Drowning Lessons (18 page)

Even without the extra weight, the sand would have made walking hard. Every dozen or so yards Clarke stopped to shift his burden from shoulder to shoulder. Within a quarter mile the beach gave way to a fringe of pebbles that in turn gave way to jagged rocks. Though from their starting point the shore had resembled a single smooth beach curving off toward the horizon, in fact it consisted of a series of inlets compacting a distance of several kilometers into its folds. Before long the setting sun absorbed every trace of color, leaving only the crescent moon nestled against a sky punctuated with bright stars. With sundown came cool air and swarms of mosquitoes. Ahead of them burned the lights of the hotel complex that was their destination.

Clarke slapped at a mosquito on his neck. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The smell of Lewis's shit clung to his fingers. Clouds rushed in to cover the moon briefly before drifting off again. The hotel lights seemed as distant as ever. As he struggled over the rocks, Clarke pictured Terry watching him, twirling her parasol, her pale dress glowing under the light of the moon. He stopped for a moment, waiting for the dream to dissipate, but when reality took its place it was no better. Meanwhile, the tide rose; the fringe of rocks grew steeper and less navigable. Finally there was only water.

“We're getting there,” said Clarke, trudging in black waves up to his knees, the distinction between sea and sky lost to the darkness. Every so often he looked toward the shore to see Terry's ghostly figure standing there, glowing atop the steep rocks, a pair of white sandals dangling from her hand. In the opposite
direction the moon shone, bright and big as the sun, but in an unambiguously black sky, painting bright, bold streaks across the surface of the sea. It, too, was a dream, thought Clarke. He refused to believe it; he refused to believe any of this, refused to believe that he and Lewis would perish on this miserable stretch of Yucatán coastline, that any god, however malevolent, would engineer such an absurd end for anyone.

Something sharp dug into his shoulder.

He swore.

That's when he saw the group of lights down the shore, not the hotel lights but smaller, dimmer ones, moving like the ones he had seen on the beach two nights before. More biologists in search of turtle hatchlings. Clarke had read in some nature magazine that the hatchlings instinctively made their way toward the brightest available light source. Under natural circumstances that source would come from the sea, from the moonlight reflected there. But under unnatural conditions, deceived by man-made lights, the hatchlings would often head inland instead, becoming food for lizards and snakes, drawn to their dooms by the deceitful brightness.

In a strained voice Clarke cried out: “Hello? Hello!
Help!
”

But the lights were too far; his voice was too weak. Sounds of surf and insects overpowered it. There was nothing to do but keep moving, through the rising surf toward the tempting lights. He heard a sound in his head, a humming sound mixed with the surf and insect sounds. The humming sound rose in volume and pitch until it sounded like someone screaming. He switched Lewis to his other shoulder and the sharp object dug into him again. Then something in the water — a skate or a stingray — stabbed the bottom of Clarke's foot and he toppled.

“I'm sorry,” he said, hoisting Lewis's inert body up from the mounting waves. “I'm sorry.” Tears and salt water stung his eyes. The stars were out. “Jesus,” he said. “Holy Jesus.”

With the last of his strength, hobbling on his throbbing foot, he carried his brother to the nearest rock and sat there, holding him, catching his breath. They wouldn't die like this. No one dies like this, in a dream. As Clarke held him, he felt something sharp in Lewis's pocket: the stone, the good-luck charm, the lie from Tulum. That's what had been digging into his shoulder. He pried it out of the drenched pocket and held it, weighing it, considering whether he should toss it into the sea. Then he changed his mind and put it in his mouth instead. It tasted like salt. He sucked on it thinking,
we will not die like this; we will not die like this
.

He sucked on the stone and stroked Lewis's head as the tide continued to rise.

IT'S NOT LIKE ME
to wait for people. Ten minutes, okay maybe fifteen. A half hour tops. Any person more unreliable than that isn't worth waiting for. But for you I'm willing to make an exception.

One reason, of course, is that I realize it takes you at lot longer to get from one place to another than, you know, the average person. The four blocks from your apartment building to the bagel shop, which would take, you know, a healthy person maybe five, six minutes, would take you at least twenty-five. At least …

Not that you're not healthy. I'm not saying … that is … well, you
know
. What do you call yourself?
Disabled
, is that okay? (Christ, I'm not good at this stuff.) I mean, I wouldn't want to
offend
you. I don't exactly have much experience in these matters. Who does?

It's not even like we've known each other all that long. We met — when was it? — two months ago? Not here, in the bagel shop, but there, right across the street, 105th and Broadway, that lousy corner where the creeps play video games in the cigar store,
and they're always setting off firecrackers on the sidewalk, those rotten kids. I was waiting for the light to change when suddenly you pulled up alongside me with your crutches. I mean, the thing is, normally, this being New York City and all, I wouldn't have noticed. That is, I wouldn't have paid any
attention
. But you were … well, hell, you were like really beautiful, you know? Okay, pretty. You were real pretty. I'd never seen such a pretty … oh, Christ. Do you believe that? I was about to say
cripple
. I meant a pretty … well, you know what I mean.

Then you did something really unusual. You
talked
to me. Right there, on the street, to a perfect stranger, in broad daylight. “Good morning,” you said, like you knew me, which, of course, you didn't. You said it with this big smile. At first I figured, okay, now she's gonna want something. I mean, this is New York, right? She's gonna hit me up for some change, or maybe a cigarette, or ask me to help her cross the street, something. But you didn't ask for anything. The light changed, and you just kept right on going. It was like really weird.

Now when I say you were pretty, I'm talking about … well, your eyes. They're like really blue, like the sky. That's dumb. Eyes aren't like the sky — or like diamonds or stars or any of the other dumb things writers are always saying they're like. Eyes are like
eyes
. To be honest, yours were kind of small,
are
kind of small (they're still in your head, right?), but really shiny. And the way they looked straight at you, like really
direct
, through the bangs of your short, almost black hair. And those really full lips, you know, what's the word? — sensual, like, with teeth showing lots of gums, but in a nice sort of way, making your smile look extra big and, I don't know,
juicy
. I guess that's what I'd call it. A
juicy
smile. If that's not, you know, pushing things.

As for your clothes, all I can say regarding them is no one is ever gonna give you an award for fashion. We're talking yellow Danskins the color of Gulden's spicy brown mustard with tear holes in them the size of my fist from falling, which I know you do a lot of in your condition. And a sweatshirt the color of green mold with the hell stretched out of it so it's like hanging off your shoulder, you couldn't even give it to Goodwill without getting dirty looks. Then you had this big, floppy shoulder bag, the kind with all the fancy colored stitching, like a Ukrainian egg. Not exactly
Women's Wear Daily
material. But still, I mean, take it as a compliment, the fact that you managed to look pretty damn decent, you know, for a girl on crutches. Or should I say a lady? These things confuse me.

So anyway there we were with the light already turned green and you starting to cross when some spitooey-faced jerk sets a firecracker off practically right under your legs — or should I say your crutches? Anyway, it shook
me
up, but you, you went right down. I mean, one minute you're standing, walking, or whatever you call it, and then
boom!
You're down — flat on your face, your crutches all over the street. You said as I was helping you up it was because you were spastic. At first I thought you had to be joking. I mean, give me a break, how many people go around saying, “I'm spastic,” to complete strangers? But you meant it. You have what's called an adverse reaction to sudden loud noises. Your brain gets screwed up and all your muscles go haywire and if you just happen to be standing, down you go. I mean, it must be awful around the Fourth of July.

So then I help you get up and we cross the street and sure enough, we're both going to the bagel shop. You tell me it's your favorite place, which I find hard to believe, I mean, the way it
smells and all. Actually, I was just gonna pick up my usual coffee (dark, two sugars) and buttered raisin to go but you asked me if I'd join you, and I thought: what the hell. So we're sitting there in the bagel shop with coffee. That's when I first really notice your eyes, the way they sparkle, shine, whatever. Tell you the truth, I'm not that used to women looking at me. Not that I'm ugly, but I'm just not used to it. And the way you did was so
direct
, so like looking inside me, like almost right through me, just about.

What the hell did we talk about? Bagels? I was afraid to ask about the crutches, you know, to come right out and say, “Hey, what's wrong with your legs?” like a jerk, though that's exactly what was on my mind. I mean, you can't expect a person to just
ignore
a thing like that. So I say, you know, real subtle, “How long have you been on those
things
?” — those “things” being crutches, not wanting to say the word, figuring it might make you sensitive or something.

Again you surprised me; you were full of surprises. “I was born this way,” you said. Not nasty, just matter-of-fact, with a shrug, like it was some kind of freak ability you didn't want to boast about, like those people who can drop a whole box of matches and shout out the number. What do they call them? Idiot somethings.

Not that you were an idiot. As a matter of fact you seemed very intelligent. Just from the look of your eyes I could tell. To be honest, something about them made me feel pretty dumb. I mean, for some reason I felt
intimidated
, don't ask me why. I mean, I've never been shy with girls. I'm usually pretty cool. The people in my building, the ladies in particular, they
know
. They think I'm like a ladies man, a real
maneuverer
. They even tease me about it. I mean, some of these ladies are as rich as they are beautiful. Still, they don't intimidate me. But
you
. I don't know, maybe it was the
black and blue marks on your forearms, the ones from falling all the time. I kept on looking at them, I couldn't stop. It's unusual to see so many bruises on a girl (lady?). I mean, it's interesting. Also I was noticing your muscles. I mean, they were like
big
. You must get pretty strong, going around on those crutches. I have to admit, for a second I wondered if your arms were stronger than mine.

It's ten after nine now. I figure I'll wait another ten minutes.

So we talked. Blah, blah, blah this and that. You told me you did social work, reading books out loud to people. I still don't get it. I mean, if they can't read, what good's being read to gonna do them? I mean, I personally don't read, not that often, catalogs and shit, a newspaper now and then, maybe the
Racing Form
if I'm in the mood. But getting paid to read to people, is that really a job? I mean, isn't it more like babysitting or volunteer work?

Then you drop the big one on me. You tell me you're a writer. Holy shit. A
writer
?! Oh, sure, I figure, shit, like she writes poetry like my sister in her diary. But no, you say you've had a novel published, and you got a contract for a second one you haven't started yet. Imagine, getting paid for something you haven't even started!

Me, I know what I'm paid for. I stand by the door. That's it: I'm a doorman. I see what comes and what goes. All kinds of weather. Got to have an eye for trouble. I know this other crip —, this lady like yourself, only she's in her seventies, walks, you know, with one of those things like a backward chair, back and forth to the grocery store. Takes her forever. I guess she's not really a … I mean, she's not like you, she's just
old
. I used to feel sorry for her, but then I found out she does just fine. It's why she tips me like she does, every Christmas.

But you're a totally different story. I mean, you really
do
things. It's amazing all the things that you do, considering … The thing is, you've got spirit. I guess you know that.

Quarter after …

Like when we decided to go to the movies together. I figured: what the hell, give her a nice time. At first I didn't know how you'd get on the subway. I mean, would I have to carry you down the stairs, or what? Yeah, it was slow going. But you made it down the stairs all by yourself. Me, I just stood there. Mostly I didn't know what to do with my eyes. I mean, do I watch her legs, her feet, do I stand there smiling like an idiot, or do I just look around, you know, nonchalant, like there's nothing special going on? It took some getting used to.

And the crack between the subway and the platform; that must be scary. I mean, what if one of your things got caught, and then the train started moving, with you stuck there, and you'd get dragged? I hated to even think about it.