Swimming (9 page)

We Fall Because That’s What We Do

I do not like having Leonard out of my sight. I sit next to him as he pretends to read. We do not speak. Sometimes we play checkers. Dot does not like having Leonard out of her sight either. She sits next to him as he pretends to read. We have mini-wars as to who will find him first. Problems arise over the checkerboard, but we have to be extremely careful; Leonard will send us away if it gets out of hand, or worse, say:
You two play
and leave.

Mother is making us go to mass every Sunday. She pinches our arms with slow, strong claws if we aren’t ready on time. I have auditory hallucinations, hear moans and groans,
ohhhs
and
ahhhhs
, creepy humming. I confess, am absolved, confess again. I keep a stash of mint whips deep in the pockets of my coat just in case. I no longer care which priest I get in the confessional, don’t bother checking the shoes before opening the small wooden door, folding myself in. Father Tod’s wintery frog breath suffocates the dusty grill. I’m aggressive, confessing to his bunched-up black and gray shadow that I hate school, that I don’t care, that I am a liar. He sternly ordains me to pray to Mary twenty times in one sitting. I won’t, kneel into the pew, bow my head, think about random selfish things.

Before, Leonard would go to church to be a good sport or for special occasions, but those days are over. We come home from church to find him in the yard with a mucky shovel or in the garage banging things. We find him on the roof cleaning gutters, fixing light switches with pliers, pruning trees—an activity he particularly dislikes. Sometimes I can’t find him in the regular places so I walk around calling
Dad … Dad … we’re home
, crossing Dot, who’s calling
Dad, Dad, we’re home
. Once, I find him standing at the bottom of the garden touching a tree as though it were covered in braille, but sometimes when we get home he’s gone and there’s a note on the counter:
I’ve gone for a fly
.

He seems all right, busy, his reading light casting sinister shadows down the hall deep into the night. But then the tears come. He cries when we say hello, cries standing in the bathroom door watching us brush our teeth, cries when we model our new jeans, cries at the dinner table. June and I try to figure out what dishes make him sad, but the tears go off indiscriminately no matter what she serves. When he cries, the food on our plates looks obscene, our chewing jaws animal. At first, he clutches us to his chest and weeps into our hair as we hold our breath, freezing into statue. Later, he becomes pragmatic about the tears, so that when they start, he ignores them, continues doing what he was doing— speaking, eating, shaving, looking out the window, watching a particularly difficult tennis match—with wet streaks down his face that leave trails he doesn’t bother to wipe away with his sleeve.

My new thing is to eat dinner like breakfast, in a bowl with a spoon. No one cares. He cries in the car, cries watching TV commercials that aren’t sad, cries when he listens to music designed for teenage tears, cries when it rains, cries looking out the window at the spiraling snow, cries at the rushing streams it leaves when the weather warms and the world thaws. He cries at the first sign of flower, sitting in his corduroy chair, the world folded up and left unread by his side, his head in one hand.

Besides the tears, his voice thickens and he grows a scraggly beard that winds its way around his mouth like a fence. Manny doesn’t like it, makes a slight rumbling sound in his chest until Leonard kneels down, scratches that place behind his ears.

When Leonard cries, Mother gets up and goes. She walks around the house punched in at the solar plexus, grabbing on to things as though the world were lurching. She no longer comes down when Leonard comes home; her sad chair sits on its sad legs as I eat a bowl of white rice and beans with a large wooden spoon normally used for stirring. I follow him in spite of the tears, Dot trailing behind like a living shadow. I find him watching Johnny Carson talk to an old comic who is not funny. He’s holding up a rubber fish with round holes in it screaming:
Holy
mackerel
as no one in general America laughs except Leonard, who also happens to be crying. I try to think of something good to say. Nothing good comes. He turns, says:
Holy mackerel
, shaking his head. I walk upstairs to my room, where Bron’s tightly made bed stares at me until I close my eyes.

We become schedule-oriented people. I awake at dawn, creep out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen, where I turn on the TV set and listen to it chatter. Leonard awakes at dawn, creeps out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen, to the window, where he studies the creepy sky. I look up from my bowl of cereal and there he is, a tall black smudge lit from within like a well-worn candle. Mother awakes at dawn, lies in bed waiting for the anesthesia to take hold. Roxanne awakes at eleven, lies in bed with her eyes closed until she can’t take it anymore. Dot gets up at seven and kneels, praying for Bron’s everlasting life, a healing love for our parents, the abolition of war, free school lunches for all—especially those kids in Africa—and, on a personal note, a good pair of boobs. Through the Infinite Mystery of Life, she will hit puberty a full year before I do, use one of my maxi pads without saying a word.

Wondrous and Wonderful, Amazing

Leonard is standing next to the toaster waiting for two pieces of Texas toast to pop. When they pop, he covers them with an inch of mole-colored apple butter, then slides one over to me. I watch his hands, thin-fingered and knobby.

Thanks
. I’ll wake up when my body hits the water.

He studies me, breathing dust.
I don’t think the sparkles in that thin sweater will keep you warm on a day like today, chickpea
. I’m wearing a green sweater with multicolored sequins scattered throughout the yarn.

Not cold
. My voice has acquired a sulky timbre.

He shrugs, puts three heaping tablespoons of sugar into his coffee, standing in front of the window stirring as the bird feeder he’s just filled sways in the wind and behind it a few grayish streaks light the edges of sky.

We leave the house together. I ride my bike through the tight gray dawn that holds all of Glenwood in, following his car until he turns, watching as he puts one hand up to wave, and is gone. My bike knows the way; I pump hard with my legs and it carries me straight to the pool. I plunge, grasping water hand over hand, kicking the shit out of it with two of the most powerful feet, avoiding all Dolphin contact by keeping my eyes on the thin dark line that defines my lane, my purpose, my world. If a Dolphin gets in my way, I pass her, churning. It annoys me to have to breathe, so I don’t. The locker room is subdued, wintry.

On the way home my muscles are so tired, to move them is to suffer. I coast downhill standing on pedals, clutching the handlebars with fingers that whiten, then ache. I ride up to our house. Satan has taken it in his red leather hand and it’s tilting off-kilter. I stop. If you move an atom, somewhere else an atom stops and starts twisting in the opposite direction. Something like that has happened; things are exactly the same but twisting. This is the opposite of joy.

Things go slow-mo after a hard workout. Thoughts appear in single syllable images with dramatic punctuation.

I spot the dusty yellow Buick that says
nun
and I think
Fat!

Dr. Bob’s silver Suburban is sitting in the drive next to it, but the lights in Leonard’s study are off.
Odd!

The front door is emitting a sonorous brass echo, is now the color of worn brass bell.
Dark!

I open it. The only sounds I hear are the old radiators sighing. I stop, watching the windows darken as the sun slumps slowly down.

I take the stairs one step at a time. Left or right.
Right!

Fergus is sitting at the piano in the living room in casual Saturday gray. I’m drawn to her so my feet keep moving. Everything is in place— the glass table, the Greek urn, the green plants, those copper angels with the wide expansive wings—but twisting. I look at her. Neither one of us speaks.

Death sits on the couch in a dark velvet suit with deep purple plumage.

Fergus takes a deep breath, her low voice scratchy and comfortable:
Come here, Philomena
.

I take a hollow breath:
Why should I?
The sound that comes out of my mouth is unused and croaky.

She says:
Come over here and sit down next to me
.

I say:
I don’t think so. Where’s Mom?

She says:
Your mother’s fine
.

I say:
Where’s Roxy?

She says:
She’s with June
.

I put my hand on my hips, my voice aggressive.
Where’s Dot?

With Sister Ruthie
.

Where’s Manny?
I ask.
I’m quite surprised he let you in
.

He didn’t
, she says
. He’s locked in the basement
.

He doesn’t like headgear
.

I gathered
, she says, waiting.

Is Mom …

She’s fine. Dr. Bob’s with her. Sit down for a minute
.

I do not want to sit down for a minute.
I don’t think so
, I say, shifting from one foot to the other.

Take your coat off then
, she says.

I want to see my father
. I know.

There’s been an accident
. She stands, is one of the taller nuns.

I look out the window. It’s still September. Trees are locking up their color for winter. A coldness slips under the door, a clear stillness that comes from those atmospheres where falling waters crystallize into flakes of pure snow. It creeps into the room as transparent as mist, sinking slowly into my bones. The coldness does not touch Fergus, but as the stillness gathers force, she stops watching me for a moment to lift her eyes heavenward. She puts one of her dry hands on my shoulder, says:
Would you like to sit down?
She’s tired. I can see it in the set of her lids, the way the edges of her mouth fall down.

Thank you, no. I’ll stand
. And I brace myself, for I am strong.

Bye Now

And they come, a continuous, nutritious stream of nuns, whole families, both priests, various doctors, dentists, colleagues, neighbors, ac quaintances, a couple of deans and their wives. They politely sip the coffee, tea, or apple juice that June supplies from the kitchen, cafeteria style. They mill, look at pictures, talk quietly about current events, mill again, asking neutral questions before disappearing into eternity. Sad good-byes fill the air along with the odor of perfume and cake. I lean into the piano feeling one hundred percent nothing. Occasionally a slash of feeling, a stab that slices through internal tissue, then nothing again. The nothing feels fine, neutral. My mind’s humming:
That’s it then, that’s it then, that’s it then, that’s it then, that’s it then
.

I don’t feel unwell, but I don’t sleep at night. I don’t know what I do exactly, but it’s definitely not sleep. My face is as blank as cardboard.
Funny
.

I wonder why Leonard doesn’t say anything. I press my hands to my temple.

Nothing.

Bron says:
I can’t find him. Isn’t that strange? He’s not here
.

I speak telepathically, using a form of echolocation that spells out words.
Something must have happened. Keep looking
.

Bron won’t speak telepathically, preferring to roll her eyes and stick her face up toward a sun she just materialized out of thin air because she can.

We have a ceremony for him in the same room the bat symposiums were held. Dr. Bob reads from a piece of paper he holds in his hands, speaking so softly my ears strain, and I whisper:
Come on
out loud by accident. The paper shakes. The more it shakes, the more it shakes. I keep my eyes busy following patterns in wood. Mom’s on a drug that makes her lean heavily into people, places, and things. Roxanne says:
I’m going to be sick
, goes outside, stands behind a soggy tree under a soggy sky until she gets drenched. Dot weeps and prays; it sucks the humidity from her skin and shows us what she would look like should she make it to eighty.

Ahmet Noorani cries, big oily tears that make his brown face shiny and soft and beautiful. He’s leaning heavily on the heavy shoulders of his wife.
I can’t get over it. I just can’t believe it. It can’t be true. Ohhh girls ohhh girls ohhhhhh
.

June sits next to me folding a program into tight little squares.

A production belt of still people in uncomfortable clothes rotates by, all of them saying the first thing that comes into their heads.

He was a very great man
.

Such a nice guy
.

A tragedy
.

How can I help?

Ohhhhhhh girls
.

How is your mother holding up?

You have to be strong
.

You can be strong
.

No one mentions God or any God-like associations, neither nuns nor priests, nor deans nor colleagues—not anyone. Some people take a deep breath, say
Well…
Get stuck. Back off. Other people open their arms, palms up, shake their head, let their eyes water then sprout, hugging us tightly, squeezing our shoulders hard, sighing, before disappearing forever.

When the interviewer from the FAA comes, a nice dandruffy guy, we, due to a common accord we never openly discuss, don’t mention Leonard’s tears. We explain that he’d been understandably sad, that we were all understandably sad, that life was splattered with understandably sad events. We say
sad one
hundred thousand million times because it starts to sound in the air and I try to think up another word but no other word comes to mind except
dandruff
.

Dot counteracts
sad
with
love
, says that we could feel his love for us, that how much he loved us was palpable. That he wouldn’t let himself go because he loved us, would continue with diligence and honor because he loved us and loved the world, loved Rosy, his favorite bat, that Rosy herself was now sad, wouldn’t eat her mayflies, her dragonflies, her stone flies, but that Rosy would recover one day because Leonard has great lab technicians and assistants whom he loved and trained well, that Leonard also loved Dr. Bob and chess; he loved chess. When she stops talking the air is dripping with love and eye contact has been smashed to smithereens.

I make my face seem perfectly normal, speak slowly in a semi-shout.
He had Plans
.

This sets Dot off. She has spots on her cheeks like a country clown.
That’s right! He did! He did. He wanted to fly cross-country to some islands. The Bahamas or next to the Bahamas or past the Bahamas but not Cuba; isn’t that so, Mena?

I look at her spots.
No. Another place. But close to the Bahamas. The Indies, I think
.

The Indies. That’s it, exactly it!
She’s hopping up and down in her chair.
He did, he did, he did have plans
.

Roxanne’s in Beaver Park hidden behind the petting zoo bathing in the joys of hash from a bong.

We are waiting for Mother to come down. Last time I checked she was lying on her bed fully dressed with shoes.

Air is technically fluid. That Saturday while Leonard was flying through sky, I was flying through water. I glided for one moment, breaking the surface without sound, moving my arms, my legs like living propellers as he flew from Glenwood over the Smoky Hills following the Solomon River until it reached Mount Sunflower. He then veered off and headed home in a perfect figure eight. This is where we flew when we were going nowhere. I try to imagine what he was thinking behind the dark prescription glasses he reserved for flight, the gold ones that made him look mean. I see the clouds weave their way across the lenses, the sun in the middle, set, unmovable. Each second he remains gone, the more mysterious he becomes. From time to time he even seems a bit sinister—like a man with heavy secrets, impossible to know, a spy.

Everyone refers to it as the
horrible tragic accident
except Dr. Bob, who never says.

I’d followed Ahmet Noorani’s progress. I saw the creation of an engine step-by-step—its metal gadgets, sockets, pistons. I’d watched as he hit things with the butt of a heavy wrench,
thump thump, That should do
, a droopy yellow cigarette dangling from his mouth.

I’m never going up with him and you can bet the farm on that
, I’d said.

Shhhhhush
, Leonard said.

Minds disconnect when they’re doing familiar things. Maybe Leonard didn’t see the ground coming until it was there.

He underlined things and circled words, had a small notebook the size of a deck of cards in his left pocket with the pen his father had given him when he got his doctorate. He never misplaced that pen; it went from one shirt to the next or sat on the ledge above his window waiting while he dressed. I never once saw him try to infiltrate a particularly long line or get something for nothing. People do that. He didn’t.

The FAA found nothing wrong with what was left of the engines; the black box had been recuperated but held no clues; there was no weather-related phenomenon reported in the area. In his final report, Brian, the nice investigator, said there was a ninety-three percent chance of human error: The pilot was simply coming in too fast, got lost in a dive.

The house takes on shadows that hold. June moves in for a while, stays two years. Dot prays, standard memorized prayers, on her knees, like one of the porcelain figurines the nuns give especially good kids for Christmas. I watch, my eyes boring two holes in the back of her head. She prays by the book with ferocious repetition, but Manny is her true comfort; she holds him in her arms, using his fur as a living rosary.

Manny and I understand each other as only he and I can. I avoid him and he avoids me. But the atmosphere in the house weighs heavily on his soul and one day he jumps up for his bowl and dislocates his hip.

I tell the vet:
I can’t fucking believe this
.

His eyes say:
Language, young lady
.

My eyes say:
Fuck off, vet man
.

I have to physically restrain Dot while they reset Manny’s hip. She moans and weeps as the vet purses his lips, and his assistant grinds her teeth.

Roxanne starts hanging out with the hard-eyed Tanya. Gets rows and rows of C’s. Sister Fergus calls Mother in for an important Catholic conference. Mother dresses up in a violet potato sack with a belt. I see her from homeroom. She takes baby steps, shielding her eyes from the blinding sun that exists in her mind. Atrocious yells:
Posture!
into my ear and it takes my heart a full five minutes to rev down.

Mother is preparing for a life in detention. June and I try to feed her things—soup from can, rice from blue box, omelet from egg—but her cheekbones still look like sledgehammers, and I can count the bones in the hands that grip tightly on to mine.

The important Catholic conference changes nothing. Old days curve into new days like hills without valleys. I ride home from school and make noise: doors slap, plates crack, shoes thump, the refrigerator trembles.

June hisses:
Be quiet for Christsakes, Mena, your mother’s just fallen asleep. It’s been a bad day
.

I’m in a bad mood too.
I didn’t do anything
.

She’s yelling like a lunatic, wild-eyed.
Quit yelling. Shut your trap
.

I’m not yelling, you’re yelling, you ugly little freak
. I was normal and without rage only moments before and now I’m filled with a burning horrible fury that takes all suppressed things and puts them smack in the center of my eyes:
Ugly bad teeth doom poor stuck forever fucker
.

Don’t you look at me like that, Missy. I won’t have it
. She’s holding on to my arms with nails she’s chewed into weapons.

I don’t want to be human anymore. I don’t know what I want to be. Not this. I’d like to be something quieter, wider, harder surfaced, something that doesn’t know. I close my eyes and the world goes blank. When I open them, she’s out by the tree smoking one of those cigarettes that crystallize in your lungs when they kill you, her back to the house.