Excerpt; Chapter One; Night Swimming
It was necessary for him to leave.
He was asleep on the mattress inside their tiny bedroom. He was dreaming of her standing next to the garden wall, and it was raining. The fragrance of blooming flowers perfumed the air. The rain ran slowly down the black bars of the iron- gate. The mysterious scent of rusting metal commingled with the floral bouquet.
She grabbed the bars and shook the gate, but the lock held fast. With wet eyelashes and matted hair she peered through the black bars, beyond the garden path, gazing at the gardenia patch. And then the gray, shapeless sky sliced in half, and he awoke as thunder drummed in the distance.
It was only seven o’clock, but already the dusty twilight was turning dark. Still, in the corner of his eye, he could see Jupiter, large and bright. He mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes again and saw her standing against the gate, her hands clutching the iron as the rain poured down. And then she fell to the mud, and he could see her lying small and listless. The mud swallowed her whole.
He walked to the open window and searched for the moon, but the moon was not in sight, and he could no longer see Jupiter. Mercurial clouds hung close to his face, eclipsing his vision.
The storm was brewing. The rain was coming. He could smell it in the air. She was not home yet. She was still out to sea, swimming with the surfing dolphins and stinging jellyfish. She was diving for oysters, searching for pearls.
He walked barefoot into the bathroom, washed his face with cold water, and ran his fingers through his hair. He peered intently at the soft crevices on his face, the puffiness around his eyes.
Then he looked out the window again, searching for the headlights of her car. A web of lightning filled the sky, the vines of electrifying light spinning from cloud to cloud, reaching the hillsides, touching the mounted ground.
The thunder was growing louder in the west. And he had the feeling that the storm originated from the same point where she swam; near the dock.
She went every night. And on Wednesday she did not waitress, so she went during the day on Wednesday too. The Pacific had become her new lover. She let the water touch her in places he could no longer find. Still, he would not swim with her. He did not know how.
The sea had many secrets, but he preferred to stay on solid ground. Or he preferred the ponds at the edge of town where he could sit quietly and plunge his bare feet into the murky water and feel the soft mud coming up between his toes. He wished he were with her now so he could wrap her in clean linen and take her home where it was dry and warm. Then she could make dinner, and he could make coffee. And they might sit together on the bed and watch the lightning from the window.
But she was out to sea.
It began to rain lightly, and the sky cried out and the ground rumbled, and suddenly it was raining fast and hard. He put his rough hand on the white lace curtains to hold back the material and search the rain-soaked streets.
Jupiter shone through parted rain clouds, disappeared quickly again.
He was hungry and he wanted bread. He walked into the kitchen and cut himself a thick slice. Then he cut another piece and set it aside for her. With his back resting on the edge of the counter, he chewed thoughtfully. Fresh rain from the open window trickled down the blue teardrop tiles, and as the lightning came closer the hanging bare bulb flickered.
He was looking at her pink raincoat and thinking to himself that she might need it. He envisioned her swimming in the deep Pacific with the pink material wrapped round her body. He decided to bring it to her. He finished his bread and wrapped her piece in a paper sack, laying it next to the bread knife. He went back into the bedroom and shut the window. The downpour had left water all over the floor, but he did not care. So he put on clothes: a tattered shirt and yellow shorts that had three holes near the hem.
He did not like rain and he did not like the sea. But she needed the ugly raincoat, and he was going to bring it to her.
The streets were empty and he drove slowly. The lightning was close and he held his breath. He drove past the El Cheapo Discount Barn and the colorful fast food joints, and he rolled down the window because the smoke from his cigarette hurt his eyes. He saw two young girls running from a phone booth. Their hands were over their heads, and he could hear one laughing and the other one crying. He hoped they found shelter. He hoped the little one would stop crying.
He did not like rain and he did not like the sea and he did not like the terrible sound of crying. And he thought of her again, swimming naked in the Pacific. She did not have her raincoat. He would bring it to her.
He turned onto the highway and drove past the numerous car lots and dirty motels and gasoline stations. He’d driven on this road many times. He did not know why. He’d driven on this road many times, but he did not know where the road led. The rain kept coming and he gripped the pink raincoat by the hood, smoothing the material until it was flat. Then he ruffled the hood and started the careful rhythm again.
The lightning struck in rhythms too. It seemed to touch the surface of the sea. The waves churned angrily. And the lightening flashed again. He turned onto the road that led to the dock. There were no street lamps here, but the lightning led him by the light of its random bursts. Parking the truck close to the rustic boards, he sat pensively and watched the rain come down.
Each night when she came home from the dock she would undress before him and point to the small burns on her hands and arms, the dark red spots made by splattering grease and cooking pans too hot to the touch. And as he looked at the burns closely, he knew she wanted him to kiss away the pain, but he would not. Filling the tub with warm water, she would often soak for hours. She left the bathroom door open, and he sometimes caught glimpses of her soaping and scrubbing herself. She sang softly, and the sound of her singing contented him. And as it grew late, and she still had not emerged from the bathroom, he lay on the small mattress with a sheet over him, drifting in and out of sleep.
Now, he took her raincoat and held it close to his chest. He stepped out of the truck, shut the door, and walked to the edge of the dock. The waves broke violently over the planks. The wood was slick with salt water.
The wood was old, but stable and wide. Still, he felt uneasy, and he willed himself not to look down. His first steps were tenuous. He breathed deeply, trying to maintain his balance. He wanted to call out her name, wanted to give her the raincoat. She might tell him she was glad he’d decided to come.
The sky was angry and dark, and the rain came in brief bursts. The moon now shone through a small patch of parted clouds. And moonbeams jumped off the crests of the waves, reflecting a soft, glowing light. He walked further along the pier, and the wind caught his short brown curls. Sea spray bathed his face. His hands were cold and numb, and his bare legs longed for warmth. She needed her raincoat though, and he was determined to give it to her.
And then he saw her.
And the rain came down very hard.
Someone was out there with her, holding her, and kissing her salty skin again and again as her naked body bobbed in and out of the waves; and she was kissing him, too. He clenched the pink raincoat in his fists and looked away.
They had not seen him. Nor did they know that he’d seen them. He pressed the material close to his face, and when tears formed in his eyes he did not brush them away. He dropped the raincoat into the sea.
On a hot Saturday afternoon three days later he sat underneath a willow tree at River Lawn Cemetery watching from a distance as mourners made their way up the marble steps of the funeral home. He wore a blue suit—his only suit—and a tie with yellow stripes, and he fought to loosen the knot because she had made it too tight. If only a pond were nearby, he thought, or if a picnic had been packed, then he might call her to his side and feed her cherries, and they might share a bottle of wine. If only he’d not seen what he’d seen…
And he was tired, for he had not slept last night. Nor the night before. Nor the night before that. Sitting at this isolated spot, he reviewed the mourners. They were shaking their heads and weeping for the deceased, though he himself was not consumed by grief. He turned his attention to the marvelous tree.
The base of the trunk was thick and misshapen, and as the trunk spiraled upward the wood had diverged, causing a catastrophic split. Now there were two willow trees instead of one, and each tree had matured even though both had come from one trunk.
But it was obvious that the tree facing east had received more sunlight over the years. The branches were thick with sap. Long and green, the leaves looked like vines of ripened string beans. The other half had not reaped such a bountiful reward. The branches were dry and brittle. The leaves were winter brown and torn. It was only a matter of time… But he thought perhaps he might come here each week and water the more pathetic half of the tree, nourishing it carefully, slowly.
Almost unconsciously, he found himself watching her. She stood at his mother’s side; he could see her hand gripping wadded Kleenex. A rosary—the one that he detested—hung at her hip. He watched as she excused herself and walked toward him.
“Ben,” she said cautiously. “Your mother wants you close by.”
“I’m here. I’m close,” he said, lighting a cigarette. He thought he could smell saltwater on her skin.
The long vein in her forehead appeared, as it always did when she was in distress. “Of course you are. But—”
“Look at this tree,” he interrupted her. “Have you ever seen a tree like this before?”
She sighed, briefly glanced at the tree, and then looked at him again. “What can I do to make this easier for you?” she asked.
He smoked his cigarette; he would not look at her. She stood before him, waiting in her small but determined way. As relentless as she could be, he was equally stubborn.
“I’m beginning to wonder why we ever got together in the first place,” he said finally.
“Sometimes you can be so cruel,” she stammered.
“And you’re cold and oblique,” he retorted. “Mona and her antics, Mona and her fucking sea…”
“Please don’t say any more,” she implored.
But the pain was horrible, and he could not retreat.
“You have no idea how to love me,” he said with finality.
She was crying now, and he hated the sound of crying.
“Why won’t you look at me, Ben?” she asked. “Why can’t you see what you’re doing to me?”
“What about what you did to me, Mona?”
She spun round and ran from him, past the nameless mourners, and his mother and father, disappearing inside the funeral parlor. He sighed and threw his cigarette onto the ground.
Inside the chapel, Mona sat with his sister and his parents in the first row of seats, but he stayed back, sitting alone at the back of the sacrarium. He did not like funerals, and he no longer attended church. He placed his hands neatly on his lap and watched fervently as the mourners talked in whispers or prayed quietly.
“We are gathered here today to say goodbye…” the minister began solemnly, and Ben’s thoughts turned to a much happier place, a place where sailboats drifted slowly on the calm water of a small lake. He could see two boys in red Sherlock Holmes hats laughing and playing together with a rubber ball. Their mother was close by, and she rubbed sunscreen on their backs. Then they scrambled up the trunk of a willow tree whose trunk had diverged into two.
The purely religious part of the service had proceeded without benefit of his attention, and now it was time for the eulogy. “Let us turn to those who knew him well,” the minister said, and his mother rose. He could hear her grunting as she climbed the steps leading to the Altar. In younger days she’d been a dancer—not professional—but a dancer in private nevertheless. But that was before her illness, before she was stifled, subdued, hidden away. And though she’d never fully given up her vital madness, she had seemed to grow old overnight. Now, as she smiled ironically at the congregation, a sense of panic spread over him, for he knew she was not sound.
“I may be an old kook,” she blurted—and he almost stood, wishing to put a stop to her obtuse soliloquy—“but I know one thing for certain: Death is a time bomb ticking away inside each person’s spleen!” she said as she pounded her fist on the podium. “The only thing you can do is dance.”
The minister jerked uncomfortably in his seat and pushed his spectacles back over the bridge of his nose. The mourners again whispered softly among themselves.
And she was looking directly at him now, staring deeply into his troubled eyes. He felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of love for her, and for her conviction. For this was indeed his mother’s credo. This was his mother’s truth.
After the funeral Mona made supper.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked.
“Gammon steak, fried. Chilled dish mustard: Grey Poupon brand. Sweet peas, wheat roll, pineapple slash peach side. Heineken? Budweiser? Decide, please. Decide.”
“Leftovers. I’d prefer leftovers instead.”
“Leftovers? What leftovers?”
“You know, cold cuts, moldy cheese slices. Rum punch.”
“What are you talking about? We don’t have rum punch.”
“Well, I want punch.”
“Heineken? Budweiser?” she said, ignoring him.
“Punch.”
“Cut it out! Punch yourself! Who do you think I am, anyway?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked spitefully.
“Cut it out, I said!”
“Wait! Wait, I remember. He used to call you… You loved it so… What was it now?”
“This is no time for—”
“Amphitrite, wasn’t it?”
“Stop it. Don’t do this.”
“Yes, Amphitrite.”
“Heineken? Budweiser? Decide, please. Decide,” she said weakly.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve decided, Mona. I’ve decided to leave,” he said.
She stopped stirring the peas and laid her hands on top of the counter. “You can’t… I won’t… Where’s the mustard?”
“Don’t ignore me!”
“It was here a moment ago.”
“Listen to me, Mona!”
“You can’t leave now!” she shouted as she spun round. “Not right after…”
His expression hardened as he looked pensively at the open door.
“What am I suppose to do?” she implored. “If you want cold cuts, we’ll have cold cuts. If you want cheese, we’ll have cheese. If you want punch, we’ll have...”
“Punch, punch, punch.”
“Sometimes you can be so cruel!”
“Amphitrite is in love with the sea, she’s not in love with me,” he sang. “How could this be? How could this be?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.
The ham steak was burning in the skillet. The Grey Poupon was on the countertop, close to her white-knuckled hand. “The mustard,” he said, gesturing. “And you’re frying the gammon to death.”
Bewildered, she looked at him, tears rolling down her eyes. “Please stop this, Ben!” she pleaded.
“How can I stop something I did not start? Only you know how to make it stop, Mona.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? I’m talking about a tree with two divergent trunks: one vital, the other wilted.”
“Stop!” she cried. “Please stop!”
Punch, punch, punch.
