by J. Warren
I hadn’t been a swim instructor for very long. My first class consisted of two little girls from out on county road 13. They had a pool at home, but they had to stay at the Y until their dad could pick them up. They couldn’t afford two cars, so the girls were dropped off every day after school to wait. They’d decided to join swim and gymnastics. I liked them because they weren’t giggly like the other girls. They just smiled and did what you told them to do. They learned to swim very fast. About two weeks in, Mrs. Denkins came out of the office, and Randy was in front of her. He looked scared.
“Mike,” she said, pushing him a bit forward. I was in my swimsuit and the towel was wrapped around my shoulders. The girls had just left. “This is Randy McPherson. He’s brand new here, and he’s going to join your swimming class.”
He looked at the floor the entire time. I knelt down, like I’d seen the other instructors do, and held out my hand for him to shake. He did, but without looking at my face. “Hi,” I said. I stood up and put my hand just behind his shoulder and we walked away from Mrs. Denkins.
“Have you ever been in a pool before?” I asked. He shook his head. “That’s okay. I was a little older than you before I learned to swim,” I said. I’d heard one of the girls say it to a shy kid, once. He looked up at me, and his eyes seemed looking for something.
“Really?” he asked. I nodded. He smiled a little, just at the corner of his mouth. I came to recognize that as his full smile.
As we walked into the locker room, so I could show him where to change out, he stopped. His hand went to the bridge of his nose, and he tilted his head back at a crazy angle. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just a nosebleed,” he said. Something in the way he said it surprised me. Most kids I knew got panicky with a nosebleed, but he was just as calm dealing with it as he was when we were walking. I remember that, to this day. He just stood there, taking in big gusts of air through his nose. “It helps to make the blood clot up again,” he said when I asked about those huge inhales.
“I get those too,” I said and he nodded, looking down his up-turned face at me. I thought about that every time I got one. When the panic started to rise up, I let it go and thought about how calm he’d been that day. After about five minutes, he had let go of his nose and said, “Okay.” We’d continued right on like nothing had happened.
I remember when I was that young, I didn’t think about much. It seems like you only figure out how to think when you’re older. I did ponder a lot, though. That had been Mr. Roger’s word. He made it sound like there was a difference whenever he’d ask ‘You working, son, or pondering your toes?’ It always made me laugh, but he made pondering seem like some useless thing that way; something empty. Other times he’d say, ‘alright, now here’s what I need you to do, and think about what you’re doing, understand?’ So, thinking was useful and positive and pondering was empty, wasted.
Sitting on those steps, remembering Randy, seemed to me somehow in between. It seemed like something I needed to be doing, but wasn’t getting much out of. Back then, I thought about the boy; wondered what his parents were like, what they fed him for breakfast, how they dealt with his nosebleeds. Some people might think that’s some kind of crush or puppy love thing, but I think most people do a lot of wondering about the people they come into contact with every day. I was teaching him how to swim; I think that’s something that brings two kids very close together, no matter what their age.
I’d asked him, after a while, about the nosebleeds. I remember that I felt like I couldn’t stop myself. He came in early that day, and I’d been working. Mr. Roger had me emptying the garbage cans and putting in new bags. Randy came in and wandered all through the building with me. He didn’t seem to be waiting, was the thing. It wasn’t like he was just waiting for me to get done so he could go to the pool; he actually seemed to want to talk to me.
“How long have you been having them?” I asked, and felt stupid for asking. I hid it by working a little harder. At that time, we’d only been working together two weeks.
“My nose, you mean?” he asked. I’d nodded. “Gosh, I dunno; my whole life, I guess.” He was like that, the kind of kid who’d still say ‘gosh’ and ‘dang it’.
“Do your mom or dad get them?” I asked. I’d often wondered what his parents were like in those two weeks. He was so shy and so smart, and sometimes seemed almost afraid of his own voice. Now, though, I understand that it’s just something people do. When you meet an adult, you wonder who they date or who they’re married to; when you meet a kid, you wonder who their parents are.
“Mom says my dad does, but I guess he’s better at ‘em, ‘cause I never see him get them anymore,” he said, and then a funny thing happened. The garbage sack I’d been tugging on was not going to come out of the container. He pulled the liner up so that it lay down flat, folded over itself in a way. He held on to that part and said “here, tip it.” I didn’t understand, but I started to tip the container over, and the bag slid free almost immediately. He’d kept the garbage from coming out by folding the lip of the sack over, so that when the container was on its side, the opening of the bag was still upright. He helped me pull the bag out. There was water at the bottom of the container.
“Thanks,” I said. He smiled.
“How much do they pay you to work here?” he asked.
“Not much,” I said. By that time, they were paying me. I think when the job began, Mr. Roger was thinking I’d wash out. After about a week, when he realized not only was I not going to leave, but that I did a good job, he started handing me cash at the end of a week. “An honest man gets an honest wage,” he’d say, “you remember that,” and I always did, only it was years later before I understood what that meant, and a few years after that when I figured out what he meant by it.
“Your parents make you do chores at home?” I’d asked.
“Yeah,” he’d said, and sniffled. His nose was always runny or bleeding. “They make me clean the bathroom. My favorite part is cleaning the mirror.”
“Why?” I asked, smoothing the new bag in place.
He shrugged, “I dunno. It’s just my favorite.”
“Well, it’s a lot like that. I do chores for an allowance,” I said. He nodded. I’d finished putting the new sack in the liner, and I bunched up the old one.
“You have a class now?” I asked.
He shook his head, “Waiting on my mom.” He nodded out the window, toward the road. Coming toward the curb outside was a large station wagon. The fake wood paneling on the side was faded so badly that the car looked like it had a skin problem. Something my dad would call ‘the mange’.
“Don’t laugh, okay?” he said. I looked at him. He continued to stare at the car.
“Why would I—?” I started to ask.
“Just—just don’t, okay? Please?” he asked. I’d never heard him talk in that tone of voice before. I’d always known him as excited and polite. He sounded almost like he wanted to cry. He moved for the door and I felt as though I was being pulled along after him. Looking back, I don’t know that I really wanted to meet his mother, but at the time, I didn’t feel like there was a choice. Something just pulled me along behind him.
The station wagon was enormous, and green. It seemed to be some old family pet that had gotten too huge to put out of its misery. The driver side door opened, and a woman with long blonde hair got out. She had huge, dark, round glasses on and I thought that she reminded me of an actress, one I’d seen before.
“Randall,” she said, walking around the car toward us. He was reaching for the door handle before he even got to the car. His steps were hurried. “Who’s this?” she asked, smiling at me.
“He’s a friend. Can we go?” Randy asked. He opened the door without looking back. She stopped a few feet from me, and smiled bigger. I thought for a second she was going to put her hands on her knees, bend over a little at the waist, and ask me what I wanted for Christmas. She seemed that sweet.
/> “Well, I’m sorry that Randall is being so rude today,” she said, extending her hand and walking closer. In the car, I could see Randy squirming. He closed the door with a slam. She jumped, and stared at him, her extended hand forgotten.
“It’s okay,” I said, looking at her, then back at him. She walked closer and extended her hand again, “I’m Mrs. McPherson, Randy’s mom,” she said. Her eyes were light green, and I thought about sage grass from a western movie.
I took her hand; it was soft and warm from the steering wheel. “I’m Mike.”
She let go of my hand and stood up. It wasn’t until that moment that I’d realized she’d bent over a little to look directly into my eyes. “So you’re the infamous Mikey, huh? Well, Randall tells me all about you. You’ve turned him into quite the little frog, haven’t you?” I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled. “Well, Mikey, it was a pleasure to meet you. You’ll have to come over some time for supper—,”
“Can we go?” Randy interrupted.
Mrs. McPherson rolled her eyes, and turned. She walked around the car, and it took everything I had not to notice how she was wearing shorts, and how smooth her legs were. Something about the way her ankles spread out from the long, thin curve of her lower leg made me feel too hot, and I stepped back into the shade of the building. Mrs. McPherson closed the door and pushed her glasses further back up on her nose. The station wagon rumbled itself around to face the road once more, then pulled out into traffic.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it go. When I finally came back around, I noticed that something was different. My stomach felt wobbly, and my knees weren’t doing so hot, either. Then I noticed; I’d gone stiff. My face immediately felt hot, and I got dizzy. I tried to relax, but it seemed like the more I thought about relaxing, the worse it got.
Just behind me, the door leading back into the lobby opened. I nearly jumped, but didn’t dare turn around. “You okay, hon?” Ms. Kate asked.
“Yep,” I said, “just—you know—thinking.”
“Oh. Okay. That your little brother?”
“Huh?” I asked, and caught myself about to accidentally turn around.
“That boy who just left; is that your little brother?” she asked.
“No, ma’m,” I said, finally remembering my manners, “he’s one of the boys I teach swimming to.”
“Oh?” she said, “Hmm. Spittin’ image of you.” I heard the door close. I started to panic again when I noticed that everything had gone back to normal. I sighed loudly. After one last look back down the road Randy and his mom had gone down, I turned and walked back inside.
That’s how it started, really. Or, I guess I should say, changed. That’s how it changed from being an older boy teaching a younger one how to swim, into friends. I smiled, back on the porch. I smiled and crushed out the cigarette. I liked thinking about him in the present tense, as if he were still alive. It was nice; warm.
FOURTEEN
The old ten-speed had long since been on its last legs. I had thought about maybe working on it for the rest of the night, but decided against that. I walked, instead. Funny how muscles remember things; what to do, where to go. I sort of put my body on cruise control and thought as I walked.
I’d taken Randy to the field once, about a year before he disappeared. I’d been on my way there on a Saturday when, riding down one of the side streets I almost never took, I saw him sitting on a curb. I liked this road in particular because it sloped gently to the right near the cross-street. Two things crossed my mind the moment I saw Randy, just a little blurb of dark colors against the lighter gray of the night: one was that it was him. Somehow, I knew instantly. The second was the time. It was already well past 1 a.m.
It seems so clear remembering the sound of the bike as I pulled to a stop near him. He looked up lazily, unafraid. “Hi,” he’d said, as if he’d expected me all along.
“Do you live near here?” I asked. Working around him so long, I’d seen his clothes, and the truck his mother drove. I knew the McPherson’s were from the other side of town.
“No.”
“What are you doing over this way?” I asked.
He stood, “Nothin’,” he said.
“Oh,” I’d replied. I knew that the Sheriff lived somewhere down this street, so I was nervous about staying too long. “You should get home.”
“Can I get a ride?” he asked. The streetlight behind me made wild sparkles in his eyes. I could tell he’d been crying.
“Sure,” I said. I knew from holding him up that he was light enough that I could balance us both on the bike. I leaned it down and he climbed on in front of me. He smelled like sweat and dirt. I flexed my leg and brought the bike up to its full height. Clicking down a few gears, I flexed my knee and let the slope of the road start us forward. My feet found the pedals, and with a lurch, we were off.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” he said.
“How long before they miss you?” I asked. I finally decided to stop craning my head to strange angles trying to avoid his hair, and rested my chin on top of his head.
“Hours,” he said.
I still wanted to go to the field. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get home, so I kept pedaling. It felt strange; the wind whistling past us, him against me. I asked Dr. Bledsoe once what he thought about it, and he said “Mike, it’s not that unusual for boys to experience a kind of love for one another at that age, especially if they have a secret to share.” I don’t know, though. It didn’t feel like that. Maybe some poet would be able to get at it better. All I know was that there was a strange tickle in my stomach at the two of us being out so late, together, flying down unlit roads.
After a few turns, we came to the large gate that lead across the town’s only golf course. The grass was better there than anywhere else in town, but it only had nine holes. They’d built it in one of the few unused lots out on the East end of town. To get to the field, it was either cut around on the highways, or go directly there over the golf course. Trouble was, my bike was a ten-speed; they’re not very sturdy. Still, I’d worked out a route that used most of the almost-level cart paths.
“Hop down,” I told Randy. I leaned the bike, and he did. I got to the gate, and slowly lifted the lever, flinching with ever screeching scrape of the metal. Randy was watching something far off in the distance, his hands in his pockets.
I handed the bike to Randy, “Hold this,” I said. I pushed the gate open very slowly, too, my shoulders so tensed up they were almost at my ears. I motioned for Randy to bring the bike and closed the gate after him.
“You okay?” I asked, taking the bike back from him. His eyes seemed to focus and he smiled. I got on, and tilted it for him. When we were both back on, I rested my chin on top of his head, again. I could feel his breath vibrate through our bones. With a kick and a shove, we were off.
My feet take me right to that same gate. I’m standing at it, noticing how short it is. I can rest my arms on the tops of the bars. Back then, though, it seemed some enormous black gate into an enemy land. A rusty sign on the gate proclaims :this land for sale or rent” and under that a phone number. I walk over to the bar and pull up the lever quickly. My shoulders start to tense at the screech the metal gives, but I relax them. ‘No one here,’ I tell myself and push the gate open.
Back then, though, we were worried about Derwin Collier. These days, kids call a guy like that a ‘rent-a-cop’. Back then, though, we didn’t know there was a difference. A guy in a uniform was a guy in a uniform. I was afraid every time I crossed over the golf course. Still, that made the crossing the adventure I remember it being.
“Collier?” I remember Randy whisper. I felt his jaw move through his skull.
“Maybe,” I said. The bike bucked and shimmied over the ground. Randy had dug his hands in under my thighs. He had a death grip on my legs. I smiled and, like most kids do when confronted with fear, pedaled faster.
Of course we took
a spill. Being dark, the bike being overloaded, me showing off some, it was bound to happen. I remember one moment smiling and thinking how great it was to not be alone, but not have any grown ups around, too. The next minute, I felt my chin hit something squarely. I wanted to bring my head up quick to see where I was, but my neck wouldn’t move.
Back in the present, I crouched down to touch the grass. My finger touched the exact spot my head must’ve hit. I had always thought that maybe there should be a divot , a marker of some kind. There was nothing, though. I stood up, still looking at that spot. Then my eye wandered over to where Randy had fallen.
When I had finally gotten my neck to work, back then, I found that the bike lying on its side, one of the wheels still spinning. Just beyond that, Randy was sitting up. He was holding his head. His face scrunched up, his eyes closed. “Randy?” I said. It felt loud in my head, but he didn’t hear me at first, so it must’ve been a whisper. “Randy?” I said, louder this time, sure I was shouting. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
Then he smiled, and laughed. I moved myself up onto my elbows and watched him for a second, finally succumbing to the laugh, myself. We sat there, giggling at each other for at least five minutes. I stopped laughing first, and stood up. I reached out toward him, and he took my hand. His was warm, sweaty. I pulled him up, and he looked down at his feet, slapping grass off of himself. I could still feel his hand on mine. I have no idea why, even now, but while he wasn’t looking, I smelled my hand. It was like iron, and something else.