Swim the Fly

by Don Calame

  “Doesn’t have the slightest clue how to take care of a living creature,” Mrs. Hoogenboom says. “I mean, any person who would put a kitten in a box and then wrap it up in that thick Christmas paper . . . The poor thing could have suffocated. I’d like to know who it was just so I could give them a piece of my mind.”

  With this, Grandpa hoists himself to his feet. “Well, if we hear anything, we’ll be sure to let you know, Edith.”

  Mrs. Hoogenboom takes the cue and stands. She taps her lip like she’s thinking. Then she nods. “I know. I’ll just visit Gracie’s Pets. I’ll bring Daisy there and see if she was bought from them.”

  Grandpa’s face turns ghost white. I see his Adam’s apple bob hard in his throat. “Why, that’s a terrific idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” he says. “I think I’ll go with you. I could do with a drive.”

  Grandpa puts his hand on Mrs. Hoogenboom’s lower back and guides her from the kitchen. He looks back at me, with panic in his eyes. He makes a telephone out of his hand and fingers, holds it up to his cheek, and mouths, “Call the pet store.”

  I wish Grandpa would get someone else mixed up in his schemes. It’s not like I don’t have enough of my own problems.

  As soon as I hear the door close, I go over to the telephone and angrily flip through the yellow pages on the kitchen counter. I find the number for Gracie’s Pets and dial. As the phone rings, I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to tell them. Two old people will be coming in asking about a kitten, and could they please deny having sold it? They’re going to think I’m a prank caller.

  “Gracie’s Pets,” a woman’s voice, cold and serious, answers. She sounds more like a Catholic school nun than a pet store owner.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “I was wondering . . . My grandfather bought a kitten from you recently . . . He gave it as a present to someone and . . . The thing is . . . The lady he gave it to is bringing the kitten back to your store —”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says, sounding anything but. “We don’t accept returns on animals.”

  “Oh. No. It’s not about returning it.” I switch the phone to my left ear because my right one’s getting sweaty. “This lady just wants to know if your store was the one who sold the kitten.”

  “Why? Is something wrong? Our kittens are all thoroughly checked out before we get them. We can’t be held responsible for anything that happens once the animal leaves the store.”

  “The kitten’s fine,” I say. “It’s not that.”

  “Well, then, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s a little complicated. You see, the kitten was a surprise. And my grandpa doesn’t want this lady to know that he was the one who bought it.”

  “I’m not sure what it is you’re asking, young man.”

  “Okay. Look. Is there any way, when the lady comes into your store with my grandpa, that you could tell her that you didn’t sell the kitten? That you never saw the kitten before in your life?”

  A long, severe silence strangles the line like a boa constrictor.

  “So you want me to lie?” the woman finally says.

  Oh, crap. My neck and shoulders seize up. The phone is slick in my sweaty palm. I hold my breath, bracing for the onslaught.

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? You got me all worked up for nothing.”

  I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “So . . . you’ll say you didn’t sell the kitten, then?”

  “Kitten? What kitten? We haven’t sold a kitten in months.”

  I let out my breath. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. Thanks for calling Gracie’s Pets.” And with that, the woman hangs up.

  I put down the phone.

  Now that I’ve solved Grandpa’s problems, I can get back to tackling my own. I look over at the rooster clock on the wall. Dinner’s not for another couple of hours, which gives me some time to search online for a new, less conspicuous pool to practice at in the evenings.

  I can’t risk practicing at Rockville Avenue Pool anymore. Not after Kelly and Valerie showed up when they should have been eating dinner like everyone else. I need to go to a pool where there isn’t any chance I’ll run into someone I know. A pool where I can make an ass of myself in complete anonymity.

  I’M NOT REALLY ALLOWED into the Elk Hills Country Club. You’re supposed to have a membership or be accompanied by someone who has one, but I’m pretty sure I can sneak in without too much of a problem. We went there once, when I was about eight. The whole family was invited by a friend of my dad’s who showed us all how to do backflips off the diving board. They have a really nice Olympic-size pool and there’s almost no chance of me being seen by anyone from the Rockville Swimming Association. I figure if I just dress up nice, stroll in like I belong, then no one will look twice.

  I MapQuested Elk Hills and it’s supposed to be, like, ten minutes by car, so I can probably get there in a half hour on my bike. Which just means more exercise.

  I pull on a pair of khaki pants over my Speedo and button my only semi-clean dress shirt. It’s baby blue and has a few thumb-size grease stains on the front, but I’m sure nobody’s going to be looking that closely.

  I clip on my tie, tug on some dark socks, and buff out the scratches on my dress shoes. Being so dressed up is going to make it a little difficult to ride my bike, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I fling my towel around my neck, grab my goggles, my wallet, and my cell phone, and I’m off.

  As soon as I step into the hall, I see Mom dragging the Hoover up the stairs. I get that oh-crap-I’m-caught plunge in my belly. I think about darting back into my room, when I see her heading toward Pete’s bedroom. She’ll freak if she sees the mess from the “accident,” and maybe even call Pete. Which is why I put his big orange DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.

  Mom reaches for the doorknob, and I have to make a split-second decision.

  “Wait,” I call out. “What are you doing?” I hurry over to where she’s standing.

  Mom turns and smiles. “What does it look like I —” She squints at me. “What are you wearing?”

  I look down at my outfit, my towel, my goggles.

  I don’t really like to lie, though I seem to be doing a lot more of it lately. I particularly don’t like lying to Mom. Probably because Dad lied so much to her before they split up.

  But I’ve already built this house of cards, and it’s up to me to keep it standing.

  “It’s for the swim team photo.”

  “In your dress clothes? Don’t they always take the team photo at championships when you’re all in your swimsuits?”

  “They’re doing it different this year.”

  Mom looks me up and down. “Your shirt’s stained.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s the whole team together. The picture will be from far away. No one’ll even notice.”

  “Of course they’ll notice.”

  “Trust me. They want us to wear our towels around our necks and our goggles on our heads. We’re supposed to be the swim team with class. It’s stupid. Some photographer trying to be artistic or something.” I need to shut up before I dig myself deeper than I already am. I feel the pits of my shirt getting wet. She’s not buying any of this — I know it.

  “You should at least have a nicer shirt.”

  “This is the only one I have that’s clean.”

  “Well, I’m sure your brother has something you can wear.” Mom grabs Pete’s bedroom doorknob and starts to push the door open.

  “No!” I lunge for the handle and yank it closed.

  Mom stares at me, eyes wide. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, positioning myself between Mom and the door. “It’s just . . . Pete has his do-not-disturb sign up and . . . I’m sure it’s for a reason.”

  Mom gives me that sideways, skeptical look. “It’s very nice of you to be so protective of your brother’s privacy, but I’m sure he didn’t mean for
me not to clean his room for three weeks. Now please move out of the way.”

  “No,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “Matt. What’s going on?”

  Oh, God, here we go again. I take a deep breath. “Pete asked me to make sure you didn’t go into his room.”

  “Why?”

  A good question. I wish I’d thought that far ahead.

  “He got you a birthday present,” I blurt. Mom’s birthday isn’t for two months, but it’s the only thing I could think of. “And it’s huge. Way too big to hide anywhere. So . . . if you go in, you’ll ruin the surprise.”

  “Okaaay,” she says, regarding Pete’s closed bedroom door over my shoulder with what looks like deep suspicion. “So I’m not supposed to go into his room until September?”

  I realize now that I am a terrible, terrible liar. I mean, how am I supposed to get a picture of my entire swim team in dress clothes with towels around their necks and goggles on their heads? And how am I supposed to get Pete to buy Mom a giant, unhideable present? What would that even be? A statue? A totem pole?

  “I guess not,” I say. “Unless, of course, he decides to return it. Which he might. He was talking about it. I don’t know. He wasn’t sure you’d like it. Besides, how messy could his room be, right?” My eyes slide away as I picture the wreckage just beyond that door. “Anyway.” I look at my wrist. There’s no watch there, but I pretend there is. “I have to go. I’m going to be late. Ms. Luntz’ll freak.”

  I make my move toward the stairs and call over my shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’ll give Pete’s room a once-over before he comes back.”

  I catch a glimpse of Mom’s dumbfounded look as I dart into the stairwell. I have no idea if she believes me or not, but I’m pretty sure I’ve stalled her for a while.

  I’ll deal with it later.

  Right now I have more important things to do. Like sneaking into the Elk Hills Country Club and getting some practice in.

  IT WAS A BIG MISTAKE to ride my bike wearing my dress shoes. I’ve got massive, bursting blisters on the backs of both my feet that sting like scalding bacon grease with every pedal revolution.

  I pull into the circular drive of the Elk Hills Country Club and lock my bicycle up to the rack out front. The club looks like a stretched-out old-fashioned white clapboard schoolhouse. The hedges have been squared off, and the tulips in the flower beds are all evenly spaced. A flagpole stands in the middle of the round driveway, with the Stars and Stripes hanging limply above what I can only guess is the Elk Hills Country Club blue-and-white flag all curled up around itself.

  Now that I’m here, I’m starting to feel nervous. I tried to remember my dad’s friend’s name on the ride over. But it never came to me. I’d been planning to drop his name if anyone questioned me. Now I just pray no one stops me or makes me check in.

  I breathe deeply and stand up straight and tall. I don’t know why I think rich people have good posture, but I just figure they do. I walk up to the front and hold the door open for a short lady in a pantsuit. She smiles at me, her teeth smudged with lipstick.

  I walk into the country club and scan around for some clue as to where the pool is located. The place smells like lemon oil and ammonia. It’s pretty nice — white and black tiles on the floor, dark wood beams on the ceiling — but not nearly as fancy as I remembered from when I was eight. There are some very boxy brown cross-hatched chairs surrounding a round glass coffee table. A few tall plants in the corners. Some golf-course paintings on the walls. There are quite a few people milling about. Some are dressed up, but others are more casual.

  I pass by the reception desk without a hitch. The willowy woman in her navy Elk Hills Country Club uniform is too busy doing paperwork to notice me.

  There’s a wooden sign at the back of the lobby with arrows pointing in various directions. To the clubhouse. To the Elk Hills Café. To the ballroom. And, bingo. The swimming pool.

  The hall that leads to the pool is lined with framed photographs. I have to do a sort of shuffle-walk to stop my dress shoes from chafing the backs of my raw heels. A tall man in a dark suit heads toward me, so I pretend I’m interested in the pictures. Each one has a little typed caption: GROUNDBREAKING, RIBBON CUTTING, 1995 RENOVATION. It’s pretty boring stuff, but the tall guy passes by without hassling me.

  The entrance to the pool is guarded by a metal gate and a wooden table with a clipboard resting on it. I don’t remember what you’re supposed to do here, if you’re supposed to sign in or wait for someone or what.

  Several loud snaps and the sound of laughter float over the air. I peek through the fence and see a group of five boys in shorts and T-shirts, running in circles down by the deep end, trying to get away from each other. They’re all around my age, and they’re whipping each other with rolled-up towels. A man and a woman, both wearing straw hats, are playing Scrabble at one of the poolside tables. An older woman in a bikini and sunglasses is reclining on a lounge chair, reading a book.

  There’s no one here to stop me from going in. I take a step toward the gate when I hear someone walk up behind me.

  “You are here for the swimming?” It’s a man with some sort of Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.

  I turn back and see the guy standing there. He’s got spiked white-blond hair and a wiry muscular body under a tight green golf shirt. His cheeks are sunken, and darkened with a few days of stubble.

  “Umm . . . Yes,” I say.

  He taps a black-painted fingernail on the clipboard. “You will sign in here.” I notice now that all of the fingernails on his left hand are painted black. Weird.

  I grab the pen that’s tied to the clipboard and scrawl an illegible signature. I’m hoping that the guy won’t even look.

  But he does, squinting as he tries to read what I’ve written. “What is this?”

  “My signature.”

  He looks at me. “What is your name?”

  I have to think quick. Something wealthy sounding. “Arthur,” I say.

  “Arthur what?”

  “Arthur . . . ummm . . . Bottomly . . . the third.”

  The guy nods. “I am Ulf.” He holds out his hand for me to shake.

  I shake his hand, wondering why I’m shaking his hand. Country club protocol?

  “We must get started. Come.” Ulf turns on his heel and marches through the gate.

  Get started? I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I follow him anyway.

  We walk over to the five boys horsing around by the diving boards.

  Ulf claps his hands once. “Enough!”

  All five boys drop their towels and freeze.

  Ulf gives us a lips-only smile. It’s like the smile you get from the principal right before he announces your punishment.

  Ulf starts to pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “Welcome to Advanced Aquatic Lifesaving Skills. You are about to experience the most intense and grueling five weeks of your life. This training is not for the soft or the weak. My course is unlike any other lifesaving program in the country. In my class there are only two options: you either pass. Or you die.”

  I am looking around at the other kids to see if this is a joke. But their faces are gray and stony.

  “They say humans cannot survive more than three days without water.” Ulf bangs his fist on his chest. “They are wrong. I survived seven days. Treading in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. No food. No water. Nothing.”

  Uh-oh. This is a mistake. I have to get out of this right now. I raise my hand.

  Ulf doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps pacing.

  “This is why anything I do to you here, in this puny pool, will be a piece of pie. If you want to complain, do it to your mommies, because I have lived through hell and I do not want to hear about it.”

  I stretch my hand higher. “Umm, excuse me.”

  “And so.” Ulf stops right in front of me and stares into my eyes. “If there are no questions, we will start today by honoring my survival.” He points to the pool. �
�By treading water. For one half hour.”

  Several of the boys start to take off their sneakers and their shorts.

  “With our clothes on.” Ulf’s eyes are still locked on mine. “Schnell!”

  All the kids immediately leap into the pool, fully clothed.

  I don’t move. “Uh . . . Mr. Ulf,” I say.

  “There is no Mr. Ulf. There is only Ulf.”

  “Okay.” I feel my mouth getting pasty. “Ulf. I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be in this class.”

  Ulf grins, big and toothy. “You do not think I have heard this excuse before?”

  “No. You don’t understand. It’s not an excuse.”

  Ulf isn’t listening. He just grabs my shoulders and starts pushing me toward the pool.

  “Wait. No. Wait.”

  But he’s not waiting. He’s shoving. The soles of my dress shoes have no tread and just skid along the concrete, my blisters screaming in agony.

  I’m no match for Ulf, so I try to do some quick damage control, pulling my wallet and cell phone out of my pockets and flinging them toward the benches. My cell phone skitters along the pavement, and my wallet strews its contents all over.

  So much for damage control.

  We’ve reached the edge of the pool, and Ulf gives one last heave, sending me flailing into the water.

  “YOU WILL THANK ME when you are stranded at sea,” Ulf calls to us from the comfort of dry land. He’s still pacing like a hungry tiger. “I am saving your life. In advance.”

  We have been treading water for twenty-seven minutes now. My clothes are so weighed down that I can barely keep my head above water. All of us are huffing and puffing. I was already in pain from my extreme weight-lifting routine, but now I am beyond sore.

  Several times during this torture, I have attempted to do a dead man’s float just to catch a second of rest, but every time I’ve tried it, I’ve felt a dive ring smack me in the back of the head.

  “You will be diving down to retrieve every one of those rings, Mr. Bottomly,” Ulf said to me after he’d hit me the third time.