Drowning Lessons (2 page)

“Juliet? Like the lake.”

“Yes, like the lake.”

“Mine's Frank.”

“Are you here by yourself?” the woman asked.

“With my wife.”

“She doesn't swim?”

“No.”

“That's a shame.”

The air felt colder than the water. Frank began to shiver. “I'd better keep moving,” he said.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“That's fine.”

“Nice to meet you,” said the woman. “If you get a chance, maybe sometime you can give me some swimming pointers.”

“Be glad to.” Frank spit in his goggles again, rubbed the spit around inside them, and snapped them back on. “It's all in the breathing,” he said, and then he turned and started back to the float.

“How was your swim?”

Dorothy sat in a wicker chair eating toast and bacon and
reading her mystery novel. She always asked him how his swims were.

“Fine,” he always answered.

Breakfast was on the table, with Frank's plate covered by a saucepan lid. Three pancakes, one egg, two strips of bacon, orange juice, coffee. He liked his bacon lean; she liked hers fat.

“Should we go to the farmers' market today?”

“All right,” he said, eating his breakfast but with less appetite than usual. They didn't look at each other; they rarely looked at each other. It was part of the routine. Every so often, Frank would glance at Dorothy, but she would not seem to notice, or would pretend not to. Each time he looked at her, Frank felt increasingly disturbed and unhappy. What, after all, did they have to do with each other anymore, he wondered, aside from being husband and wife? Maybe I should have let myself go too, he told himself as he nibbled on a strip of bacon. I should have aged
with
her. Instead, I let her go ahead without me and now look: we've lost each other. Haven't we?

“There's someone renting the Icehouse this year,” he said to break his own train of thought.

“Really? That's unusual,” said Dorothy.

“Some woman,” he said.

“Did you meet her?” she asked, still reading, bringing a coffee mug to her lips but not looking up.

“We exchanged pleasantries.”

“What's her name?”

“Juliet.”

“
Juliet?
”

“A coincidence, I'm sure,” said Frank.

“Was she in the water?”

“No, no. She was on dry land. With her dog.”

“She has a dog?”

“I looked up from my swim and there she was.”

They were silent for a while. Frank could not bring himself to eat the second strip of bacon. For some reason it repulsed him.

“That cabin must be in terrible shape.”

“I wouldn't know,” he said.

“It hasn't been used for so long. It must be full of mildew.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Oh come on, Frank, how couldn't it be?”

“Things that haven't been used in a while can still be fixed.”

“What?” She lowered her book. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Just because a thing hasn't been used doesn't mean there's something wrong with it.”

“I was just saying it must be
moldy
.”

“I know what you were saying,” said Frank. “And I'm saying it's no big deal. You clean it up, spray a little Lysol, whatever. Just because a thing is out of shape —”

“For godsake, Frank, what are you getting worked up about?”

“I'm not getting worked up. I just don't hold to the philosophy that things go to pot and that's all there is to it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he said, dropping his toast on his plate and carrying it to the sink. “I'm talking about nothing. Let's go to the farmers' market.”

For the past twelve years the New Jersey countryside, with its lush, rolling hills and manicured farms, hadn't ceased to impress Frank
and Dorothy, conditioned as they were to thinking of New Jersey as Newark and petroleum refineries. Neither spoke as Dorothy drove the hunkering blue rental car. Her mind, he decided, was on tomatoes. And his? It was on the woman who had rented the Icehouse. In thirty-seven years Frank had not thought of another woman. Oh, there had been that one time early in their marriage, but that had been nothing, had gone nowhere. Whereas this distressed him.

“What do you think about corn tonight?” said Dorothy.

“Huh?”

“Corn, what do you think of having corn?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

A quarter mile from the farmers' market, a half-acre bed of “pick-your-own” red and orange zinnias grew four feet tall. Once a week his wife picked a dozen to distribute throughout their cabin, putting them in every room. Frank watched through the rental-car windshield as Dorothy waded breast deep in a lake of fiery zinnias.

Before dinner that evening, as usual around four o'clock, Frank set out in the rowboat for his afternoon swim. By then the temperature had peaked. When he reached the float, his forehead and arms dripped sweat from rowing. He wasted no time mooring and putting his goggles on. Soon he was part of the water again, flowing through it as it flowed past him. When he reached the far shore, she stood there, on top of the dam, this time with no dog.

“Hi, there.”

She wore a bright red bathing suit. A pair of goggles dangled from her fingers.

“I'll have to put up a no-wake sign here,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“You make such a big wake.”

A joke. She was joking with him. He smiled.

“How about those pointers you promised me?”

“Pointers?” Now he was being coy. But things were happening too quickly, and he thought he should slow them down. He took off his goggles, rubbed the irritated skin around his eyes. “Oh, yeah, right,” he said. “Sure. Whenever you're ready.”

“I'm ready,” said the woman from the Icehouse. Her bathing suit fit her snugly. Her calf muscles were strong. She looked fit.

“It's a free lake,” he said. “Come on in.”

As her body merged with the lake, he felt an odd tingle underwater, as if her bright red bathing suit charged the water with electricity. With her in the water, the lake suddenly felt colder, more quick and alive, while he felt warmer in it. She stood up to her chest in the water next to him. Her breasts were full, and though he tried hard he could not quite keep his eyes from the tawny shadow of her cleavage.

“Let's see you swim freestyle.”

She swam a dozen yards, then turned and looked at him.

“Not bad. You've got a good, strong kick. A little hyperextension in the knees, which is good. But you need to work on your arms and breathing.”

“I'm all ears,” she said.

Frank explained. “Pretend the water's a sideways cliff you're trying to climb. Reach as far as you can, grab hold, and pull yourself along. As you pull your hands back, make sure that they're pushing hard against the water, the harder the better. Maximize
that resistance. You follow?” The woman nodded. “And keep your fingers close together. Not touching, but close, like so.” He showed her. “That's very important.”

“I never knew that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Frank. “Very important.”

She swam again, and he watched her. She had a very strong kick.

“Better,” he said. “Now let's talk about your breathing. Now when I breathe —” he demonstrated, “— it's all in the exhale, see? Don't worry about inhaling. Just worry about exhaling. Push it out. Push it out. If you don't exhale hard enough, then you won't have room to get any new air inside your lungs. They're full of carbon dioxide. That's why you get winded.”

“I never knew that, either.”

“Well,” said Frank, “now you know.”

Together they swam to the float.

“How did you get to be such a good swimmer?” she asked as they sat catching their breaths.

“The funny thing is,” he said, “I didn't start until I was in my forties.”

“You're kidding?” Her eyelashes glistened with water. “Really?”

“It's the truth. I hated water. Hated it. Wouldn't go near it. When I was a kid, I wouldn't let my mother give me a bath. I never learned how to swim. Naturally, when I got drafted, they put me in the navy.” He pointed with his chin toward the anchor tattooed on his arm.

“That figures,” said the woman from the Icehouse.

“I was seventeen, on a Liberty ship. Sick to my stomach every day for thirty-nine days. Then we made the landing at Normandy.
I'll never forget. We had to jump from that big ship into this little lcs down there that looked about the size of a bathtub, and it's going like this and the Liberty ship is going like that, and I stood there, shaking my head, muttering no way, no way, until some son of a bitch kicks me in the rump and down I go. All of a sudden I'm in this tub, crouched on my belly, praying to God Almighty, waves the size of elephants washing over us. Finally we get to the beach and land and there's bullets flying everywhere and all I can think is hallelujah; I made it; I'm on dry land;
the war is over
. And I swore if I survived I would never, ever so much as look at water again.” He shook his head.

“What changed your mind?”

“It was the damnedest thing. About thirty years ago I just
wanted
to do it. I wanted to go in the water. It was like shaking hands with a Nazi soldier, you know? I just made up my mind: I'm not going to have this
enemy
in my life. Instead I'm going to embrace it; I'm going to learn to
love it
. So I taught myself how to swim.” He shook his head. “It wasn't hard.”

“That's an amazing story,” said the woman.

“Is it?”

“Yes, amazing.”

He had told Dorothy the same story several times, but he did not remember her being amazed. He wondered if she was watching the float now. No, she was reading her best seller or shucking corn for dinner. Dorothy had long since lost any interest in his swimming. He could have drowned, for all she knew.

They swam back to the dam. In the shallow water, Frank gave her a few more pointers, showing her how far out of the water to lift her head and explaining to her again about breathing.

“It's the most important thing,” he said. “When you swim
think of yourself as a breathing machine. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Everything else pretty much takes care of itself.”

They met several more times. Her swimming improved greatly. One morning after they had swum together, she invited him for coffee. Inside, the Icehouse was cool, even cold, as if ice were still stored there. And it did smell faintly of mildew. Frank watched her open a can of dog food. Her arms were perfectly shaped, gloriously smooth, firm things. He thought of his wife in her baggy robe holding the bacon skillet and felt a sharp, sudden emptiness in his abdomen, as if he'd been gutted.

That same night, with his belly full of corn and zucchini, Frank slept poorly. Several times he awoke from nightmares of which he remembered nothing more than bubbles, black bubbles. He lay there, touching his forehead with a trembling hand. Beside him Dorothy lay fast asleep, breathing deeply, snoring. He shook himself awake. He wanted to make a confession, then and there. He wanted to tell his slumbering wife everything, say to her,
I have reached the bottom of my willpower. I have loved and been faithful to you for thirty-six years, but enough is enough. I have met another woman. The woman in the Icehouse. Juliet. I have fallen in love with her. She swims.

He had an erection.

He got up and took a cold shower. Afterward, he stood dripping in the doorway of the screened porch where they slept, listening to the electric noise of crickets. Gray dawn seeped in through the rattan shades. Turning, he stood at the foot of their bed.

“Frank, is that you?”

“Swim with me,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Tomorrow. Today. This afternoon. I want you to swim with me. Will you swim with me?” He stood naked in the dark.

“You know I don't swim, Frank.”

“I'll teach you.”

“Frank, for goodness —”

“Please,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It's important. I want you to swim with me, Dorothy. I need you to swim with me.”

“All right, all right; I'll swim with you, for godsake.”

“Thank you,” he said, and bent down and kissed her.

“But not this morning. I need to sleep.”

“This afternoon will do fine,” said Frank.

He went for his morning swim alone. He wasn't surprised to see the woman from the Icehouse waiting for him, already in the water.

“Practice makes perfect,” she said, treading.

They swam out to the float. When they reached it, the sun had broken over the tops of the trees to bathe it in yellow light. They rested, drying and breathing together, their bodies touching. Frank lay on his back with his eyes closed, letting the sun paint its Rothkos and Mirós. It took him no time to doze off. He found himself back in the dream he'd had during the night, in which he chased — or was chased by — black bubbles. The bubbles rose from a hideous depth into his face, blinding him. With a gasping start he awoke, startling the woman from the Icehouse, who'd been watching him doze.

“You had a nightmare,” she said.

“I know,” said Frank.

“You grind your teeth. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn't know that.” He smiled. “Please don't tell my dentist. I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, looked at him. Her green irises held tiny flakes of brownish red — like rust. Frank swam in them. A drop of water from her hair landed on his lip. She bent forward to kiss him. Frank broke away. “I've got to go,” he said, untying the rowboat.