This is the Part Where You Laugh (21 page)

Natalie and I paddle out into the dark. We both have headlamps, but we keep them turned off.

“You think you know where?”

She points. “I'm pretty sure.”

I paddle us in that direction, paddle slowly because my ribs are still sore.

Natalie sees me wince as I follow through on a stroke. “Here,” she says. “Give that to me. Let me paddle.”

From the bow, she has to paddle back and forth more. She strokes right side, then left. Left again. Then right again. But she keeps us straight. She says, “I noticed this the other day. I was looking for frogs, and I saw the buildup. Look past there.” She points with the paddle.

I can't see anything in the dark.

“Use your headlamp,” she says.

I flick it on. Shine it across the water. See two eyes on the surface.

“See?”

“Yeah, I think you're right.”

As we come closer, the eyes slide under the water, disappear into the black.

Natalie says, “Creepy, huh?”

“Yeah, it'd be scary if we tipped.”

“Don't say that,” she says, and giggles. “Don't even think that.”

I say, “Where's the other one?”

“I don't know. But let's paddle up to that nest.”

“You want to paddle up to it?”

“We're in a boat, right?” She guides us to the buildup. It looks like the start of a beaver dam. Less woven and not as thick, but a rounded area with leaves and long grasses, sticks on the edges. “You think they'll have babies?”

I say, “It's too cold here. Or at least I think so.”

“Too cold to mate or too cold to live through the winter?”

“Both, maybe. I think. But I don't know.”

Neither of the caimans is in the nest. Natalie pokes at it with the end of the paddle and nothing moves. Nothing reacts. “So they'll just die?”

“I don't know. From what I read about them, these caimans are five or six years old, as tough as they're going to be. They're at the right age to have a chance.”

“But they're from the tropics, right?”

“Central and South America.”

“So come winter, they're dead?”

“I guess we'll see. Everything's got to work for survival. Everything's gotta try.”

Natalie paddles us in a circle. Looks out across the water where I'm shining my headlamp. We don't see any eyes now. Natalie says, “It'll be sad if they die.”

“Yeah, I'd feel bad about that.”

Natalie turns the boat and starts paddling back across the lake. “Do you want to call Animal Control?”

“No. I've thought about it.”

“And you don't think that's best?”

“No.”

She paddles a few strokes. The boat carves right and she straightens it out. “Why not?”

“Because I'd rather die in the wild. If I was them, I'd rather not be in a cement pen, even if I got fed regularly.”

“So not a wildlife preserve?”

“You mean a zoo?”

Natalie stops paddling for a second. “I guess that's a pretty shitty life, huh?”

“That's the worst.”

Natalie paddles again and I turn my headlamp off. Watch the outline of her as she guides the boat across the lake. When we're near the shore, the bank below my tent, she backstrokes and ships the paddle. Steps out and catches the bow. “So you're just gonna let whatever happens happen?”

“That's my plan.” I hop out. We pull the boat up on the round rocks together.

“Well,” she says, “the neighborhood pets will throw a huge party if those caimans don't make it through the winter. There'll be balloons, drinks, housecats playing spin the bottle, dogs making YouTube videos of themselves shooting off fireworks.”

“Yeah, they might be kinda happy about that.”

We pull the canoe the rest of the way up the bank, tip it over in the grass. Natalie leans the paddle against the hull. “I have to get home now.” She kisses me. Turns and walks a few steps down the path. “Thank you for telling me, Travis. You're insane, but I like that. You put small crocodiles in a city lake?” She shakes her head. “You're a wild card.”

Grandpa's watching baseball and I walk past him. Go to Grandma's room to check on her. There's a lamp on next to her, but she's not reading or watching TV. She's staring at the wall.

“Grandma?”

She turns as if she's looking away from a movie screen. She looks at me. Blinks. “Oh hi, sweetie.”

“Are you okay?”

Her hands are shaky. Lips quivering, her mouth looks like she's trying to chew something small. She says, “I had to take pain pills.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” she says. “We should talk.”

I'm holding on to the doorjamb. “Can we go out in the canoe and talk there? I can show you something cool out there in the dark.”

“No. I'm not strong enough.”

“Are you sure? You could just sit in there and I'd paddle. You wouldn't be cold. I'd put a blanket around you.”

“No, sweetie. I really can't.”

I'm gripping the doorjamb tight, my thumbs and fingers clenching the painted wood. “Do you want to at least go out on the porch together?”

Grandma moves her hands in circles on her bedsheet like she's feeling for sand particles.

“Please?” I say.

Her hands are still shaking a little. She looks up. “Okay.”

I support her as we walk through the house. Grandpa doesn't say anything as we pass him. We step out on the porch and I help her sit down in a deck chair. Then I drape a blanket over her lap. I sit down in the chair next to hers.

Grandma sighs. “You know, Travis, I told you that I'm going to die soon. Do you understand that?”

It feels like my mouth is full of dryer lint.

She says, “I just want you to be ready, you know?”

We stare out at the dark. The porch light behind us obscures everything beyond. It's like looking into the mouth of a cave, the illuminated edges, nothing in the middle, black in the middle of that deep.

Grandma says, “I want you to know that you're going to do great things.”

I don't know what to say to that.

The picnic table is between us. We're sitting on either side of it, and Grandpa's new pipe is in the center of the table next to Grandma's bottle of prescription marijuana nuggets.

Grandma says, “It's not just that you're talented at things like basketball. You also know how to work hard. And that's rare. You need to go to college and find something that you love.”

“Okay, Grandma.”

“I mean that. It's important. If you don't go somewhere and do something, you'll get stuck. And you're too good for that. You're too kindhearted.”

I can't look her in the eyes when she says that. I think about so many bad things I've done.

She says, “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Good,” she says, “but you also have to watch out. There's a lot that can trip you up. There are a lot of decisions that you might make, and those decisions could get you off track. Do you know what I mean?”

I nod. “I think so.”

“Like these, for example.” She taps the top of the orange pill bottle that sits in between us. “What goes in these”—she shakes her head—“is never good.”

I keep nodding. The lake is out in front of us, a hidden black space in the bright yellow of the porch light's wash.

“Don't get caught up, okay, Travis?”

“Okay.”

“You hear me?” she says.

“Yes. I hear you.”

“Good,” Grandma says. “Now I'm a little tired. Can we go in?”

I stand and step over to her chair. Say, “I'll help you up.” She's not heavy, but my ribs are sore. I suck in breath so I don't groan as I support her. I don't want her to feel bad about anything. “Here, Grandma,” I say. “Let me get you to bed now.”

I'm in the Chevron Jackson, with too many things to choose from: Mack's earplugs, Cheddar Bugles, Arizona iced tea, Planters smoked almonds, Chevron brand sunglasses, Doublemint gum, trucker hats that read
BEER PONG
.

I've got my hoodie. Anything will fit in its loose front pocket or underneath, up against my stomach, tucked into my waistband so it won't fall out as I bail.

But I don't choose anything. Everything swirls around me, seems to hover in the air, mixes, and there's no difference between Cool Ranch Doritos and Children's Chewable Tylenol. Choices, possibilities, splits from the location where I stand.

Creature's mom calls and tells me that he's been released from the hospital, that he's home now. I go over to his house. He's sitting up in bed—his bare mattress on the floor—reading
ESPN The Magazine.

I say, “Anything good in there?”

“Some stat comparisons and analysis.”

I look over his shoulder. “LeBron vs. Jordan? They're not too imaginative, are they?”

“No, baby. Here's what I want: Durant vs. Dr. J in his prime. Can you imagine that one-on-one? I want a YouTube video of that.”

I kick a sweatshirt out of my way. Move a stack of books that's next to Creat's mattress. Sit down on the floor. Lean back against the wall. “How are you?”

“Pretty good.”

“Yeah? What've you been up to today?”

“Reading,” Creature says. “I finished
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
this morning. For some reason, I'd never finished that book.”

“Is that a good one?”

“It won the Pulitzer Prize,” he says. “Díaz is a linguistic genius.”

I smile. “Basketball and books, huh?”

“All that's worth anything in this world, baby.” Creature flips the page and there's the classic picture of Jordan dunking from the free-throw line. And an inset picture of LeBron dunking in traffic against the Knicks. I think about that John Starks dunk against Jordan's Bulls. They don't have a picture of that one.

Creature points to the laptop that's next to him. “Been writing too.”

“More Russian princesses?”

“You know it. Wanna read what I wrote today?”

“Is it as messed up as every other one you've written?”

“Perfectly messed up.” Creature winks at me. “And she's got a super hot name too. Wait 'til you hear this.” He reaches for the laptop and makes an uncomfortable groaning sound. I stand up to help him, but he says, “Sit back down, baby. What do you think, I'm dying?” He opens it and I wait while he retrieves the file. “Okay,” he says. “Here. I'll print. Then you can take it with you.” He clicks his mouse and his printer starts up on the table next to the bed. When the pages are finished, he takes and folds them into quarters. Hands the pages to me.

I put them in my pocket. Roll my neck and stretch my shoulders, right then left. “So what's the plan here, Creat? When will you be healed up?”

“It'll be a while,” he says. “The staples are out, but I have internal stitches that are fragile, or at least that's what they say. They want me to do nothing for a while, to be careful.”

“How long?”

“At least a month. Then I'll have a lot of scar tissue to work through. Rehab after that.”

“I guess that makes sense. And when will you be able to play ball?”

Creature laughs. “Nobody wanted to tell me that. Can you imagine?”

I smile.

He says, “Can you play yet?”

“Not really. I'm gonna shoot today, take some shots and dribble. See how that goes.”

“Well, don't hurt yourself worse. Not now.”

“I know,” I say. “I won't.”

Creature breathes through his teeth. “Ooh, I might've let my pain medication wear off. Better take some, then crash.”

“All right. I'll come back and check on you later. Do you need anything?”

“No, baby. Thanks, though. I've got a water bottle, a laptop, and Demerol tabs. What else could a man need?”

I dribble down to the school and practice on the court. No one else is there. I shoot one-handed each side and work my way out. Take Steve Nash free throws, 10 right-handed, 10 left-handed. Back and forth for five sets. But that's the extent of my shooting range. I don't shoot fades or threes. I'll wait 'til I'm stronger.

After shooting, I dribble home left-handed the whole way, trying to keep my dribble without a turnover, but I lose it five or six times. My handles are sloppy. Even so, I'm happy to be drilling again, happy to have that ball in my hand.

I come in the house, into the cool. Sit down in the big chair and read Creat's pages.

Malmfred Haraldsdotter of Holmgard, oh Malmfred of Kiev, my Malmfred always. I want to call out your name in the dark, kiss your unclean mouth, your 12th-century teeth, the reek of rot as you breathe down my throat.

I'll be a wandering poet and you'll allow me to enter your castle as a visitor when the king is away at war. I'll stay the winter with you, waiting in the guests' quarters off the banquet hall, waiting for your midnight visits, the smells of snow and wet stone seeping through the walls.

You are the known consort of two kings, and now you'll consort with me. We will writhe under a blanket of bearskin, the pale white of your body, the brown of mine, and the deeper brown of the bear's winter fur, the black of his nose and paws.

Some nights you'll be in my room when I return from dinner, having snuck off while the men were drinking at the table. You know the quickest passageways through the castle, the back way to my room from your quarters, and these are the nights I love you the most, when you've removed your jeweled belt, that royal band on your head, that dress with the long sleeves like triangles, your undershirt and boots and wool socks, all in a pile next to my bed.

You lay facedown under the thick hide of the bear, your arms and legs spread like a star, your skin bare against the tanned hides and the fur, and I take off the dress that I've been given, the man's dress of a royal visitor, I peel it and slide in bed with you.

I like to swim through the fur over your body, start at the bottom of the bed. Stop at the backs of your knees, the creases at the tops of each of your legs, the half-moon at the small of your back.

You whisper to me in Russian, in Danish, in Norwegian, and I understand none of your words. I've learned Italian to recite the rhymed verses, sonnets, epics, poems that pay for my supper and lodging as I travel, but I don't quote anything, and you stop talking. You listen to the words as I slide my fingertips over your forearm, past your elbow, along your bicep to your shoulder.

I'm traveling in the year that your husband repudiates you, the year 1128 A.D. He leaves you for Certain Cecilia, a girl that can't be half as interesting as Malmfred, my Uncertain Malmfred, Whispering Malmfred, a woman of changing opinions, of clothes and no clothes, of giving and withholding, of evening and morning.

When I am a guest at dinner, I stand and recite poetry, epic poems, long tales of war and betrayal, love and loss, while the listeners sip from cups of mead, eat hunks of meat speared on the ends of their sheath knives. I look into the eyes of the men around the table, but the words are sliding from my brain, emptying, and my head fills with your skin, your scent against me, your chin tilted back, the catch in your throat like gasping for air after being held underwater, and you do not whisper anymore, not in any language, but call out to God with your moaning.