Swimming (2 page)

Life’s Most Beautiful Day

Leonard’s standing in the garage packing up the mist nets, talking to me about things I’ve never shown an interest in. He’s wearing dark green pants, desert boots in beige suede, an old camouflage safari jacket with a gold bat pin stabbed into the lapel, a gift from the Bat Sanctuary.

They’re expert fliers, Boo, perhaps the best in the world, swooping, clasping moths, bluebottles, mayflies between their teeth as they glide
.

Sounds gross
, I say, mind on other matters.

This morning, I cleaned out Baby Lenny’s bowl, carefully putting him into a clear plastic bag, rinsing out his bowl, drying it by hand. I refilled the bowl with fresh water, not too hot, not too cold, put the conditioner tablets in, sprinkled his floor with the orange rocks, placed the small purple castle he likes to hide behind on the bottom, put the underwater sea guy in next to it holding his spear. I put him back, sprinkling the surface with a pinch of those flakes he likes that smell like poison. He swam around in looping circles, opened his mouth, sucked in some food. He stopped, cocking his head, floating still, the weird brainy lump thing on his forehead pulsing, his buggy black eyes vacant, his full cheeks fat, his small baubled mouth producing the occasional stray bubble, all his pretty wings swooshing to and fro. I studied him; his small face looked unusually sad and his pin eyes seemed to be screaming for help.

I thought a change of scenery would do him good, a glimpse of the outside world of weather and tree. I moved his bowl and Baby Lenny became perky, happy again, fascinated by the way the sunshine flashed off his golden gills. I watched him, happy again too, until I heard Mom screaming for me to clean my room and my feet followed her voice inside like well-trained pets. Fatal mistake.

I open my mouth to say something to Leonard, but the something gets caught in my throat like a bone.

He said no to the Destiny Dress, no to the flower petal tiara, no to the anklets with the embroidered studded cross, no to the white padded headband with the long-fingered ribbons and satin-edged bows. He sighed and said yes to the double chocolate cake with the communional frosting, yes to the fourteen-karat-gold First Holy Communion pendant, yes to the white patent leather ballet slippers with the golden heart-shaped buckles, but I have to wear Bron’s old dress, the Cassandra, on my Special Most Holiest Day because it cost $80 three years ago and that’s still too much.

Careful your face doesn’t freeze that way
, Leonard says, studying me, the exposed garage lightbulb flashing sharply off his glasses.
Grab that corner and pull until I say when. And it’s not gross; it’s a marvel of nature
.

My best friend, Lilly Cocoplat, is a Leo, born under the sign of extravagance, has two believers for parents, gets everything she wants. At swim practice, she describes her outfit in Cocoplat detail as I listen, chin on kickboard, legs churning whirlpools of irritation that foam and swirl behind me. She’s wearing the floor-length Kerry Irish Shamrock organza dress, her veil cascading from a hair comb with five satin tails, scattered with a series of four-leaf clovers hand-embroidered white on white, edged in fine velvet piping. She will be carrying her Precious Moments Holy Communion Deluxe Purse Set, which includes a Precious Moments missalette, satin brocade purse edged in pale green lace, satin rosary case, blue-glass rosary beads with silver-plated links, golden angel wings bracelet. Her parents are hosting a party for over one hundred Cocoplats, both the vague and the highly defined. Strawberry shortcake and Mountain Dew will be served, along with cocktail sausages and other stuff.

Dot opens the garage door, squeaks:
Can I help?

Leonard looks up.
Not tonight, twilight. Your sister’s helping
.

Her face falls, her ponytail droops, her smile collapses; she shuts the door.

We’re having what my mother calls an
intimate family brunch
at the Longbranch Family Diner. I hate the Longbranch Family Diner. There’s a dancing bear with a mangy face who pretends to play a fake banjo, and everything in the entire restaurant is made of dry wood: wood floors, wood benches, wood paneling, rickety wood-colored ceiling fans, wood toilet seats, wood-colored chocolate cake.

Leonard’s a scientist, doesn’t care about atmosphere or accessory.
If there is a God, would he really care about all this ballyhoo?

I don’t know what I am, but I like all the ballyhoo; it makes me feel holy. I want the tea-length satin skirt, the seed-pearl bodice, the sheer lace sleeves, the ruffled organza veil, a pearl earring in each lobe. I yearn for a party with a roaming band wearing colorful cummerbunds, center tables covered in white, a series of three-tiered cakes, a room devoted to gifts. At Lilly’s house, I jump up and down on her single bed, yelling:
Wouldn’t it be great if I got a golden piñata filled with golden collectibles?

For Lent I gave up Sweet Bonny and all forms of chocolate except malted, went to bed without complaining, did not fidget openly in church, and I was really listening when Sister Seraphina explained that the wanting mixed with the can’t have teaches us an important lesson about the lot of Man, and by Man, she meant everyone, even us; Lilly asked. But I figured that the giving up would counteract positively with the wanting, proving just how good I was, which would eventually end up in a get.

Wrong.

Leonard’s got the mist nets folded and is now reading a checklist he’s laminated in plastic.

Project name: BatBotswana
.

Tranquillity bat detector. Check
.

Head torch. Check
.

Thermometer. Check
.

Survey protocols. Check
.

Recording sheet. Check
.

Weather events list. Hmmm, need more of those
.

Site map. Check
.

Extra batteries. Check
.

Clipboard. Check
.

Extra pens. Check
.

Bug spray. Check
.

Eyedrops. Check
.

Certs
.

I don’t want to go to the Longbranch Family Diner
, I interrupt.

I thought you liked the Longbranch
, he says, half listening.

I hate the Longbranch. I’d like to have an outdoor picnic or a garden party … The Cocoplats are renting a tent
.

Renting a tent?
He laughs, shakes his head.
A tent for an eight-year-old. I won’t be back until the night before your Communion, grumpy face, and your mother can’t organize all of that on her own
.

Almost nine
, I say.

I stand corrected
, he says, packing everything carefully back into the box, mind on other matters.

I edge toward the door, quietly escape. Bron and Roxanne finished cleaning ages ago, are playing Snap in the family room, Dot’s sitting in the club chair watching them, half-asleep. I stick close to the shadows, becoming as invisible as a Shawnee scout, heart thumping in unison with my feet as I run up the stairs. I lie on my bed, wait for them to find the body, re-shivering the shock I felt when I saw him. I’m going to get it.

When Bron walks into our room, I’m pretending to read a book. She stares at me until I look up.

What?
I say, heart speeding.

Oh, Boo. You’ve got to be kidding me
.

What?
I say, soul withering.

She’s quiet.
So, that’s how you’re going to play it
.

What?

You’re kidding, right? That’s the best you can do?

What are you talking about?
My eyes are shifting, stinging, squinting. I’m sweating. I need to go to the bathroom urgently. Number two.

She changes tactics.
Do you have any idea where Baby Lenny is?

I take a deep breath, recite:
The last time I saw Baby Lenny he was on the mantel above the fireplace, perfectly fine
.

This annoys her.
That’s funny
, she says, leaning on the door,
because one minute you were changing his water, the next, he’s floating outside boiled to death in the hot sun. Would you like to see him?

What?
I say, pupils enlarging.

Outside in his bowl?
I say, hands twitching.

How did he get there?
I say, vision a scaly blur.

Very natural
, she says, leaves the room.

I lie back down on the bed, stiff as a statue, holding a book in front of my face like a prop.

Roxanne sticks her head in the door, her face red with excitement, a sweaty ponytail lobbing off her head.
Baby Lenny’s exploded!
she shouts and is gone.

I turn onto my stomach, put my face in my pillow, wait.

Dot knocks, sticks her face in the door, radiating sadness:
Bron says you killed Baby Lenny
.

Bron can shut her face
, I say, and all is oddly quiet until I’m called for dinner.

The lie sits in the middle of the dining room like a crane with a car on it just waiting to drop.

Bron stabs a tomato with her fork.
Admit you murdered Baby Lenny
.

Murder is a strong word, Bronwyn
, Leonard says.

I won’t because I didn’t
, I say, voice three octaves higher than normal, soul sick with sin, hands twitching like leaves.

Roxanne has a laughing fit, chokes on her potatoes.

Admit you took him outside and left him there
.

That’s enough, you two
, Leonard says
. I’m sure whoever left Baby Lenny outside—

In the hot sun
, interrupts Bron.

—didn’t mean to
. He’s looking at me.

I have to go the bathroom again. Number two.

That night, she gives me an out.
Okay, let’s say that you cleaned out Baby Lenny’s bowl as planned. Things went well. Then you thought…. I can’t imagine you meant for that to happen, the poor thing. Anyway, the right thing to do now is just admit it, and everything will be fine. Story finished. All forgiven
.

Relief is there in the darkness. I can reach out and touch it with my hand. She won’t be able to see my face. I won’t have to see hers. I stare into the night, black like black blanket, soft black spots, hard black edges, a thin strip of moon sliding in through a break in the curtain, cutting into the wall like a magical knife.

I didn’t do it, Bron. Maybe it was Roxanne
.

The day before life’s most beautiful day, I have my first holy confession.

Do I use God’s name in a loving way?

Do I say untrue things?

Do I obey my parents and other people who are trying to help me?

Do I forgive others?

Do I cheat?

Am I kind and helpful to everyone?

Do I pray regularly?

Do I lose my temper?

Do I make fun of other, less fortunate children?

I fold myself into the wooden stall.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
.

Father Tod is a cranky priest who likes cheese sandwiches. At picnics Lilly Cocoplat and I spy on him; he eats three cheese sandwiches, then heads for the pie.

He that covereth his sin shall not prosper
.

I close my eyes, explaining the trail of lies that led to Baby Lenny’s body; I lower my voice, explaining the train of thought that led to his demise. My soul de-withers, my heart soothes down. Father Tod is wheezing. I wonder if he’s asleep, but he mumbles something, then blesses me. I should feel better, don’t. Life is quiet and dusty and lonesome and I’m sick of it already. I leave the confessional to pay my dues to the tune of seven Hail Marys, but don’t think it’s fair that I have to believe and Leonard doesn’t.

It dawns unnaturally hot on life’s most beautiful day. Mom hits me on the head with the back of the hairbrush when I squirm, a couple of bobby pins clamped in her mouth. If I react, she hits again, harder, hissing:
Your father’s been on a plane for two days; let him sleep
. The same sun that murdered Baby Lenny is bleeding through the window, burning.

My hair falls to my shoulders in studied ringlet and curl, the Cassandra hitting my knees in a crisp triangle. Sister Seraphina has been yelling at us for months,
Step and pause, step and pause
, her old body trembling with palsy. We’re her last Holy Communion preparation class—in August she’s retiring to the Avenue of the Saints; when she’s not yelling at us, she’s crying cool nun tears, the color of skin.

Lilly Cocoplat is visibly pleased, her veil falling dramatically to her ankles. She steps slowly, pauses, steps slowly, pauses, has replaced her normal face with a brand-new one she’s modeled on Mary. She inclines her head, widens her eyes, lifts the corners of her mouth in a small smile. But I see under: She’s deep in the throes of calculating gift. We form an arc under Jesus, sing “For Him, My Love.” Father Tod mentions the devil more than once. The holy wafer balances precariously on my tongue before I stabilize the situation.
O luminous mystery. Thank you for letting me see that the world is more than a gigantic engine running out of fuel
.

I know that if I believe, I can send Baby Lenny somewhere better, not down the toilet, not flying through drainpipes, not stuck in the gray water-purification factory on the edge of Glenwood we pass on our way to the airport. The heat of my head connects with the heat of my palm, the patent leather of my shoes so hot they burst into holy flame. Lilly Cocoplat is sweating so heavily her satin armpits darken, veil drooping over French chignon like a windless sail. Henceforth all nuns glisten, parents and well-wishers sway with the heat, and Seraphina’s reading glasses are struck with a light misting of fog. Father Tod puts both hands up in the universal indication of the end of confinement; we are released. The church exhales people in a whoosh, sweat dribbling down Leonard’s tan face, the wind grabbing and tearing at the trees, thunder growling somewhere beyond the horizon, and my ringlets disappear instantly back into straight hair. Leonard winks a tired wink as a million Cocoplats swoon over Lilly in unison and Mom holds me so tight the seams in the Cassandra begin to strain.