Swimming (26 page)

Down the Uphill

I visualize. I close my eyes, watch my mind materialize. I hypnotize. I levitate. But when I slip into water, my left arm flails, my right arm overcompensates, my swim falls apart. A herd of brand-new swimmers with energetic ponytails and original musical tastes glide past me like rockets in outer space. I sense them, pull harder with every fiber of my winning mind, lose. They come up to me, towels around necks, shake my hand, tell me how they watched me swim when they were little. I say:
Thanks
, eyes hardening into the plastic snowflakes that kids stick to glass. Doubts about everything I’ve ever done wake me up at night, my light sleeps permeated by dreams I don’t track. I’m slipping down and downer, don’t have an ounce of horniness left in my entire body, my vagina as quiet as a cartoon clam. Dr. Sunny Lewis has a name for this that sounds really bad. The nuns pretended it was loneliness.

I watch the ceiling, say:
Quit watching the ceiling
.

Dot grows exasperated, tells me that I am suffering from an acute case of self-absorption and I know it to be so, but the answer answers not.

Supercoach E. Mankovitz informs me that true healing requires patience, his eyebrows entirely gray now in order to prepare him for the misery of death. I let him know I know he knows I know he is lying. Then I leave his office in a huff.

Father Tim blesses the air in front of the phone with his veiny right hand, sighs, says:
You’ll get through this
, preoccupied with the unprecedented international priest crisis, Glenwood Sunday mass attendance at an all-time low.

Roxanne says:
Your brain’s probably addicted to water; we’re addicted people
.

I barely make it to Worlds, where everyone in the world beats me and a journalist from Japan asks if it upsets me personally when I let my country down. I don’t get annoyed, my heart knee-deep in blank, say:
It will take a lot more than one of my crappy swims to bring down a great country like America
. But I let myself keep on sliding right down the ladder of success, down and downer I go. I plunge into pool, pull myself through chronic throbbing pain, climb out, stretch myself through chronic throbbing pain, go back home to empty apartment, sleep on couch in front of TV set in purple solar flare extra-deluxe mummy sleeping bag with hood.

Mom marries the chubby sheriff in a backyard gazebo ceremony that lasts three days. Glenwood opens her arms wide like an old familiar lady. I know everyone by heart. The world is changing as I watch the dancing golfer twist with the orthodontist’s wife. Some classes at Holy Name are being taught by teachers in normal clothes with kids of their own. The world is changing as the Glenwood Brass Boogie Band gets down and Roxanne sits at a table of Encouraging Catholics, smoking a cigarette and staring into space.

Dot had all her negative energy removed in a sweat hut in Taos, New Mexico, is very calm.
Look how beautiful Mom looks
, she says, walking up and standing close to me, her hair in a complicated style that includes both braid and bun.

I look. She’s surrounded by a flock of Dark Catholics, is hanging on to one of the gazebo poles with white hands as though she were a balloon caught between winds.

We’re in our own backyard, Dot
, I say.
The chubby sheriff hasn’t been able to get her out
.

Quit calling him the chubby sheriff. His name is Ken
, she says gently.

He likes it
. I watch the chubby sheriff swing, his face flushed like a girl’s.

No, he doesn’t
, she says less gently.

Yes, he does
, I say.

No, he doesn’t, Pip
, she says, mean.

Yes, he does, Dorothy Rose
, I say, mean.

No. He doesn’t, Philomena Grace
, she says, meaner.

Yes, he does, divorced Dorothy
, I say, winning.

You’re a real bitch
, she says and leaves.

I wave
toodle do
to my mother; she wrenches one of her hands off the pole, waves
toodle doooo
back.

Lilly Cocoplat’s life is drenched in disappointment.

My life sucks
, she says.
I hate being married. I mean I really, really hate being married. And I’m living in Glenwood. Two miles from my parents. Why didn’t you stop me? I should have been stopped
.

I think quick, say:
Look at poor old Tanya Slaughter with all those kids
.

She says:
I don’t give a damn about Tanya Slaughter
.

I don’t know what else to say so I say nothing.

She calms down, changes the subject.
Remember the vaginas?

She looks the exact same as she did when we were little, but miserable, and my heart surges. I wrap my arms around her, say:
Only a cunt chip would forget the vaginas
, and she wraps her arms around me as our eyes sprout like water balloons with a million pinholes for all that is forever lost.

Press Off

Certain swimmers sense retirement before it hits them; others have to be beaten over the head with it. My brain says:
Atlanta, Atlanta; just wait until Atlanta
. My body says:
Fuck Atlanta. Who gives a shit about Atlanta? It’s me or Atlanta
. When I trace the jinx back, it lands at the Russian guy’s feet. I write him short, awful letters, then burn them in the sink.

Peggy comes to visit with her brand-new baby boy. She wears him strapped to her chest to try to hide the fact that she is now so fat she can no longer wear the symbols of love her husband gave her because her fingers are bursting out of her hands like bratwurst.

I open the door and my eyes say:
Puff Daddy
.

Her eyes respond with new non-Peggy wisdom:
Yes. I overdid it with the cake but do not want to discuss it at this time
.

My eyes say:
Wow. Your baby can hide you for a while, but one of these days you’re going to have to put it down and what then?

Her eyes say:
I know my own reality, Pip
.

My eyes say:
Fair enough
.

I organize a barbecue with the Seoul silver medalists. Babe flies in for the weekend, tan, blond hair streaked with brown. Sunny is wearing her hair in a serious bun so tight it widens her big mouth into trout. Everyone ignores Peggy’s new butt, which is considerably larger than my lawn furniture. They offer me a panoply of sound unsolicited advice over chicken and glazed yams.

Time to retire
, says Peggy.

Time to move on
, says Sunny.

Time to do something else
, says Babe.

Time’s up
, says Peggy.

Sunny insists that I hold the baby.
Hold the baby
.

I can’t, Sunny. His neck … What if it snaps? … It kind of snapped with Peggy
, I say.

It did not
, says Peggy.
What’s wrong with you?

Did too
, I say.

Did not
, says Peggy

She’s trying to divert our attention
, Sunny says to them.
Hold the baby
, she says to me.

My shoulder has been drastically weakened by consistent chronic pain
, I say, pointing to my shoulder.
I could drop it
.

She’s doing it again … Hold the baby
, says Sunny.

Okay, okay, give me the baby
, I say, holding out my arms.

See?
says Sunny in a professional voice designed to soothe the savage heart.
You’re holding a baby. You don’t need to hold your breath. Nothing bad’s going to happen
.

The baby is lying limp in my arms like a sack of potatoes left out in the sun.

You’re turning red
, says Peggy.

I’m fine, just fine, but I think you can take the baby back now
. The baby is lying in my arms, long-lashed, wobbly-faced, puffy-lipped.
He seems …

He’s asleep
, Sunny says.
He’s fine. Keep holding the baby. And breathe. Breathe
.

When they leave, Dot comes. She sits in my recliner as though it were a straight-back, hard-wood, nun-punishment chair. She wants to take me away. I ignore her and her lady shoes. She thinks we should be together, help each other, bond. I ignore her and her lady heels, lie on the couch with a blanket over my head.

She speaks to my blanket.
So it’s swimming or nothing?

I speak into a light blue blend of cotton and wool, live to regret it.
Since when have I ever done nothing?

She pounces.
You spent a lot of time doing nothing. Don’t you remember? You watched reruns over and over again. You knew the lines. Don’t you remember?

I don’t want to remember.
Some of the lines
.

She won’t let it go.
You knew almost all of the lines
.

I don’t think so
.

She’s obviously rehashed this in front of a paid professional.
You knew almost all of the lines
, she says.
And you ate those cherry pie things they took off the market
.

I hold the blanket up with my feet like a tent, feel my face turn a light shade of blue.
I’m not in the mood for this
.

You ate them for dinner
, she says.
And you knew almost all of the lines to that stupid island show
. Dot will never learn when to stop.

I don’t want to talk about this
.

Of course you don’t
, she says.
Why would you?

She beats me down, hammering the air with words until I find myself on a plane with her at my side. She’s reading
Most Misunderstood Mammals
by Dr. Leonard Ash, thumps me on the arm.
Listen to this: “Fishing bats have an echolocation system so sophisticated they can detect a minnow’s fin as fine as a human hair.”

I don’t want to hear about bats at the moment, Dot
.

You should read it. There’s this part where he sat up all night waiting for a colony of snout-nosed bats to appear. He was on the Isle of Night with this guide named Tanguy who turned out to be the local drunk
.

I don’t want to hear about it, Dot
.

We rent a house from a nasty lady on a small island in the middle of the shark-infested Caribbean Sea, where I float slowly next to the boat, afraid of the potential shark, thus afraid of everything. Life has proven that once bad things start happening, they’re difficult to stop.
If a shark attacks, punch him in the snout
. Dot is wearing a huge floppy orange hat, sits staring at the horizon and commenting on the mysteries of life as I swim. I hear words, parts of words, the end of a dramatic sentence before dipping my head back into the water, eyes on the peel for a flash of gray, one hand balled into fist. I swim out into the open sea, its great depths opening below me. The depths layer downward, following the curve of the earth, silent creatures simmering with life below.

My shoulder hurts. I slowly swim back using only one arm, hanging on to the side of the boat just so I can breathe again. Confronted with my misery, Dot becomes calm and deeply expressive about loneliness, love’s obliteration of self-reliance, the ebb and flow of human emptiness.

The shock of the heart is the original thunder
, she says, taking off her hat and slipping into the water as the sky beyond her opens its mouth and yawns.

I like to snorkel, am not a diver, like to float on the surface and look at schools of fish spooling their way through Doric columns of light, shafts of sun, the fingers of God. That’s what I think when the sun weaves its way down into a sunless water:
Ahhhh, the fingers of God
. Dot’s in front of me, her flippers slowly flipping up, then down, her hair spread about her like reedy weeds. She’s wearing a turquoise one-piece; her legs floating under her like two pieces of string cheese. She turns, her face cut in half with a snorkel mask, gestures
Look, look
. There are two sea turtles swimming in front of her, an old one and a new one, with green froggy faces, two marble eyes, a round snout. I feel my heart flood with love. I am at one with everything as my breath bubbles out my tube into the hot dry air.

When we get home, I fling myself on my bed and listen to the wind whistle through the wooden slats that cover the windows, watch thin lines of sun and wind drizzle through, dust alight in the air like diamonds.

The crazy lady calls at all hours in order to remind us that she had
meticulously counted the towels
, that the
towels have been professionally counted by a team of hired meticulous professionals
.

I’m not interested in your goddamn starchy towels
, I finally say.

How dare you
, she says, hanging up without an answer.

Dot sighs.
Someone who used to love her probably doesn’t anymore
.

So what?
I say.
She’s an A-hole
.

I’m done. You want to read it?
she says, changing the subject.

I look at the cover: a Mexican free-tailed bat caught in the midst of a high-altitude flight, the moon a tiny speck of gray, tropical trees etched green and black on sapphire sky.

Okay
.

Progress
, she says, pressing it into my hand.

A Man Without a Smiling Face
Must Not Open Shop

Back home I spend many hours lying on the couch watching TV in my purple solar flare extra-deluxe mummy sleeping bag with hood. My mother calls from the phone next to her pillow.
Why don’t you do something else?

I respond in kind.
Why don’t
you
do something else?

We’re not talking about me
, she says.
I’ve been through a lot
.

I get mad.
Who do you think was going through it with you, Mom?

The Superior E. Mankovitz throws the healing net out into the vast ocean of sports therapists, healers, physicians, and reels it in, sending me to see a highly effective osteopath named Tara. She’s wearing a white terry-cloth turban on her head that sticks with Velcro tabs. I ignore it. She explains that she is going to align my bones with my muscles, unblocking any chakra clogs with her magic Drano fingers. The energy is going to be released in my body in a blast like a roller coaster on its way around an uneven world. I might cry or vomit.

It takes a lot to make me cry. And I never vomit
, I say,
not even when I’m sick
.

I close my eyes, my shoulder aching in rhythm with the construction work outside. She rubs something into her palms, then lifts them to her face and breathes in. She breathes deeply, says:
Neroli, I love neroli
, her hands gliding over me like warm oven mitts. I wonder if she’s going to notice all the dead people.

Her hands hover, stop, hover, stop, hover, stop.

How long has this been going on?
she whispers.

What?
I whisper back.

This! These energies!!!
Her turban slips.

Let me see … the energies … it’s been a while now … twelve years. Can you see them?

I get flashes. It’s hard to explain, but they need to be released
.

I’m surprised.
Released?

Yes
. Her hands hover over my body, stopping underneath my forehead.
They need to do their own thing
.

I’m still surprised.
Do their own thing?
The neroli is invading all my senses; my mind is swelling with it.

She ignores me, taps my head with the tips of her fingers, taps a spot under my left eye, stirs the air in front of my throat with an invisible spoon, hands hovering quietly in front of my heart, whispering:
Open, open, open
, her arms opening wide in the international sign of open.

That works?
I say, opening my eyes.

Well, you have to mean it
, she says, getting down on her haunches looking for another oil.

She’s starting to freak me out.

Relax
, she says without turning.
No one is going to hurt you
.

I close my eyes. She rubs my shoulder with her mittens until I fall into a wakeful sleep. In my sleep, I see a clock, Leonard’s old grandfather, pendulum swinging, wooden torso emitting the vague perfume of waxed lemon.

What are you doing? It’s two o’clock in the morning
. My mother is standing in our doorway, the light of the hallway twisting her into living shadow.

I’m sullen, exhausted. I’ve been swimming like a fool and Bron wants me to not sleep at night.
Nothing
.

Her voice is rising:
Why were you … yelling?

I’m sullen, lie.
I wasn’t
.

You were. I heard you
. Her voice is advancing toward me.

Bron flips her back to the door when Mom walks into the room, deserting me.
Leave her alone, Mom; it’s my fault, I woke her up
, she says without turning.

Are you upsetting her? How is she supposed to feel fully well again and … and … healed with you upsetting her? She should be asleep. Come here. Come here. Come here
.

She’s using her fangs to cut into my arm and pull me out into the bright hall.

I’m a sophomore now and have started to act like one. I squint under the light.
Leave me alone, Mom
, I say, my tired eyes adding:
Pig face!

She’s going to punch me, but doesn’t know it yet. She’s balled up one fist, her eyes squinched into slits, so mad she’s shaking. When she punches me, her face is full of surprise at how much it hurts. She holds the fist that punched me gingerly with the hand that didn’t. I take the punch in the jaw, hard. It snaps my neck back, but I don’t fall. An epicenter of blackness blooms in my chest, pouring down my body like liquid lava. I remain standing, holding my smarting chin, feeling a new heart beat beneath it.

Pray
. She’s breathing hard.
Pray. Close your eyes and tell God with all your heart not to let anything bad happen, okay? Just tell Him. Ask Him
.

She pulls me into Leonard’s study and we kneel on the ground in a mutual nervous breakdown. I put my head into my hands and pray.
Dear God don’t let Bron die, dear God don’t let Bron die, dear God don’t let Bron die, dear dog don’t let pigs fly dear dog don’t let Roxy stray dear god listen to me pray everyday come what may
. But I see her dead and when I see her dead, I see me dead and when I see me dead, I am in the darkness and in the darkness, I am alone.

You asked too much of me, Mom. I was just a tall kid
.

When I open my eyes, Tara’s sitting by my side.
That one’s still alive
, she says,
but she’s got big problems
.

I feel like I’m going to heave.
I know
, I say, then I barf into a pale yellow bucket as Tara rubs my temples with an oil that smells exactly like Manny. I watch the sun slap the window with its flat hand, eyes leaking irregular drops like rusty faucets. The construction guys are listening to loud radio. It’s summer again. Old people are falling from their beds and breaking into pieces on the ground. Some kid was caught riding his tricycle on the highway. My shoulder feels as though a knife is being driven through it; my thoughts rush through my mind in a fast canoe. I lie down in the canoe and watch the sky fly by. Something inside me knows I’m not going to be swimming any faster, but I don’t listen.