costume jewelry.”
“Merry Christmas,” I said. “It sounds like there’s some kind of revolution happening over there.”
“It’s huuuuge. So when are you coming over to view the most fantastic holiday display in greater Des Moines? I can assure you it’s not over-the-top, either. It’s very tasteful, as opposed to the display put on by those fanatics from Ankeny who made the front page of the communities section with a shining blood-and-guts Jesus on a cross. Our Jesus is sleeping peacefully in a crib, well protected by two wings of nutcracker soldiers. Have you heard that I’m requesting a dog for Christmas?”
“No one ever gets a dog for Christmas. That only happens in commercials for long-distance phone companies.”
“Listen here, pal, I’ve been tolerant all year long. I’m not planning to beg, but this is all I’m asking for. Nothing else, just a dog who only answers to me.”
“Miniature poodle?” I asked, relieved to hear Katie admit such a wish and finally act like a seventh grader with a normal IQ. This sentiment fizzled as soon as she began paging through a canine encyclopedia, giving what seemed a planned presentation on the pros and cons of half a dozen breeds.
“The bulldog suggests stability, vigor, and strength. His disposition is equable and kind, resolute and courageous, not vicious or aggressive. Of course I’m smarter than to ask for a bulldog for Christmas, despite the Yale connection, which would score big with my dad. Anyway, near the end of their lives, they drool a lot and breathe super heavy. Not gonna go over very well with Maureen.”
“What about a retriever or a Weimaraner?”
“Too big and too hairy. They’ll shed all over the carpet. Besides, I don’t want a dog whose name I can’t even pronounce. Weimaraiemer? That’s not going to work at all. Listen to this. The beagle is gregarious, outgoing, and playful. He is happiest around people, especially children, and makes a great family dog.”
“Sounds perfect for you.”
“Perfect for everyone! Of course they shed a tiny bit, but that can be reduced by buying high-quality food, like Nutro. And don’t be fooled by their size—they make very good guard dogs. I’ll probably have to take it to college with me anyway, so I might as well have a dog that can give me some protection. Anyway, what are you asking for? A new Speedo for your spring break trip to Cancún?”
(More than once I fell victim to an overwhelming suspicion that Katie Schell was reading my mind. While I would likely never have saved enough money for a spring break in Cancún or Lake Okoboji or anywhere else, the mere mention of the word alerted me to the details of my previous night’s dream, which was highlighted by a diving excursion where I scared off a barracuda on the verge of attacking a yellow-bikinied and scuba-uncertified Emily Schell. This confrontation involved a series of matador-like taunts with Emily’s bikini top, and ended with Emily throwing her mask off and wrapping her arms around my neck the moment I met her at the surface. Then she kissed me as though expecting this kiss to keep us afloat and motor us back to shore, which it did.)
“The only thing I’ll be getting this year is a case of cauliflower ear.”
Katie sighed and repeated my answer to Emily. “You’re making yourself sick. Even my mom said so. Coach Grady shouldn’t be able to just tell you what weight you’re going to wrestle.”
“Your mom’s worried about me?”
“Well, not exactly. She made it sound like it was your own damn fault for letting him push you around. If you don’t start eating right, there’s a good chance your hair will fall out and nobody will recognize you anymore, and one day when you show up to school the security guy will be like, Hurry it along, you old pedophile! You kiddie pornmonger! Scram! ”
“Gimme that phone,” Emily shouted, laughing, but also attempting in all seriousness to pull rank. By the sudden giggling and rustling through the receiver I understood that Katie wasn’t ready to give the phone up, and they were now grappling over it. (I figured that Katie would eventually lose, likely surrendering in the midst of being tickle tortured. But I also assumed that as soon as she could take no more, she’d probably hang up.)
“WE MISS YOU, GEORGE!” she shouted, then loosed a series of atomic yelps. By the sound of Katie’s and her sister’s spastic breaths, it seemed the match was livening up to more than a casual scrapple. I could only guess the following thumping, crashing, and screeching noises to be the natural sound effects of a chase sequence involving multiple flights of chairs, two slammed doors, and at least one kitchen chair (close-combat barrier?) knocked over onto a hardwood floor. While sitting idly on the other end of the line I could’ve confessed all sorts of truths about my desire to join the pursuit and furthermore direct the battle to what I imagined was a spacious master bedroom bed. I could’ve stated my crude thoughts loud and clear, casually, without any embarrassment, and in fact I did. The question is if either of the Schell girls ever heard them.
Nine
Over the following two months the St. Pius Dragoons suffered a series of rivalry-intensive dual match losses that more or less devastated the season, despite our last-minute comeback to place fourth at the state tournament. In standing with previous seasons, I finished with a dual match record of 10-10 and a healthy collection of tournament medals for third place, which in Coach Grady’s opinion weren’t worth mentioning because they only highlighted my unrealized potential. But the disappointment of proving myself a varsity-level failure was almost immediately nullified by the news that the triptych Emily and I produced as a main requirement of our arts course (picture Emily’s three winged warriors in broad strokes, goggle-eyed and fat as senatorial gluts, resting by their spears and breastplates of gold-leaf gilt, my Masonite panels and leather-bound framework) won the art department’s award for best collaborative work. What was most significant about this achievement was that our triptych was displayed in the main hallway with our names rendered below it in roman calligraphy on goatskin parchment, courtesy of an unnamed parish house artisan.
This final detail, in combination with a glossy photo of Emily half blushing with her head against my shoulder, gave several of her devotees the notion that I’d finally consummated our relationship. This meant that for the time being they were better off gunning for Christina Walters, St. Pius’s own Cinderella, who in the last year sprouted forth from horsey faced obscurity to local goddess. (While I admit to attending more than my fair share of volleyball games and even allowing Christina the occasional minor role in the burlesque striptease of my bedtime self-abuse, I never considered her horny little strut any match for Emily’s talent, which inspired a much greater volume of jealousy than any of us would have wished.) In addition to the suggestion of our publicized art, the student body’s assumptions could also be attributed to a few of my nonverbal, but undoubtedly coy, responses to their prurient queries concerning the depth of our communion. After one such response, in a rare moment of religious self-criticism, I accused myself of chickenshit disloyalty and vowed never again to succumb to such weaknesses of my Davenport past when I’d exaggerated sexual encounters that in reality amounted to no more than fumblings with girls I didn’t care much for—savage tongue attacks at the movies, a few dry humps behind the couch in Kevin’s basement, a dizzying hand job in shouting distance of bare-legged teachers and hyperactive
volunteer lifeguards at a school anniversary pool party.
I would like to think that the decision not to overplay my relationship with Emily reflected a budding sense of maturity and self-confidence. Unfortunately, this is not the case. In my heart I knew I was acting on base superstition, the feeling that even the most minor duplicity would sow a seed of bad luck that would grow and spread and consume everything around it. For the time being I took nothing for granted, knowing it was possible that Emily had greater plans for us, but equally possible that I would remain no more than her most devout supporter whom the impending business of college and real life would all but erase.
For better or worse, in the weeks after the state tournament Emily and I returned to our idle afternoons, wandering trails at Walnut Creek, catching matinees at Billy Joe’s Picture Show, or simply people watching and eavesdropping at the coffee counter of the Flying J truck stop. Katie joined us for at least half of these outings, whenever she wasn’t tied up with physical therapy, or debate team, or any number of tutoring sessions related to her vast array of academic ambitions. On these days I almost always voted to spend the afternoon at Lions Park, where, for one reason or another, while sprawled out on the lawn, Emily was prone to share her opinions on matters more personal than Greek tragedies and theatrical schools of thought. I remember perfectly the day we secreted ourselves to a small patch of lawn beyond the sight barrier of two tennis courts with ivy-cloaked fences, the soft purr of a riding lawn mower droning to and fro, the cries of an umpire calling balls and strikes, the high-pitched clinks of aluminum bats. Next come the scents of watermelon bubble gum, freshly cut grass, the musky perfume of Emily’s leather backpack softening in the sun. Summer was making a gallant move and we were unusually quiet that day, careful not to scare it off. Emily was lying on her back with her knees up and her bare feet sliding back and forth over the grass, blowing small green bubbles, shading her eyes with one hand, scratching at the odd chigger bite with the other. Meanwhile I perused the sports pages, occasionally pinching the padding of weight I’d suddenly regained in my hips and torso, and torturing myself by a furtive attention to the squiggling adjustments of Emily’s unsilenceable form.
Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter Page 6