The Practical Navigator (17 page)

“What's wrong with your mom?”

“She burned her house down. I need a sitter for her.”

“What time?”

“Around six.”

“Tell Penelope I'm makin' pizza.”

They split the last beer. It's what best friends do, never even thinking twice about it, and when they finally walk to their respective trucks to go home, they are satisfied with the day and as in love with each other as any two heterosexual males can be.

 

30

He has decided on a wide, thick, flat-shaped board of eight feet, one ideally suited for small and slow waves.

It has taken most of the morning to plane and rough-shape the balsa blank and now, sweating and covered with dust, Michael, blue bandana tied over his mouth, carefully uses a power drill with rough sanding disk to further smooth the soft wood, working from the centerline to the edges. He should know better than to have his shirt off. Even with sawdust as opposed to foam, he's going to be itching for days. He should probably be wearing the breathing respirator as well. A wooden surfboard is like a ship. Ribs and stringer form a skeleton, the upper surface is the deck, the undersurface is the hull. The blank he is working with will be a chambered board. The balsa timbers have been precut and spot-glued together into a blank form. After the rough shaping of the blank is completed, Michael will break it apart and begin the painstaking job of chambering the timbers. The more wood he removes, the lighter the board will be. Once chambered, the planks will be permanently glued back together and the final shaping will begin.

He sees it in his head. The grain of the wood, the finish. He already knows that the skeg or skegs—he hasn't decided how many there will be yet—will be long and placed toward the tail. Round rails and more curve in the line will make for smoother, speed-conserving turns. Better for a beginner. But who will
teach
the beginner, that's the question.

Earlier in the week, spur of the moment, he has taken Jamie to the public pool for an impromptu swim lesson. A pool, with its calm, clear water and lifeguards close at hand, feels safe enough. In the shallow end, Michael teaches Jamie drown-proofing, how to lie facedown in the water, head, arms, and legs dangling, letting the body's natural buoyancy keep him near the surface. Need to breathe? A small simple stroke and kick toward the surface, raise the head, inhale, and relax again. See? First steps, baby steps, call it a day.

“The only thing to be afraid of, bub, is being afraid,” he says, wishing he believed it himself.

“Oh-kay,” says Jamie, already loving the water, reveling in its gentle pressure on his entire body. Pulling his goggles down and taking a breath, he is away like a pollywog, arms reaching, gathering and pulling the water in handfuls, legs wildly kicking. He comes up, thrashing, takes a fast breath and goes under again. A natural, thinks Michael, and having no choice, he follows his son toward the deep end, keeping his head above the once familiar medium, afraid to get his face wet.

And now this. A surfboard. The whole idea was probably insane to begin with, but insane or not, once started, it's now hard to stop.

“Is this a stickup?”

He turns. Beyond the open garage door, Anita is standing out in the driveway, has been for who knows how long, watching him. Out by the curb, a small car that wasn't there a minute ago is now parked. That's the problem with energy-efficient, battery-operated cars—you can't hear them coming.

He pulls the blue bandana down. He tries to look stern. Think of this as one of the guys on the job.

“Didn't we say you were going to call first?”

“I did. You didn't answer.”

“My cell's in the house.”

“Is that my fault?”

Uninvited, she comes into the garage. The problem is she doesn't
look
like one of the guys on the job. She wears a light blue cotton T-shirt tucked into beige jeans. Leather belt and sandals. Hair pulled back, no makeup. A Ralph Lauren model, classy and conservative, like the mom in the photo. The mom that does porno.

“Haven't lost your figure,” says Anita, her eyes moving from Michael's breastbone up to his eyes.

He suddenly feels naked. “I'm working on it.” Turning, he puts aside the drill and reaches for a block covered with coarse sandpaper. As he does, Anita reaches out and touches the scar that's on the small of Michael's back just above the belt line.

“This is new. What happened?”

He turns quickly as if she's touched him with a hot match. “Nothing. I backed into a piece of rebar.”

“What's that?”

“A steel rod.”

“That was dumb.”

“Actually I liked it so much I do it on a regular basis.”

“That's the masochist in you again.”

“Ha-ha.”

Anita looks in toward the house. “I thought I might take Jamie shopping, buy him some clothes or something.”

“He doesn't need any.”

“For me, Michael, not for him.” As if stating the obvious. Like he should
know.

“He doesn't really like shopping.”

“Would you just ask, let him decide?”

Michael sighs to himself. He'd like to tell her it's not supposed to be like this. Just showing up. There are rules. But then he'd have to tell her what it
is
supposed to be like and what the rules actually
are
and he has no idea yet. Not a clue. He's winging this.

Besides, how risky can shopping be?

*   *   *

“HEELLLPPPP!”

Jamie has gone crazy, thinks Anita.

“Help! Help me!”

They are in front of the Disney Store. The fucking Disney Store of all things, and Jamie won't stop screaming. He won't be comforted, won't be talked to. The kid—
her
kid—has gone dipshit, goggle-eyed nuts.

“Ahhhhhh!!”

It's as if there are banshees in the air. Coldhearted, bloodthirsty banshees, wailing of dismemberment and imminent, unavoidable death. People, of course, instead of running for shelter, are staring at them.

“Help me!! Help me!! Helppp!”

“Jamie,” Anita pleads, trying to put a hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to at least look at her. “It's just a store. See? There's Woody in the window. There's Mickey and Stitch! And that's
Dopey
.” Who, thinks Anita, beginning to lose both hope and patience, is
probably fucking autistic as well!

“Hellllp!”
Jamie screams.

It started off all right. They parked, they got out of the car. Anita doesn't particularly like malls, doesn't particularly like
shopping,
but the thought of buying Jamie something, anything, is like candy. And speaking of sweets.

“Ice cream, Jamie?”

“No.”

“You don't like ice cream?”

“Only at night.”

“I'm sure it'd be okay.”

“I don't want to.”

Oh.

They go into Abercrombie & Fitch, which Anita has heard is popular with teens and preteens and which she immediately realizes is a huge mistake. Enormous black-and-white portraits of half-naked adolescents gallivanting in the woods in bisexual bliss are everywhere, making Anita wonder for the first time what exactly
is
the erotic imagination of an eight-year-old boy, let alone an autistic one. Do they even
have
fantasies yet? If so, of what? Do they get erections? Masturbate? A mother should know these things. Jamie, thank goodness, seems bored and uninterested and asks no questions.

They retreat across the outdoor concourse to Eddie Bauer's, which Anita, recognizing it as the place that supplies most of her father's casual clothes, immediately despises. She can see though that Jamie is growing restless and so they browse.

“Do you like these cargo shorts, Jamie?”

“No.”

“I think they're cool.”

“I hate them.”

“How about these? You want to try them on?”

“I want to go home.”

Even the toy store with its superhero figures and its puzzles, its bottled bubbles, and its toy cars on tracks draws a negative response.

“I don't like it.”

And then there it is. Uncle Walt's familiar signature logo. Every kid in the world wants to go to Disneyland. Okay, Anita didn't but every
other
kid.

“Come on, Jamie, let's go in!”

“Noooo! Help!! Help me!!!”

He recoils in horror, suddenly shrieking, as if the place is a haven for rodents who devour children. Maybe it is.

“Okay! Okay, Jamie, we'll go home.” Anita, desperate for him to stop now. “It's fine, listen, I'll take you home!”

“Hey, lady, is this your kid?”

The man is Latino and in his mid- to late twenties, powerfully built or chubby, it's hard to tell in the baggy Chargers football jersey. Certainly well-meaning but Anita doesn't have the staying power for any kind of interference right now.

“You think I'd put up with this if he wasn't?”

Incredibly, the guy ignores her and turns to Jamie. “Ey guy, is this your mom?”

Jamie immediately turns to him, wild-eyed. “My mom ran away. She
ran away
!”

“Jamie!” If half a dozen people were watching, now a dozen are, looking at her like she's a child snatcher. The Latino guy doesn't seem nearly so well-meaning now.

“What's he talkin' abou', lady?”

“Who knows what he's talking about? I'm his mother, all right? Get out of here!”

“Help me!” calls Jamie, his eyes going from face to surrounding face. “Helpppp!”

This can't get worse.

“Jamie, stop it! Listen to me! We're going home right now!” It's as Anita is trying to grab for his fluttering, flapping hand that she sees the uniformed security guard approaching.

*   *   *

The photo is of Michael and Jamie, taken at Halloween. They are dressed as pirates. Jamie is the captain, with eye patch, hook, and curling wig under three-cornered Jack Sparrow hat. Michael, kneeling next to him, scar crayoned on his cheek, is his attending Smee.

Disney,
thinks Anita, thoroughly blaming the old bastard now for this debacle of an afternoon. She watches as the uniformed officer carefully studies the photos and IDs that are on his desk in front of him. She glances at Michael who stands next to her, patiently waiting. She looks over to the bench where Jamie sits, murmuring to himself, contentedly playing with the plastic parachute man Michael brought for him. He
ignores
Anita. As does the uniformed officer.

God.

Okay, yes, maybe she
has
spent the last forty minutes mouthing off, threatening and complaining. But better that than breaking down into tears which is what she's been wanting to do ever since being quietly but firmly escorted into the mall's security office in questionable possession of her son. Thankfully this time Penelope answered the phone and went and got Michael in the garage. Thankfully Michael dropped what he was doing and came right away, not even stopping to wash the sawdust from his hair or change his clothes. Thankfully—

Still ignoring Anita, the uniformed man hands Michael back the ID and photos.

“Just wanted to be careful.”

“Not a problem,” says Michael. “Thanks for your help.”

Help, thinks Anita.

Some help.

She turns quickly for the door.

*   *   *

She is wiping at her eyes with a Kleenex when Michael and Jamie come out of the office. “You all right?” Michael asks, knowing and not necessarily displeased that she isn't.

“Why wouldn't they believe me?” she says, her shoulders and chest jerking with each contraction of her diaphragm. Michael remembering with some odd sentimental pleasure that she doesn't cry like most people. Tears are always accompanied by intense and continuous hiccups.

“You didn't have proof.”

“Oh, for God's sake—l-look at us, Michael. The p-proof is—is in our—f-faces!”

She's right, of course. The same blond-streaked hair, the same deep green eyes. Seeing the two of them together just makes it that much more obvious.

“Good but not enough.”

Michael wonders whether he should tell her about Legoland. The end of the day and Jamie wanting to go on the raft ride for the fifth time, Michael refusing and Jamie, just like today, screaming bloody murder. Next thing you know, Michael is trying to convince half a dozen security guards he's not kidnapping his own son—and the son
not
helping. Which is why—

“I always carry pictures,” says Michael.

“Let me see.”

He hands them to her so she can look at them again. Michael and Jamie. Father and son. Captain Hook and Smee.

Proof.

*   *   *

Anita pays for the Nikon Coolpix camera at the outdoor kiosk with cash. She discards the box into a trash bin along with the damp Kleenex. “Here, make yourself useful,” she says, handing the camera to Michael. She turns to Jamie and kneels. “Jamie, would you let Daddy take a picture of you and me?”

“Yes, I will,” he says, his face serious.

She gently pushes the hair off his forehead. There's something syrupy in her throat—the hiccups have turned to phlegm maybe—and she has to swallow a few times to get rid of it. She turns Jamie toward Michael and the camera. “Fire away.”

But then—

“Wait.”

Because Jamie has put his arm around her waist.

Oh, God.

“Mom is crying,” says Jamie.

“No, Mom is hiccupping,” says Michael.

“No, she is—n-not,” says Anita, her body quivering with each throttled blip. “Mom is—as h-happy as a clam at—h-high tide.” Wiping her eyes, she puts her arm around Jamie's shoulder. “Proof. Like we need proof.”