Dance Real Slow (4 page)

I twist my head, shooting him a wry look. But he is propped up against the door, peering out the window.

“Hey, how 'bout we listen to the radio?” he says.

“What do you want to hear?”

He shrugs, pushing his head back into the soft middle portion of the seat. I turn on the radio, leaving it on
a classical station he usually likes. Not so much for the music, but because of the disc jockey's deep, soulful voice.

“No, not this.”

“What's wrong? Wait a minute, you'll like the guy who talks when the music ends.”

“Nooo
. I don't like him anymore.”

“Sure you do,” I say, turning up the volume. “Wait. He'll be on in a second.”

Calvin tries to stretch forward to change the channel, but he cannot reach. He starts to grab at the seat buckle.

“Don't!” I say, spreading my hand across his chest. “I'll try something else if you can ask in a nice, polite way.”

“Could we hear another music?” he says.

I shake my head and he sighs, real loud, inadvertently spitting saliva onto his pants. He is thinking.

“Please
, could we change?”

I am tempted to tease him, but I do not, instead switching to a fast-paced top-forty station. When I stop, he smiles and says, “Yeah, this.” We pull leisurely into a parking lot beside the post office.

“What're we doin' here?” he asks, climbing out of the car.

“I have to pick up a package before they close.”

“What package?”

They are not crowded inside and only one window is in use. I surrender my pink slip and the man behind the counter tells me to wait.

“What are you getting?” Calvin asks. He is now
standing on the balls of his feet, excitedly shaking his hands at his waist.

“I don't know.”

The man places a tall, narrow package, wrapped in brown paper, on the countertop. He hands me a clipboard and pen and asks me to sign beside the bottom number, which is 39.

The outside of the box is covered with red scrawl, telling all who handle it to “Keep This End Up” and that its contents are “Extremely Fragile.” I recognize the writing and the pen as belonging to my mother, who has sent this from Key Biscayne. Although it is addressed to me, enclosed in parentheses beside my name it says, “For Calvin.” So I take him outside and the two of us sit on the steps of the post office.

“It's from Grandma Tish,” I say, using my keys to slice a large H through the tape, where the flaps come free. “It's for you.”

Calvin's head lunges forward and his eyebrows rise and then drop. “Dad, for me? You opened it,” he says, with a tremor to his voice.

“No, no. Look, I just made it easier. I have no idea what's in here.” I take him by the wrists, from behind, and push him toward the box. He leans over and begins ripping away at the cardboard, tape, and crumpled newspaper. He digs down, but is having trouble prying his gift loose.

“Unhh. It's heavy.”

“Do you want help?” I ask, moving closer.

“No, I—I.” He pauses and takes a full breath. This means, indeed, he would like me to get rid of all the
excess packing materials so he can see his present. I place my hand into the box and pull out a thick, wobbly mason jar filled with saltwater, and floating, almost perfectly centered, a violet-blue handlike glob. I turn it and on the side, where a right-thinking person might label “Summer Peaches” or “Strawberry Rhubarb,” my mother has written “Portuguese Man-o-War.” She has sent my four-year-old son one, very much expired, Portuguese man-o-war.

Calvin is reaching, his eyes wide and warm, like cinders. I set the jar at his feet and tell him he can look, but not to touch it. I tell him they have laws in Kansas against little boys holding dead Portuguese man-o-wars—especially on the steps of the post office. However, he is not listening.

I take the empty box and newspaper to a large garbage bin several spaces away from my car and cram them inside, firmly, with both arms. Looking back, I watch Calvin, his hand waving in front of one side of the jar as he talks to the man-o-war. I cannot quite make out what he is saying, but I am sure he has had similar conversations with worms and slugs.

When I was young, my mother often attempted to bring bizarre presents home for me from trips. Most Christmases, my parents were away with the basketball team at a holiday tournament in Hawaii, California, or Florida. Always someplace warm. She would leave gifts behind for me to open with my grandparents, but she would also try to bring back something from the trip. I can only imagine my father's reactions as she attempted
to stuff starfish wrapped in plastic sandwich bags into his suitcase, or when she was stopped by security at the Maui airport for carrying a package too large for the plane—a package that turned out to be a lobster trap. My mother told me later that my father asked her repeatedly what was I going to do with a lobster trap in Ohio. She responded by saying she thought it might be nice in my bedroom, that perhaps I could learn something from it. When my mother talks of these items, with hindsight, I believe it was the lobster trap that was the hardest for her to leave behind. Not so much for what it was, but for the manner in which it was abandoned.

The episode occurred in late December 1974, and Eastern Ohio was playing Michigan State in the final of the Maui Christmas Classic. The Eagles had won their first game, beating Hawaii-Loa by 62 points, and although Michigan State was a much tougher opponent, the two teams had played a month earlier, with Eastern Ohio winning by 16. Because of the time difference, television dictated the final begin at 10 a.m., which ripped my father. He detested catering to anyone, especially the “copper-fucks” at TV. But as the game started, my father seemed uncharacteristically relaxed, his legs extended, crossed at the ankles. He normally drank a pot of coffee a half, but here he was sipping a local brew of herbal tea from a cardboard cup. The game stayed relatively close until early into the second half, when the Eagles went on a 12-3 run and it looked as if Michigan State would collapse. With a little more than six minutes remaining, Eastern Ohio led by 14 and had
possession of the ball. Really, it was an innocent mistake, a split-second decision gone wrong.

The play was called three-ramble: guard David Paccini was supposed to take the pass above the free-throw line and turn to face the basket; forward Harvey Brewer cuts off a baseline pick from left to right, and if he is open, Paccini gives him the ball; if he's covered, Paccini either kicks the ball back out top to the point guard, Mort Keane, or shoots. Brewer was not open, but Paccini forced the ball anyway and Michigan State stole it, pushing an outlet pass that keyed its fast break. As the Spartans closed the play with a lay-up, Paccini, desperately trying to make amends for his error—for now, out of the corner of his eye, he could see my father standing and yelling something at the referee—tried to block the ball and fouled the shooter. A three-point play.

My father erupted, but not at Paccini. He was busy riding the ref, believing the player who stole the ball had gone over Brewer's back to do so. The usual stream of profanity spewed from my father's mouth, his arms spread out, gesturing in front of him. My father had worked his way closer to the ref, almost touching him, and when the referee turned around, he hooked the cup of tea onto himself. Perhaps the referee truly believed my father had intentionally doused him, or maybe he just wanted to shut my father up, but the result was a technical foul. The Eagles' lead was cut to 9 and after two successive possessions that ended in missed shots, the margin was down to 5. Then my father called time, but instead of talking to his players, he continued shouting
at the referee. Michigan State moved ahead for good with 1:32 left, and eventually won the game, 77-72.

At the airport, my father was quiet as the team passed through twin metal detectors. It was there that the security guards made my mother unwrap the lobster trap, and then an airline representative came over to inform her the piece would have to be checked: it was too large to carry on the plane. This was the first time my father had seen—or cared—what she was balancing against her outer thigh.

“Tish, why do you have this thing?” he asked my mother.

“For Gordon's room.”

“Jesus, he doesn't need a lobster trap—that's what it is, isn't it? A lobster trap?”

“Well, I thought—”

“What the hell is he going to do with this?”

“Actually, it might be a nice teaching tool.”

This was always my mother's escape. No matter how offbeat something was, it just might strike a chord somewhere inside my head or heart, and I would become ravenous for knowledge about starfish or lobster traps or seagull feathers, and this would pave the path to my future.

“Lobster trap,” my father said, sighing. I believe all would have been fine if at that moment he had simply turned the other way and walked toward the airline gate, leaving my mother to repack and check her trap. But my father looked up and saw David Paccini leaning against the wall, his black hair slicked back, his right hand fiddling with something at his knee—the butt of a
tennis racket. It took a minute before Paccini noticed my father was staring at him, but when he did he became rigid and uneasy. My father called Paccini over and asked him for the tennis racket, which he took to where my mother was standing. He pushed her off to the side and then folded the racket, six times, into the trap, leaving splintered shards of wood and random netting about the table and floor.

“It'll fit now,” my father said, brushing off his shirt and waist. He walked back to Paccini, handing him the badly disfigured racket—head snapped free, clinging by a half dozen or so limp and twisted strands of cat gut.

“Here,” he said, shouldering his carry-on bag. “If Brewer's not open, don't give him the ball.”

There is almost daylight. Breathing easy, waiting for the wasp-buzz of the alarm clock, I think, it is mornings like these when Calvin needs another parent. A mother. The type of mother Kate was capable of being—if only demonstrated briefly. Early, when Calvin was still an infant, we took him along with us to an art museum. After we had seen acres of paintings and drawings by big names, like Picasso, van Gogh, and Matisse, Kate pushed Calvin's hooded carriage through one final room, a contemporary exhibit. Hanging from the ceiling at the far corner was a long, tubular punching bag with words stenciled on its swollen midsection. From afar, I watched as Kate wheeled Calvin around the bag in small circles, like heavy liquid swirling down a drain, reading to him from the piece of artwork.

It is a perfect instance—a complete moment between mother
and child. One that cannot be scripted, but simply arises, quickly, and then disappears again. Kate and Calvin moving faster and faster, almost at dizzying speed until their two images blurred into one.

There were similar obscure moments between Kate and myself. The one that burns strongest happened shortly after we began dating. The two of us were early for a movie, so Kate took my hand and led me into a grocery store beside the theater. There, we roamed the aisles, pausing, randomly, so Kate could question me about various products. Actually, what she wanted was to rate the items in her favorite sections: “Pick your top three cookies” (mine: Oreos, Chips Ahoy, and Mallomars; hers: chocolate-covered graham crackers, Mallomars—common ground!—and Nutter-Butter peanut butter), or “One cereal to take with you on a desert island—prizes
not
included” (mine: Cocoa Krispies; hers: Raisin Bran).

Before leaving, we passed through the frozen foods and Kate reached for my arm while a Muzak mambo came over the speaker system. We held each other tightly, shifting on the balls of our feet. People glared at us, concerned, as they guided their carts past meat, frosty and cellophaned. Even here, even now, everything was possible. We could spend time in the Peace Corps, someplace exotic—Tibet, perhaps. We could live on beaches in faraway lands until we decided to settle down, and then we might choose the hills near Tuscany, raising our children to speak two, three languages. Or, maybe, we would decide that Eau Claire, Wisconsin, was just fine, too.

Still, I knew it would not always be like that—pure with potential. What you hope, I suppose, is that there are more days when the good will keep you buoyed than days when it will not.

Calvin is lying stomach-down across his bed, fists supporting chin. He is staring at the man-o-war resting atop the windowsill. A narrow bar of sunlight slides in through the cracked shades, breaking apart into glorious apricot and violet fingers as it hits the jar.

“Meg is still sick,” I say, toweling off my hair. “And Mrs. Grafton's got plans today, so you're going to have to come to work with me.”

He moans and curls his legs back, kicking at the seat of his pajamas with his heels.

“Hurry, and get dressed.”

He lets out a long sigh, which, because his jaw is stable, sounds fleshy and spit-filled. As I head across the hallway, he calls out to me.

“What?” I answer, standing inside my door.

“Canya come here a minute?”

“Why?”

“I jus' wanna ask you something.”

I walk back and he has not moved.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I should name my Poor'geese man-o-war?”

“Well, I suppose that's up to you.”

“I think I'm gonna.”

“Okay, that's fine,” I say, grabbing his ankle and
sliding him to the end of the bed. “But right now you're going to get dressed.”

I have fastened a wire coat hanger to the stainless-steel-clipped lid of the mason jar, creating a handle so Calvin can carry it. He holds it with both hands, slugging against the side of his calf and knee. Mary peeks up from her desk as we pass, craning her head to catch a better glimpse.

“What've you got there, Calvin?”

“It's a man-o-war,” he says, resting the jar at his feet, but refusing to release the handle.