We Live in Water (2 page)

Bit breathes deeply, looks around at the houses to get his mind off it, at the sidewalks and the garden bricks and the homemade mailboxes. It isn’t a bad walk. The Molsons live in a neighborhood between arterials, maybe ten square blocks of ’50s and ’60s ranchers and ramblers, decent-sized edged yards, clean, the sort of block Julie always liked—nice but not overreaching. Bit pulls out the postcard, reads the address again even though he remembers the place from last time. Two more blocks.

It’s getting cool, heavy clouds settling down like a blanket over a kid. It’ll rain later. Bit puts this neighborhood at about 40 percent sprinkler systems, 25 percent two-car garages, lots of rock gardens and lined sidewalks. The Molsons have the biggest house on the block, gray, two-story with a big addition on back. Two little boys—one black, one white, both littler than Nate—are in the front yard, behind a big cyclone fence, bent over something. A bug, if Bit had to bet.

Hullo, Bit says from his side of the fence. You young gentlemen know if Nate’s around?

He’s downstairs playing Ping-Pong, says one of the boys. The other grabs his arm, no doubt heeding a warning about stranger-talk.

Maybe you could tell Mr. or Mrs. Molson that Wayne Bittinger’s outside. Here to see Nate for one half-a-second is all.

The boys are gone a while. Bit clears his throat. Shifts his weight. Listens for police. He looks around the neighborhood and it makes him sad that it’s not nicer, that Nate didn’t get some South Hill fosters, a doctor or something. Stupid thought; he’s embarrassed for having it.

Mrs. Molson looks heavier than the last time he stopped, in the spring—has it been that long? More than half a year? She’s shaped like a bowling pin, with a tuft of side-swooped hair and big round glasses. A saint, though, she and her husband both, for taking in all these kids.

She frowns. Mr. Bittinger—

Please, call me Wayne.

Mr. Bittinger, I told you before, you can’t just stop by here.

No, I know that, Mrs. Molson. I’m supposed to go through the guardian ad litem. I know. I just . . . his birthday got away from me. I wanted to give him a book. Then I swear, I’ll—

What book? She holds out her hands. Bit hands it over. She opens the bag, looks in without taking the book out, like it might be infected.

Mr. Bittinger, you
know
how Mr. Molson and I feel about these books. She tries to hand it back to him, but Bit won’t take it.

No, I know, Mrs. Molson. He pats the postcard in his back pocket—picture of a lake and a campground. It was mailed to their old apartment. Bit’s old landlord Gayle brought it down to the Jesus Beds for him, what, a month ago—or was it three months now?

Dad – I’m at camp and we’re supposed to write our parents and I’m kind of mad (not really just a little) at the Molsons for taking away my Harry Potter books which they think are Satanic. I did archery here which was fun. I hope you’re doing good too. Nate.

I respect your beliefs, Bit tells Mrs. Molson. I do. It’s probably why you and Mr. Molson are such good people, to open your home up like this. But Nate, he loves them Harry Potter books. And after all he’s been through, me being such a fuckup—Jesus, why did he say that—I’m sorry, pardon my . . . and losing his mother, I just . . . I mean . . . Bit can feel his face flushing.

Mrs. Molson glances back at the house. For what it’s worth, we don’t push our beliefs on the boys, Mr. Bittinger, she says. It’s all about rules. Everyone here goes to church and everyone spends an hour on homework and we monitor closely what they read and watch. We have the same rules for all the boys. Otherwise it doesn’t work. Not with eight of them.

No, I could see that, Bit says. I could.

Bit read the first Harry Potter to Nate when he was only six, even doing a British accent sometimes. Julie read him the second one, no accent, but cuddled up in the hotel bed where they were crashing. They got the books from the library. After the second one, Nate started reading them himself. Bit kind of wishes he’d kept up with the books, before the dominos started going: before CPS came, before Julie got so hopeless and strung out, before . . .

We’ve been doing this a long time, Mrs. Molson is saying. We’ve had upwards of forty foster kids, and we’ve found that this is what works: adherence to rules.

Yep, that’s how we saw things, too, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate him having a stable home like this. I really do. My wife and I, we did our best, and we always figured that once we got everything back together, that, uh . . . but of course . . .

Mrs. Molson looks down at her shoes.

This wasn’t what he meant to do, this self-pity. He wanted to talk like real people, but Bit feels himself fading. It’s like trying to speak another language—conversational Suburban—and it tires him out the way group does: everybody crying their bullshit about the choices they’ve made and the clarity they’ve found. And he’s worse than any of them, wanting so bad for Andrea to like him, to think he’s fixed, when all he really wants is a pinch, or a pint.

Bit clears his throat.

It’s just . . . you know, this one thing. I don’t know.

Mr. Bittinger—

Finally, Bit smiles, and rasps: Anything helps.

She looks up at him with what must be pity, although he can’t quite make it out. Then she sighs and looks down at the book again. I guess . . . I could put it away for him. For later. He can have it when you can take him again . . . or when he’s on his own, or someone else—

Thank you. I’d appreciate that. Bit clears his throat. But before you put it away, could you show it to him? Tell him his old man brought it for his birthday?

Sure, Mrs. Molson says, and then she gets hard again. But Mr. Bittinger, you can’t come by here.

I know that, he says.

Next time I’ll call the police.

He begins backing away. Won’t be a next time.

You said that last spring.

Backing away: I know. I’m sorry.

Call Mr. Gandor, and I’m sure he’ll set up a visitation.

I will. Thank you, Mrs. Molson.

She turns and goes inside. Bit stands where he’s backed, middle of the street, feels like he’s about to burst open, a water balloon or a sack of fluid, gush out onto the pavement and trickle down to the curb.
When are we gonna get our shit together?

Quickly, Bit begins walking toward downtown. He imagines the curtains parting in the houses around him.
Think you’re so smart. Let’s talk about you.
Jesus he wants something. He stowed his
ANYTHING HELPS
sign back behind Frankie Doodle’s; instead of going to the Jesus Beds and pleading with Cater, maybe he’ll go get his sign. Hit that corner again. Tear it up one more night, like him and Julie used to. Maybe the guy in the gold convertible will come back and give him another twenty. He tries to think of something good. Imagines the guy in the gold Mercedes pulling up and Bit spinning his sign and it reading
Funny Fucker
and the guy laughing and Bit jumping in the car and them going to get totally fucked up in Reno or someplace.

Anything helps funny fucker! Funny fucker helps anything! You want to talk about Julie? Fuck funny anything helps! How long you been saving for that book, Bit? Anything funny helps fucker!

Dad! Bit turns and there’s Nate, stand-pedaling a little BMX bike up the street, its frame swinging beneath his size. Jeez, he’s big, and he’s got a bike? Of course he does. What thirteen-year-old doesn’t have a bike? He remembers Julie waking up once, saying, We gotta get Nate a bike. Even fucked up, Bit knew that not having a bike was the least of the kid’s problems.

He tries to focus. The kid’s hair is so short, like a military cut. Julie would hate that. There’s something else—his teeth. He’s got braces on. When he pulls up Bit sees he’s got the book in its brown bag under his arm.

I can’t take this, Dad.

No, it’s okay, Bit says. I talked to Mrs. Molson and she said—

I read it at camp. This kid in my cabin had it. It was good. But you should take it back.

Bit closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness. No, Nate, I want you to have it.

Really, he says, I can’t. I’m sorry. And he holds it out, making direct eye contact, like a cop. Jesus, Bit thinks, the kid’s different in every way—taller and so . . . awake.

Take it, Nate says. Please.

Bit takes it.

I shouldn’t have wrote that in my postcard, Nate says. I was mad they wouldn’t let me read the book, but I understand it now. I was being stupid.

No, Bit says, I was glad you sent that card. You have a good birthday?

It seems to take a minute for Nate to recall his birthday. Oh. Yeah. It was cool. We went to the water slides.

And school starts . . .

Three weeks ago.

Oh. Sure, he says, but he can’t believe it. It’s not like time passes anymore; it leaks, it seeps. Bit wants to say something about the grade, just so Nate knows
he knows
. He counts years in his head: one after they took Nate, one after Julie, and one he’s been trying to get better in the Jesus Beds—a little more than three years the Molsons have had him. Jesus.

So . . . you nervous about eighth grade?

Nah. I was more nervous last year.

Yeah. Bit can barely take this steady eye contact. It reminds him of Cater.

Consequences, Cater’s always saying.

I was more nervous last year, Nate’s always saying.

I don’t feel good, Julie’s always saying.

Yeah, Bit says, no need to be nervous. He’s still in danger of bursting, bleeding over the street.

You okay, Dad?

Sure. Just glad I got to see you. That ad litem business . . . I’m not good at planning ahead.

It’s okay. Nate smiles. Looks back over his shoulder. Well . . . I should—

Yeah. Bit moves to hug the boy or shake his hand or something, but it’s like the kid’s a mile away. Hey, good luck with school, and everything.

Thanks. Then Nate pedals away. He looks back once, and is gone.

Bit breathes. He stands on the street. Imagines the curtains on the street fluttering. What if Julie didn’t die? What if she got herself one of these houses and she’s watching him now?
You ever gonna get your shit together, Bit? You gonna get Nate back? Or you goin’ back to cardboard?

Bit looks down at the book in his hands.

At the Jesus Beds last weekend, after Bit explained to Cater how he was only a couple dollars short of buying this book for his kid, Cater stared at him in the most pathetic way.

What? Bit asked.

Cater said, How long you been saving for that book, Bit?

What do you mean?

I mean, ask yourself, how long you been a couple dollars short?

He supposes that’s why he went crazy, Cater always looking at him like he’s kidding himself. Like he’s always thinking, How long has it been since you saw your kid, anyway?

BIT STANDS
outside the bookstore holding a twenty-eight-dollar book. Holding twenty-eight dollars. Holding three fifths of vodka. Holding nine forty-ounce beers. Holding five bottles of fortified wine. Holding his boy. Civilians go into the store and come out carrying books in little brown bags just like the one he’s got in his hands.

Here’s why at the Jesus Beds they can only talk about all the stupid shit they’ve done—because that’s all they are now, all they’re ever gonna be, a twitching bunch of memories and mistakes, regrets. Jesus, he thinks. I should’ve had the decency to go when Julie did.

BIT EASES
against the light pole. You think you’re through with some things. But you aren’t.

It’s about to rain; the cars coming off the freeway have their windows up. It’s fine, though. Bit likes the cool wet air. The very first car pauses at the bottom of the hill and its driver, a woman, glances over. Bit looks away, opens the thick book and begins reading.

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands pointing at each other’s chests . . .

The light changes but the woman doesn’t go. Raindrops have started to dapple the page, so Bit pulls his jacket over his head, to shield the book. And when he goes back to reading, this time it’s with the accent and everything.

We Live in Water

1958

OREN DESSENS
leaned forward as he drove, perched on the wheel, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, open can of beer between his knees. He’d come apart before, of course, a couple three times, maybe more, depending on how you counted. The way Katie figured—every fistfight and whore, every poker game and long drunk—he was always coming apart, but Oren didn’t think it was fair to count like his ex-wife did. Up to him, he’d only count those times he was in real danger of not coming back. Like that morning on the carrier.

“Dad?”

He’d technically been at war the whole four months he was out, but he’d only been in danger that one time, a month before the end, a beautiful dawn in open water, up deck with his slop crew, alone as a man could feel, the planes huddled at one end of the gray deck like birds, wings-up. The rest of the world, in every direction, seemed like bands of varying blue, except for a thin gray line where the sea and sky met, and then the horn sounded and a single, smoking plane fell out of nowhere—no Japanese carrier or base anywhere nearby—just a lost Zeke falling out of that deep blue like a single raindrop, twisting for the deck, coming so close Oren could see the red suns on the wings before the thing dropped harmlessly off the stern—an osprey going for a fish.

“Dad?”

But no matter how you figured trouble, there was no doubt this time. He was in some shit. And not like that morning on deck. This time
he
was the lost plane, spiraling and smoking. Oren downshifted. The Merc’s cockeyed headlight beams met and crossed ahead. On either side, the dark trees leaned over the narrow road and the headlights made it seem like a pine tunnel. Wasn’t much farther, Oren thought. Flett would be there already, fixing things. He hoped.