You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive)

by Robert Bruce Cormack

  The intermediate level—according to Silvio—takes us back over the original dances, practicing now the subtleties of each step. “You will now learn to be graceful,” he says, and I’m sure he’s looking at me.

  We start out doing some simple moves, and I still step on Mary’s toes, but we cut reasonable figures. Then Silvio takes Carmen out on the floor. “We will show you once again the promenade hold.” To the sound of the bandoneon, they dance from one end of the room to the other, gliding away with Carmen smiling the whole time. Above, the disco ball glitters, throwing swarms of light squares across the floor and up Carmen’s legs. The woman’s a treat. “I wish we moved like that, Sam,” Mary says.

  “We’d need a gallon of Latin blood,” I say

  As they finish, everyone applauds, Silvio bows, and Carmen raises her hand. They walk off the floor and into the dressing room.

  “I could dance every day of my life,” Mary says.

  “You’ll have to settle for twice a week.”

  “We did wonderfully tonight, Sam.”

  “We shouldn’t press our luck.”

  Coming up the driveway later, I see an elderly neighbor using her car remote. Beep, beep, beep. She’s an ancient old thing, always hobbling about in her garden, trying to pick up the garden hose with her cane. She bought a new car last month. She’s still trying to figure out the keyless entry system. “Having trouble?” I ask.

  “I can’t tell if it’s locked or unlocked,” she says.

  I go over and check. “It’s locked,” I say. She goes inside. Five minutes later, Beep, beep, beep. Probably using it to turn on the television.

  Chapter 71

  It’s the usual mayhem getting Muller up. If he doesn’t see a hint of sunlight, he rolls over and goes back to sleep. Judy pushes from one side, I pull from the other. He stumbles off to the washroom. I start loading his stuff in the car. Muller travels with a bunch of old army surplus knapsacks, each with decals from God knows where. One even says, “Welcome to the Moon. Thanks for visiting.”

  We get on the road, driving north towards Oshkosh. Muller sleeps for the first hour, making a smacking sound with his lips. Just south of Lomira on 41, he sits up. “Can you pull over, Sam?” he asks. I stop near a stand of birches so Muller can have a piss. He comes from a state where trees are as wide as houses. A birch isn’t much cover for someone his size, especially the way he pisses.

  We’re off again, cutting over on 45 to the lodge. We get there and start unloading our gear. Then Muller stands on the dock. He looks dumb as hell in his camouflage shorts with a t-shirt that says, “Big Bear”, something I wouldn’t do in this state. When Nick and Dewey arrive, we take our luggage to the lodge. Muller’s carrying a tote bag full of herbs and spices. Nick and Dewey think he’s kidding.

  “Is he for real, Sam?” Nick says, and I tell him Muller’s a cook supreme. “Let’s see how he does on a shore fry,” Nick says. He’s put on weight. Both of them have. Of the two, Dewey seems to be carrying it better. Nick’s gut looks like it could explode. Dewey’s hat is covered in trout flies he’s tied himself. Muller keeps looking at Dewey’s hat. “I tie them myself,” Dewey says to him. “Take a look.” Dewey hands Muller his hat.

  “Nice,” Muller says.

  The lodge itself is a barnlike structure, a throwback to the forties. The cabins are spread all over, some back in the woods, some closer to the water. Outboards float in a long line tied to the dock. They bounce up and down in unison. Once we’ve signed in, we take our rods and coolers to a cabin near the main dock. Nick and Dewey take one bedroom, Muller and I the other.

  Muller makes dinner from stuff he brought up in assorted Baggies. “He certainly gets into his work,” Nick says, but he’s soon eating away, telling Muller he cooks like a dream.

  We make an early night of it. The plan is to head out before sunrise. We’re heading up the river to this place Dewey knows about. He’s big on lures, but Nick prefers worms. Worms make Muller squeamish. I packed a rubber one for him. “Thanks, Sam,” he says, taking it and clipping it to one of his leads.

  We fish most of the morning, then Muller starts bringing food out of the cooler. Everything’s wrapped in tin foil. Nick and Dewey scarf the burritos like crazy, asking what he puts in them.

  “Monterrey Jack,” Muller says and Nick says, “Your son-in-law is spoiling us, Sam.” Then Dewey brings out a bottle of Wild Turkey, and we sip that, casting out our lines.

  “So, Sam,” Nick says, loosening his vest. “What’s this I hear about you putting a pressed ham on Frank’s partition?”

  “Moment of whimsy,” I say. “Max gave me a little going away present. A joint, actually. We did it in the washroom.”

  “Who’s Max?” Nick says.

  “Our night security guard.”

  “Skinny kid?” Nick says. “I remember him. He used to hang around your office. Gave you a joint, huh? Never figured you for the goofy stuff, Sam. How was it?”

  “I mooned a liquor store.”

  “You do the wacky tobaccy, Muller?”

  “A brownie here and there.”

  “Smokin’ joints, eating brownies. You’re making Dewy and me feel like old maids. Any chance you brought some with you?”

  “I could make some brownies. Is that all right, Sam?”

  “Is that”—Nick’s big head goes all red—“is that okay? What the hell you askin’ him for? You have the makings for grass brownies?”

  “I thought we came up to fish, Nick,” I say.

  “We got four days, Sam. You saying we can’t do both?” Nick and Dewey have their big bellies on their knees. “How much grass you got, Muller?” Nick says.

  “An ounce, I guess.”

  “An—what’s wrong with you two?” Nick says. “We come up here to have a good time and you’re holding out on the goofy stuff?” Dewey laughs and pulls down the brim on his hat. “Hell,” Nick says. “I’m ready to cut bait now.”

  “You sure it’s okay, Sam?” Muller says.

  “I told you, Muller,” Nick says. “Stop askin’ him what to do. The man paints houses, for chrissake. Who’s this woman you work for?”

  “Her name’s Ruby,” Muller says.

  “What’s gotten into you, Sam? Dewey’s bought into three framing stores. I’m raking in fifty thou from the craft show circuit alone.”

  “Sam’s trying to find his niche,” Muller says.

  “Trying to find his nuts is more like it,” Nick says. “Nothing worse than a guy sitting on his thumbs. That’s not like you, Sam. Hand me a worm, will you?”

  We fish for a couple more hours, catching a bluegill and a crappie in the cabbage grass. Back in our cabin, Muller starts baking. The fish are out on the barbecue, wrapped in tinfoil, surrounded by lemons, garlic and leek. Dewey sets the table while Nick watches Muller dish out the food. We eat with a breeze coming in across the river, leaves rustling in the maples. Muller gets up and checks on the brownies. He brings the tray out of the oven, putting them in a wicker basket.

  Nick and Dewey toss them between their hands. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Nick says, taking a bite, then grabbing a glass of milk. “Hot. Good, though.”

  “Watch yourself,” I say. “They sneak up on you.”

  “I don’t need a lesson in grass brownies.” On the second brownie, his eyes go big as high beams. “Holy smoke,” he says. Dewey’s bifocals slide down his nose.

  “Let me tell you about that pappy-in-law of yours there,” Nick says to Muller. “He did some good stuff in his day. Least you had spunk then, Sam. Old age catching up to you, or what?” Nick is munching away.

  “Slow down, Nick,” I say. We’ve got two more days.” Dewey starts examining his flies.

  “Sam,” Nick says, leaning over the table. “You got brains, for cryin’ out loud. What the hell’s the problem with you?”

  “Who says there’s a problem?”

  “You lose your mojo? Tell your buddy the truth.”

  “I’m still work
ing that out.” Muller sits back, eyes half closed.

  “What”—Nick’s staring over— “What’s Big Bear on your t-shirt for, Muller? That a local soft ball league or something?”

  “Judy calls me her Big Bear. She had it made up.”

  “They’re trying to get pregnant,” I say.

  “Not on this doggone stuff, you won’t,” Nick laughs. “It’ll turn your wiggly into a raisin, Muller.”

  “That’s what my doctor says.” Nick and Dewey laugh.

  “Krupsky’s an asshole,” I say.

  “That your doctor?” Nick asks.

  “He’s the reason we took up dancing.”

  “You’re dancing?” Dewey asks.

  “He thinks it’ll make me healthy,” I say.

  “Probably lose your wiggly altogether.”

  “You’ve obviously never done the tango,” I say.

  “Tango?” Nick says, “What’s gotten into you two?”

  “It’s the dance of love,” I say. “Muller’s good at it.”

  “You’re getting better, Sam.”

  “Painting houses and doing the tango?”

  Dewey suddenly falls out of his chair. His white foam soles stick up in the air. We sit there staring at his shoes. “I landed on my hat,” Dewey says. Muller helps him up and pulls a hook from Dewey’s ass. Nick howls. “I think I just pissed myself,” he says, lifting his belly. “Look at that. I pissed myself.”

  Muller takes a rod leaning again the wall. “I think I’ll fish off the dock,” he says.

  He goes out and Nick leans across. “Listen, Sam,” he says. “Dewey and me got a business proposition. We’re taking on investors. Dewey’s found some guy who carves his own frames. Really nice designs. We can get a bunch copied in Thailand. Maybe a buck a piece.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “Do with”—Nick bangs the table—“Do with them? Sell them, you moron. Out of Dewey’s shops. Through my trade shows.”

  Dewey’s up looking out the window. “Muller’s dancing out there,” Dewey says. We look out and see a small light above the gas pump shining on Muller. His arms are going all over the place. “Something’s wrong,” I say.

  “Let him dance, Sam,” Nick says.

  “That’s not the way he dances,” I say.

  We go down and find Muller’s hand caught in a pike’s mouth. “I was getting my hook out and it bit me,” Muller says.

  “Don’t pull on it,” I say. “Their teeth go inward.” Dewey and I pull the pike’s jaws back. Muller’s hand is bleeding pretty badly. We take him up to the cabin and get out the first aid kit. He sits at the table holding his hand. He keeps asking if he can get rabies.

  The grass runs out on the next batch of brownies. Nick gets on the phone, asking someone at the lodge if they have any. They hang up on him. Then Muller finds another small baggie in his knapsack. “Thank you, Jesus,” Nick says, and ends up pissing himself again. “I’m gonna need a catheter one of these days. I’m already using sanitary nappies for my hemorrhoids.”

  Next morning, we pack up and take everything to the cars. “Keep in touch,” Nick says. We shake hands. “And don’t forget that idea we talked about, Sam. So long, Big Bear.” Muller keeps checking his hand for signs of rabies.

  Chapter 72

  There’s a letter from Frank on the kitchen counter when we get home. The first thing I notice are all the exclamation points:

  Sam,

  You hit the fucking nail on the head the other week! People are going to the dogs grammatically. I had lunch with an old friend of mine earlier—textbook publisher. I pitched an idea over dessert. You’re going to write grammar books, Sam—rules for texting, blogging, etc! Sort of a Dr. Seuss kind of thing. We’ll find a cartoonist. You write some pithy rules, he illustrates. Get ready to boogie, Sam! We’re fucking on our way!

  Frank

  It’s hard to know if he’s kidding or not. I call his office and he says, “Just write what you said on air, Sam. Give’m hell, but do it in a Seuss kind of way. Get my drift?”

  The next morning, I’m in the basement. My laptop is open on a rusty TV table. I’ve even taken a hit of oxygen for a little pick-me-up. Behind the furnace, there’s a box filled with Judy’s old Dr. Seuss books: The Lorax, Horton, Uncle Terwilliger. I drag them out, dust them off. In the words of Seuss, Frank wants me to plant a truffula.

  I start reading this one book where it says you can swallow what’s solid, but you have to spit out air. I yell upstairs to Judy, “Come down here, sweetheart. Daddy has a question.”

  She thumps down in a baggy tracksuit. “What is it, Daddy?” she says.

  “You used to love this stuff. What does ‘swallow what’s solid and spit out air’ mean?”

  “Don’t waste time on things that don’t matter.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Thanks. I’ll call if I need you again.”

  “No problem,” she says, running back upstairs.

  I pull out “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” It makes more sense than “Green Eggs and Ham.” Most of them are crazy analogies, like a man who watches the lazy town bee, another who crosses t’s. Just when I think I’ve got one character figured out, he introduces another and I’m back to square one. I finally type the first thing that comes into my head. Nothing looks or sounds right. When I was copywriting, if it didn’t come naturally, I’d write a bunch of nonsense down. Now I can’t even write nonsense. I walk around, banging my head against one of the pipes. Then I see a piece of paper sticking out of “Hop on Pop.” It must be something Judy wrote back in public school:

  My daddy’s tall

  My mommy’s small

  I don’t have a sister

  Or a brother at all!

  I’m back at the typewriter: Some things are easy, some things are hard. Don’t make them harder by . . . fuck. . . . by . . . I lie down on Muller’s cot and turn off the light. Then I put on his earphones. It helps a bit and I start rhyming again: Let’s begin with a noun and work our way up. A noun’s just—something lands on top of me. “Dammit, Muller,” I say. “Get off of me, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Why’s the light off?”

  “Because I’m trying to concentrate. What are you doing?”

  “Changing my socks.”

  “Well, get off me.”

  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.” I push Muller upstairs. Everything’s out on the table. The roast sits there in a cranberry glaze, with new potatoes and green beans.

  “How’s it going?” Mary says.

  “It’s a bitch.”

  “Did you read my Dr. Seuss books, Daddy?” Judy says.

  “Yes, I did, sweetheart.”

  “They’re good, aren’t they?”

  “He certainly has his own style.”

  “Are you going to have creatures?”

  “It’s a grammar book.”

  “How about a rhyming fish?” Muller says.

  “Or a bird that spells,” Judy says.

  Look, for chrissake, let’s not Hop on Pop.

  Chapter 73

  I’m up on the ladder today, rhyming away. A clown is a noun. Use a noun or sound like a clown. Ruby stands below me. The ash on her cigarette droops towards the ground. She finally climbs up the ladder with a thermos of coffee. “What gives?” she says.

  “I’m trying to write a children’s book about grammar.”

  “When did you decide that?”

  “Frank got the idea watching me on air.”

  “You told everybody they’re illiterate.”

  “Frank wants me to do something about it.”

  “It’ll never fly.”

  “Why not?”

  “How did you learn grammar, Sam?”

  “By getting my knuckles rapped every two minutes.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Frank’s thinking something along the lines of Dr. Seuss. I’m still trying to figure out green eggs. Judy gets it, or I think she does.”

/>   “Want me to take over scraping?”

  “Yeah, I should get going. I’ve got a tight deadline.” I climb down and hand Ruby my scraper. She takes the rungs two at a time. Paint chips fall, the ladder shakes. She has six feet of eaves scraped by the time I reach my car.

  The phone’s ringing when I come through the door. It’s Frank saying he’s got two investors on board. “We’re waiting on you now, Sam,” he says.

  I go downstairs and start typing again. I ignore the bird tweets, the washer going. By ten o’clock, I’ve got three poems. I take the first one upstairs along with the last load of laundry. Judy and Muller are back playing Scrabble. Mary’s drawing red and green lines on a chart she’s made up for Muller’s catering jobs. The red ones indicate jobs done, the green, jobs coming up. “What do you think of this?” I say to them.

  Nouns can be proper

  As proper as can be

  They mean something special

  So they’re proper, you see

  They could be a person, a place or a thing

  They could be a song

  Or a person who sings

  It’s really quite simple

  Just learn from the start

  A noun becomes proper

  When art becomes Art.

  “I don’t get the last part,” Mary says.

  “That’s because I’m reading it.”

  “Oh.”

  “The A in Art is capitalized.”

  “So you turned Art into a proper name.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s clever, Sam,” Muller says.

  “I like it, too, Daddy.”

  “I thought names are pronouns?”

  “Nope. Proper nouns.”

  “What’s a pronoun?”

  “It supports a proper noun when they’re in the same sentence.”

  “Now I’m confused, Sam.”

  “A pronoun is a word like ‘he’. It’s in the same sentence supporting the person’s name.”

  “What if the sentence only has ‘he’?”

  “It’s still supporting a person’s name.”

  “Even if it’s not there?”

  “Yes, Muller.”

  “I’m still confused, Sam.”