Swim That Rock

by John Rocco

  Two hours later a doctor comes out and says, “Missed his carotid artery by inches. You did the right thing or your dad would have died.” I don’t respond. I too am getting Gene and my dad all mixed up in my head. It’s a nice feeling, and I sit down on the floor and collapse because I’m so happy he isn’t dead.

  I slept right through the morning.

  The sun is blazing, and it feels like a thousand degrees in my room.

  “You okay?” My mom is standing in the doorway with her eyebrows all twisted together. I sit up and cover myself with a sheet.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “He’s going to survive, thanks to you, Jake,” my mom says. “You never did tell me how you got him to the hospital,” she says, pressing me.

  “I got some help from another quahogger. I don’t know him. Look, I don’t really want to talk about it right now. What time is it?”

  “It’s ten thirty.”

  “Oh, damn. I gotta go.” I scramble out of bed and start grabbing clothes, suddenly remembering Gene’s boat. Did the anchor hold? Are the quahogs rotting in this heat? Did it get salvaged?

  “Just because you work on a fishing boat doesn’t mean you can talk like a sailor. Not in this house, young man.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” I try squeezing past her, but she’s blocking my way, holding out a thick manila envelope wrapped in duct tape. “Before you go running off again, do you want to explain this?”

  I grab the envelope and turn it over. On the back, in thick black marker, it says J. C.

  I know who left it.

  “Someone slipped it through the mail slot sometime last night. It was there this morning when we were setting up,” she says.

  “It’s from Tommy, just some tapes he borrowed.” Not a very good lie, but I’m not waiting around to see if it works. I shoot out the door and down the back stairs as the screen door slams behind me.

  Once I’m out of sight, down by the seawall, I pull out my knife and cut open the envelope. The silver tape is thick, but the blade glides through it to reveal a stack of twenty-dollar bills and a note.

  Hawkline is tied up at Stanley’s Marina. Sold out your quahogs. Took forty bucks for my trouble.

  Captain

  A wave of guilt washes over me when I remember thinking that Captain may have salvaged the Hawkline. I stuff the bills and the note in my pocket and head over to the bus stop on Main Street.

  I climb onto the 11:03 bus to Providence. The air inside is stale and everyone looks tired. I find my way toward the back, slump down in the last seat, and before we leave Warren, I’m asleep.

  I awaken and look outside and see Rhode Island Hospital. I jump out of my seat and bound toward the front of the bus.

  “Excuse me! I need to get off. This is my stop. I need to get off !”

  The bus squeaks and with a great hiss of air comes to a halt.

  “All right, all right.” The bus driver grins down at me from the big wide mirror above him. “Watch your step.”

  “What time does this bus go back to Warren?”

  The driver hands me a small paper schedule. “You want to catch the Newport bus. Every hour on the half hour till six.”

  “Thanks.” I walk up the hill toward the hospital.

  Inside, the sharp smell of cleaning products and the bright fluorescent lights immediately remind me of yesterday, of coming in with Gene on the stretcher, with people sticking things in his arms, and the blood and the plastic mask over his mouth. I get chills thinking about it.

  I don’t know what room he’s in, and I just stare at all the signs on the walls. Multicolored lines on the floor zip off in all directions, and I’m standing there, trying to figure out which line will lead me to Gene.

  “Can I help you?”

  I look up from the floor, and standing in front of me is a young woman with blond hair tied up on top of her head and held in place by two ballpoint pens. She’s wearing a blue cotton V-neck shirt covered with pins that have cartoon characters on them. “Are you visiting someone?” She says this all smiley, like she works at a theme park or something.

  “Yeah, I’m here to see Gene,” I say. She motions to a tall desk and slips behind it.

  “Let’s see, when was he brought in?” she asks while flipping through a metal binder.

  “Last night. He was cut here,” I say, pointing to the same spot on my own shoulder.

  “What’s his last name, sweetie?”

  “Hassard,” I say. “Gene Hassard.”

  “Yes, here it is. Hassard, Gene. He is in room four-fourteen.” She points to the floor. “Follow the yellow line to the elevators and go up to the fourth floor.”

  “Yellow line,” I repeat, staring down at the floor.

  “Just like the yellow brick road,” she says, rocking her head back and forth.

  “Thanks.”

  Standing outside room 414, I can see the end of a metal bed and two lumps under a blanket that must be Gene’s feet. I walk in and sit down in a chair next to him. Machines surround his bed, and they all have plastic tubes that snake their way into Gene. I’m surprised to see that his head is almost completely bandaged except for his eyes and his mouth, and his arm is in a cast up to his shoulder, with metal rods sticking out to hold his arm upright. He looks totally messed up. His eyes are closed. I just sit there for a minute, listening to the steady beeps coming from the machine to my left. I watch the lines that are tracing his heartbeat and think, Just keep going. Don’t you stop, you stupid line, don’t stop.

  “Gene,” I say softly, “It’s me, Jake. I know you can’t hear me, but I’m telling you, you can’t die on me.” I put both hands on the metal railing on the side of his bed. “You can’t die, Gene.”

  “Who said anything about dying?” Gene says, but I can’t even see his lips move. I stand up, looking around.

  “Gene?”

  “Over here, Jake.” I look up to see the curtain on the other side of the bed move slightly. I dart around the curtain, and there’s Gene smiling at me.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do anything. You were the one over there, professing your undying love to a perfect stranger.” Gene is laughing now, but it’s making him wince.

  “Gimme a break. I thought you were on your deathbed. You had me totally freaked.” I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m thinking about the beach. “So when are you getting out? What did the doctors say? You’re going to be healed up enough to work Barrington Beach, right?”

  “Slow down, Jake. The doctors say I should be out in a couple days, but I don’t know about pulling that rake. The muscles in my neck and shoulder need to heal. They have to make sure there’s no infection. They think it will be a few months if everything goes well.”

  “A few months? What are we going to do? The beach opens a week from tomorrow!” I’m totally freaking out. Gene and I making a huge score at the beach is all part of the plan. That’s how it’s supposed to work. That’s how we were going to save the diner.

  Gene puts his good hand on mine. “I’ll make a couple of calls when I get out. Get you on Jay Miller’s boat, or Dave Becker’s. They’re good guys, and they can catch a lot of quahogs. It’ll be all right, Jake.”

  “But that’s not it. They’re not going to give me more than ten percent. They’re not in on the plan.” My voice is cracking, and I move away from the bed and look out the window at the Providence River. Gene must have forgotten. Maybe his brain is screwed up with all the drugs they’re giving him. What am I going to do?

  “Look, Jake, I’ll be out in a couple days. We can get our heads straight and figure this thing out.” I turn around, and Gene is pointing to the chair next to his bed. I go over and sit down.

  “How did I get here, anyway?” Gene asks, and I don’t know what to say. My mind starts racing. I don’t want to tell Gene about Captain.

  “Oh, yeah, well . . . I saw this really fast boat nearby, and I drove the Hawkline over, almost rammed into him, and he took us up
the Providence River to where an ambulance was waiting and everything. He must have used a radio — I didn’t see.”

  “Who was it?” Gene asks, and he’s looking right at me now. I’m wondering if he remembers the knife. It’s still in my pocket.

  “I don’t know who it was. Never saw him before. Everything moved so fast once you got hurt.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the pile of twenties and lay them on the tray that is suspended above Gene’s legs.

  Gene picks up the twenties with his good hand and looks it over. “You sold out? Where’s the boat?”

  “It’s docked at Stanley’s. I’ll get it back to your dock this afternoon.” I want to leave. I can’t handle Gene’s questions. “I gotta go, Gene. I have to help my mom with something. Call us when you get out, and we’ll come pick you up.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I head toward the door as a nurse comes in, tapping her pen against the clipboard.

  “And how are we feeling today?” she says in a singsong way.

  “Fine, fine.” Gene responds dismissively, and just as I enter the hallway he calls me back. Uh-oh, more questions. I look back in the room and Gene is holding out his hand toward me. “Take this, Jake. I don’t need it. You and your mom do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stuffing the twenties back in my pocket, I practically jog out of there. I’m down the hall, into the elevator, and back in the lobby before I take a breath.

  I rush into the men’s room on the ground floor and splash my face with cold water. With both hands on the sink, I stare at the mirror, and the face staring back hardly even looks like me. My hair is bleached and wiry from the salt and sun, and there are puffy bags under my eyes. My chin and lips look almost like my dad’s, except without any stubble. I stare at my mouth, and it seems like my dad is staring back at me.

  “Is this part of the test?” I say to the reflection. I can feel the anger buzzing inside of me like a swarm of bees. “Did you let Gene get hurt? Was it because he was going to help me? Was that too easy? Why don’t you just come home!” I want to shatter the mirror, but just then a doctor walks in and gives me the once-over, so I grab some paper towels, dry my face, and split.

  By the time I get on the bus home, I’m ready to crawl under a rock and die. I shove my hand deep into my pocket, past the twenties, and feel the knife. I take it out and turn it over in my hand. The pearl skull shimmers in the sunlight coming through the bus window. My finger traces the initials on the back. I look up and notice this old lady staring at me over her knitting. She’s probably thinking I’m going to hold up the bus with this jackknife, or carve my initials in the paneling of the back of the seat. I don’t want to freak her out, so I just force a smile and slip the knife back in my pocket and stare out the window.

  I can’t catch a break.

  “Start bailing, Jake!” Gene barks.

  Furiously I heave gallons of seawater out the window, but the bucket keeps getting smaller as the water continues to rise. That’s when I realize I’m not in a boat at all. I’m standing in the Riptide Diner, knee-deep in water. Out the window through the fog, I see the outline of Prudence Island. I can’t stop bailing. The diner is rocking and shifting with the waves. Plates and glasses shatter as they hit the stainless-steel countertop.

  “We may be going down!” Gene screams into the howling wind as he pulls on the aluminum pole that shoots out the window into the black water. His rain gear is soaked with spray, and his hair is matted against his head. He has a crazy serious look in his eyes.

  I drop the bucket, and it floats over to the stools by the counter and rocks between them like a pinball, and then sinks. My mom is behind the counter. She reminds me of a movie star, with her red hair tied in a bun with a small flower pinned to her blouse. She’s humming while she wipes the counter, setting out silverware as if none of this is happening. The forks and knives shift with the roll of the waves and fall into the water at her feet, and she continues to hum and smile as she puts down new silverware in its place. I start to wade over to her when I hear Gene call me.

  “Ready up!”

  Instinctively I slosh over to his side and start pulling the long pole up through the window.

  “The diner is sinking, Gene. Why are we still quahogging?”

  “’Cause that’s what we do, Jake. . . . That’s just what we do.” He grunts as we rhythmically pull the pole up hand over hand. It’s heavier than I remember, and Gene’s knuckles are white with strain. As the last bit of pole comes up out of the blackness, I anticipate the bullrake filled with quahogs. The water starts to boil, churning to white foam.

  Lightning flashes! The water explodes, and a giant shark propels itself, teeth first, into the window.

  I shoot up out of bed. My sheets are soaked with sweat. I look out the window and see that the Riptide Diner is still on dry land. No shark either. My clock radio starts beeping. Or maybe it was beeping the whole time? Nope, it reads 5:30 a.m. I slap my hand down on the large brown button, stopping the noise, and grab my jeans off the floor. I try to replay the dream in my head, but already it’s dissolving into nothingness. I pull on my high-tops and sniff a few different shirts lying around the floor.

  By the time I get downstairs, I’m still feeling messed up and out of sorts as I prepare the diner for the day. I try to count tiles, or count the silverware, or count anything, but by the time I reach seven or eight, my mind spins out again. I have two weeks left to come up with a little more than nine thousand dollars, and I have no idea how I’m gonna do it without Gene. I could go and work for one of the other quahoggers, like he said, but still I’m not going to make the kind of money I need.

  “How’s Gene?” Robin asks as she hurries from table to table, laying out ketchup bottles and pink packets of sweetener. “I heard what happened. You’re a hero, you know.”

  “He’s good. Should be out in another couple of days.” I smile weakly, because I know the real hero was Captain. He saved Gene. I mean, I bandaged him up all right, and kept him warm with my body, and did all that other stuff to help stop the bleeding, but if it wasn’t for Captain, Gene would have bled to death right there on the deck of the Hawkline.

  “Darcy and I will get the rest,” Robin says, taking the tray of silverware from my hands. “Go have some fun.” I look over at Darcy and she gives me a thumbs-up.

  “We got it, Stretch. Take the day off.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and head upstairs to my room.

  When I am back upstairs, two things smash into my brain at the same time.

  Captain saved Gene’s life. Captain can save me.

  That’s it. Who else ever gave me three hundred dollars after less than an hour’s worth of work? Plus, he knows something about my dad. He has to. What about the knife?

  I decide to go find Captain again.

  I take my bike down to Charon’s Dock to see if his boat is still moored there, but it’s not and I continue searching.

  An hour later I’m walking through the door into Muldoon’s Bar. It’s only ten thirty in the morning, so I am not really expecting him to be here, but you never know with a guy like him. The bar looks different with all the lights on, less scary in a way. The stools are empty. Most of them are cracked and worn thin at the seams, while some are held together with duct tape.

  “We’re not open till eleven,” a voice calls out from below the bar.

  “No, I was . . . I was just looking for somebody,” I answer, and head back through the door.

  “Wait a minute, kid.” I turn around and the bartender gives me a long look. “You Jake?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, a little surprised.

  “Yeah, I can tell, real tall kid, he said. I got something for you.” The bartender is looking between all the liquor bottles on the shelf. “I know I put it somewhere. Aha! Here it is.”

  “Thanks,” I say, confused as he hands me a tightly folded piece of paper.

  “Yeah, guy said if you’d come here lookin’ for him, I was supposed to give you that. Ga
ve me twenty bucks too. He your dad or something?”

  “No! But thanks . . . for this.” I hold up the folded paper and head back out onto the street. I find a bench and open the note.

  If you want work, meet me at the beach near Kenyon’s Bait Shop tomorrow night 10:30 p.m.

  There’s no name, but I can tell from the handwriting it’s Captain. My heart skips a beat because I know I’ll probably make some quick cash, but I might get killed. Captain is not what you’d call a safety-first type of guy. I could also end up in jail. But at this point I don’t know what’s worse: jail or Arizona.

  What will my dad think of this? I don’t think he wants me working for a guy like Captain, but he should have thought of that before he went missing, leaving us in debt to some stupid loan sharks!

  I crumple the paper, stuff it in my pocket, and head down to the water, spending the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon just walking around by the docks near the marina, thinking about Gene, my dad, the beach opening, and Captain’s note. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong, what is a dream and what is real. I wish Tommy were back.

  Around four thirty, when I get back to the diner, Darcy is cleaning. I can see her working as I look through the front windows. She moves fast, wiping everything down before placing it back on the table. She’s got her headphones on, and she’s sort of dancing between the tables. I stand there watching her for a few minutes, until she notices me. She throws her rag down and tromps over to the window and removes her headphones.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed. You’ll have to come back in the morning,” she says through the glass. I just smile and walk around to the back door and head inside. I shuffle into the dining room, plopping down in the first booth with a loud groan.

  “All right, what’s going on?” Darcy puts down a tray of salt- and pepper shakers, throws the rag over her shoulder, and slides in next to me. I scoot over to give her some room, but not much, and our thighs are touching just slightly. Her leg feels warm.