American Taliban: A Novel

by Pearl Abraham

  At Jamba Juice, as first customer of the day, he paid for one of two Sunshine Mornings with ice. He inserted the cups into their slots in the Saab and got under way, hopeful that he was early enough for a nearby spot. In the competitive nonsport of parking, in which the least evolved human with the most primitive aggression still intact wins, he found it more productive to simply select a corner on a particularly desirable street and stand idling, until someone came along, keys in hand, giving him enough time to get the car into position without engaging all his adrenaline merely to park. The means to any end should correspond in spirit to the get.

  A spot on the corner of Byrd and Lindbergh opened, and minutes later, John was walking on the beach, sifting moon-cool sand between his toes. He went from tent to sponsored tent, from Quiksilver to Roxy to Hurley to Billabong, and finally found Katie & Co. gathered at Chickabiddy USA, a newly launched line of women’s surfwear. He walked up behind Katie and placed the ice-cold cup on her bare back, which brought forth the expected shiver of delighted nondelight. She turned and sucked down her first long sip of Sunshine Morning, then passed the cup to Sylvie and offered John her saltandsand lips, which he liked despite or because of the grit, which was good, since they were rarely without it. She’d already been in the water.

  Missed you last night, he said, inhaling her sun-warmed hair and skin, the coconut smell of Aloha sunscreen. It’d been their first separate night since the night before Hatteras, and he’d found it difficult falling asleep without her warm wriggling body tucked into his side. Though when he finally did sleep, he slept better and awoke rested.

  The cup came back to Katie via Jilly and she took a second long sip.

  Howz it look? he asked.

  Inconsistent, she said. An interesting lefthander now and then, which could get better if the swells pick up, if tropical storm Sadie fulfills her promise. Our first heat begins in twenty minutes. We have to report on deck in ten. She shrugged. We’re having fun, though. Check this out.

  She loosened the drawstring of her cotton knapsack, reached inside, and withdrew a brand-new Chickabiddy rash guard. Without waiting to be asked, she pushed her head and arms through at once. And of course the rash guard was a snug fit, as was everything surf related for born-to-surf Katie.

  They’re sponsoring me today. If I win, they might be interested in sponsoring me for the year. Sylvie has the same deal with Billabong, and Jilly with Roxy. I went with Chickabiddy because I like their colors best.

  Considering that Chickabiddy was only recently launched as a business, John wondered about the savviness of her decision. Women’s surfing was said to be the fastest-growing sport in the country, maybe even the world, therefore the field was wide open, and what happened in this competition today could make the difference between corporate sponsorship and not, which could determine whether Katie’s surfing would remain a passion or go on to become her profession. But it was a sign of character that she went for what she liked best.

  Sylvie and Jilly slipped into their own rash guards, and John was treated to a fashion show put on by the three most promising female surfers on the Outer Banks.

  Got yer eyes full? Jilly teased, turning and preening.

  He was a lucky man, and he knew it. These neon colors, he said, wanting to say something, will make you infinitely visible.

  And then they slipped out of their rash guards in synchronized performance, as if they’d rehearsed, and were once again in their string bikini tops and contrasting board pants, worn low on their hips, waistband rolled over so as to reveal the tops of their bikini bottoms, a style, the girls informed him, known as the Clinton-Lewinsky. It was late summer, and Katie’s hair was sun bleached white, her skin was dark honey, and seeing her after their night apart, he couldn’t help it, his penis stood erect. She was a total hottie, all muscle and energy, with nothing imperfect to forgive, though he liked to, or liked to think of himself as humanly forgiving. Surely this was love, he thought, which Barbara warned should make him very afraid.

  Love, she said, quoting Nietzsche, is the state in which man sees things most of all as they are not.

  But why should he be afraid of love? He would go where it led. He would go forth, and live and learn and become.

  It was time to report on deck. Katie & Co. stood, brushed sand off their bums, and he walked with them toward the flags, where they received their competition jerseys, still wet from the previous heat. He gave Katie his best good-luck kiss, and Jilly and Sylvie each a hug.

  Just be yourself and have fun, he said, sounding like Barbara.

  KNOWING HOW SWELLS PERFORMED was a smart surfer’s advantage, and though he wouldn’t be in the water today, not for hours anyway, he walked as close as he could get and settled in to watch the sets, count the number of waves in a set, tracking at what point they started to increase in size, and when they started to diminish. Every set had a rhythm, a kind of natural internal clock that could tell you everything, if you knew what to look for. To Katie this knowledge came naturally, as involuntarily as she breathed. She fathomed the shape of the ocean floor by the shape of a swell, its heave, drop, and close, and since every surfer made contact with the ocean floor at some point, knowing where the rocks and reefs were could save your life. She thought of waves as personalities and got to know them as easily as she made friends. For her it was all innate intuition; she did no planning, lost no sleep. Nights, she sent up prayers to Lono, closed her eyes, and slept with the innocence of the heavenly cherubim.

  The whistle sounded. The girls took off. Katie’s first challenge, every surfer’s first challenge, was to get under and past the white water with a minimum of energy. First to arrive got first place in the lineup, which made all the difference, especially in East Coast waters, where perfect waves were not plentiful.

  All three charged with confidence. They leaped onto their boards, paddled hard and fast to the outside. From where he stood, it looked as if Katie and Jilly were in first and second place, with someone he didn’t know in third. Sylvie was fourth. Behind Sylvie, two more competitors bobbed in line, altogether six wahines facing the depths, each waiting for the winning wave to come her way and bear her up and up and up to—

  JOHN AWOKE, or he thought he was awake, and saw Barbara hovering, with Bill an inch behind her, which was usual, Bill was always hovering behind Barbara, but with fear in his face, which was not as usual. What were they afraid of? He smiled to reassure, lifted his hand to give them the sign, and discovered he couldn’t: his right forearm was in a cast. He lifted his other hand and was relieved to see it intact, in its own skin. He made a fist, unfolded his pinky and thumb, and Barbara’s fear dissolved, she smiled, became herself again, all busy bustle and chatter. She brushed his hair off his forehead and brought her warm lips to his skin, asked how he felt, while also concentrating on the conversation with the doctor, who was outlining John’s arm and leg bones on film with his infrared pointer.

  You can see the hairline crack in the wrist here, he said, pointing to a long faint line, and on the long bone of his leg here. But he’s young. His bones should heal well and quickly. He was lucky, really. It could have been worse.

  Could have been better, too, John said, and they turned toward him, surprised; they hadn’t expected him to talk.

  I mean, he explained, it could not have happened at all. He paused. What did happen, by the way? He remembered celebration, but for what and with whom?

  How did I get here? he asked.

  In skater terminology, the doctor responded, or the little I recall of it from my own skating days in the seventies: The car hit your skateboard while it was in the air, kickflipped it out from under you, and though you landed as planned, your wheels weren’t there. That’s one possible scenario. The facts are your board was smashed, and you are in one piece, more or less.

  In other words, Barbara said, not caring much for skating or skating terminology just now, we’re lucky you’re alive. You also seem to have had something of a concussion. How�
��s your head?

  Thick, sort of, mmm, slow, John said.

  That’s probably the meds, the doctor said. We’re doing our best to keep the swelling down.

  What about my leg?

  Not bad, actually, the doctor said. The X-ray indicates a fracture in the tibia. You may even, that is if your parents allow it, be on a skateboard again, in two or three months.

  Two or three months! John roared. That was an eternity. What would he do without wheels for two or three months?

  The doctor waited. You must’ve been riding right side forward since that’s where the cracks are, which means you’re a goofy-foot. So you’re lucky because you’ll have full use of your left arm.

  He’s a goofy-foot, Barbara confirmed.

  If your own mother thinks you’re goofy … The doctor shrugged, teasing. Your wrist should be ready to go in a few weeks.

  John remembered dusk. He remembered grinding on curbs and benches and then turning back, he had been on his way back, to where Katie was toasting, being toasted, getting toasted. Then another edge presented itself and he flipped his board up and pulled his knees up, and—

  WHO FOUND ME?

  The driver called 911, Bill explained. An ambulance took you to the emergency room. The EMS guy found your ID card and called. We arrived soon after you did. The driver was here, too. He said it was dark and he didn’t see you until it was too late. You were leaping off a bench or a curb or something. He thought at first that he’d hit you. Miraculously, it was only your skateboard.

  Rational, legal Bill was talking miracles? He must have been scared.

  John wondered but didn’t want to ask what Katie knew.

  I called Katie this morning, just before we left, Barbara said, reading his mind. She was still asleep, but her mother said she’d tell her as soon as she awoke.

  Two hours later they left with promises to bring his MP3 player, his Dylan and Tao, his Burton biography, and some Power Bars, though he was getting out the next morning. Still, John said. It might be a long night.

  When they left, he settled into recall. Katie must have won since she’d been celebrating, but there’d been some question or doubt about her placing first, some unpleasantness. Someone had challenged the numbers or her performance, and now he wasn’t quite certain whose side he was on. Did she win fair and square? What exactly had happened?

  He remembered an interference penalty. Against Jilly. But there was some debate over this call because no one could say for sure who had right of way, in other words, who was closer to the curl. He knew both girls and their styles and even he couldn’t tell whose wave it was. But the judges somehow determined that Katie was first in the lineup, and they charged a 2.5 penalty against Jilly, which she wanted to contest but was advised not to. If she showed poor sportsmanship the judges wouldn’t recommend her for the all-star team. Frustrated, unable to undo the false charge, she started to cry, and John found himself taking her side. If Jilly had miscalculated or misstepped, it was due simply to enthusiasm and high spirits, which didn’t deserve punishment.

  When she realized what the judges had done, Katie came forward and did the right thing: she filed a request that the penalty not be charged on her behalf. It had been an irregular wave that looked as if it would close out, she explained, and then it curled at the last minute. Predictably, this made the judges like Katie more, which was to her benefit, since the rules called for subjective judging with extra points awarded for innovation and difficulty, for style, power, and speed in the most critical phases of the wave.

  Finally, under advice, Jilly submitted a written note to the judges explaining that if she had interfered it had not been intentional and that she had apologized to her fellow competitor, and now wanted to apologize to the judges. The head judge accepted the apology, and wished her a smoother event next year, but John wondered whether Jilly would ever compete again.

  Of the maneuvers, he remembered several fantastic airs, one of them by Katie. Though she sometimes had trouble landing her ollie on wheels, she had performed it perfectly in the water. She’d nosed up above the lip of a wave, stomped down on the heel of her thruster, raised her other leg, leaped, and turned herself and her board around in the air, using the old shove-it he’d taught her, and amazingly, she’d stuck the landing, and then, as if this was all in a regular day’s work, rode down the face of the wave, coolly stoked. She’d grinded on water, and it had been awesome to behold. On the beach, spectators cheered, and he had joined them, proudly. It was a super-athletic maneuver, performed with impressive power and style.

  Inspired, Jilly and Sylvie each followed with their own awesome stunts, each performing to her own strengths. They were an awesome threesome, and it was clear to everyone that they were having fun out there, raising the bar with each maneuver. The crowd whooped, the judges concentrated hard, trying to catch every detail, to distinguish fine points, and there was much exulting on the beach, a kind of hush between whoops. These girls, John overheard the head judge saying, have got it goin’ on.

  When the heat sheets were tabulated, Sylvie and Katie came in tied, and unable to break the tie on paper, or maybe simply because they were such fun to watch and the crowd was demanding more, more, more, the judges sent them back for a ten-minute surf-off in which Katie somehow advanced by a fraction of a point. John didn’t catch the how and why of that fractional gain, because he was distracted with Jilly standing beside him, watching, swabbing her nose and eyes. At first, this annoyed him. Then her grief moved him. He put his long arm around her. She should have been in the water, too. Of the three wahines, she’d proven herself most courageous. At Hatteras she’d surfed like the best of pros. He felt her disappointment keenly, and grew angry. He wanted to shake the judges.

  For the rest of the evening, John felt himself drawn to Jilly rather than Katie, and this appalled him. He had an unreasonable attraction for the underdog. He hugged her, the triangles of her bikini wet his chest. When the awards were announced and the trophies distributed, she did her best not to cry. He watched as she air kissed both Sylvie and Katie. After which she split. She loaded her board on the roof of her dad’s car, threw leashes—lotions—rash guard in the backseat, and left quickly.

  When the numbers were posted, Katie threw her arms up in a V for victory, which didn’t sit well with John given how equivocal a win this was. But he was being unfair, he knew. Uncomfortable in his disloyalty, disturbed at his fickleness, at how quickly his passions could shift, he wondered at the meaning of a love that was so changeable and turned away. Mr. Dodd, Katie’s dad, brought out a cooler full of strawberry wine coolers, and the celebrating began. It was nearing dusk, and while Katie was fully engaged in happy-winner mode, all of which made her the picture-perfect candidate for the ESA, hence suddenly, disturbingly less attractive to him, he thought he wouldn’t be missed if he went for a ride.

  HE CHAFED. He wanted to scratch under his cast. Three long months of immobility translated to twelve weeks of house arrest. This was not what he had bargained for. This could not be his year off. What would he do? It was mid-August, the fifteenth or sixteenth, or was it already the seventeenth, he wasn’t sure now, but the next three months in a cast would be three months of forever. He would miss an entire fall of his life, September, October, and part of November, when the best waves came east. Unable to surf, he couldn’t stay on at OBX as planned, which would make Barbara happy. There’s a time for everything, she liked to say, and September is the time to go back to school and books and the fall season. She overvalued art and culture in an unknowing aimless way, he thought. She purchased the books on bestseller lists; she booked series tickets in music, theater, and dance for herself and Bill, and now and then included a third ticket for John. To broaden his mind, she said.

  It’s good for you, she said, to have the occasional experience of civilized adult life.

  She liked seeing him in a suit, his hair combed, appearing in public as a mensch, one of several New York words she dropped, thou
gh she wasn’t really from New York.

  So Barbara would have him where she wanted him, in D.C. The general election was coming up in November, she was planning to host her usual fund-raiser at their Adams Morgan house, and she would try to engage him in various tasks, his contribution to the cause, she would call it. And he would be stuck at home on crutches, without wheels. He could hear her voice in his head. Even if your body isn’t fully operational, you have your mind. She lived in his head, and without wheels, there’d be no escape. He had to get away from D.C. and Barbara.