Kevin Kling's Holiday Inn (10 page)

My sister wraps her hands over her new Easter hat and starts screaming, “The boys are fighting. I can’t do anything!”

I don’t know what she had to do, but apparently she can’t do it while we’re fighting.

Dad yells, “Boys, knock it off.”

That’s warning number one. It means nothing.

Dad yells again, “Boys, I said knock that off.”

That’s warning number two. That actually means a lot, but by now we’re too far into the battle.

Finally, “Boys, I said,
knock that off
.”

Warning number three. This means action. We stop. “Dad, look.” I give Steven a quick peck on the cheek. “See? We’re pals.”

Too late.

By this point my Dad has taken out what we call “The Claw.”

The Claw is a human-looking hand attached to my dad’s arm. We named it after All Star Wrestler Baron Von Raschke’s secret weapon. We were not allowed to watch two TV shows:
The Three Stooges,
because we might “get ideas,” which was true, they were brilliant, and
All Star Wrestling,
for the same reason. One night, under the care of an uninformed babysitter, we caught a glimpse of Baron Von Raschke. His Claw always came out at the end of the match, because when it did, it was all over for his opponent. His Claw, too, had a mind of its own. There were times the Baron would use his other hand to try to hold it back, but The Claw never listened. It would attach to the victim’s forehead, and that was it. Match over.

My Dad’s Claw, with the strength of ten and the speed of a viper, launches into the back seat, in search of human flesh.
Our
human flesh.

We bob and weave, trying frantically to evade The Claw. I know if The Claw touches my sister and she screams it will immediately retract. She must emit some kind of enzyme or something. Then the idea comes to me, “That Claw isn’t going to stop until it gets human flesh. Now that’s either my human flesh or my brother’s.” So I grab some of his human flesh and try jamming it into The Claw. He sees what I’m doing and tries the same thing on me. This is my Sunday morning: in a flash, The Claw has latched on to Steven’s leg. He screams, “AHHHHHH,” hoping The Claw will show some mercy, but it never does. It’s a sad fact, The Claw cannot stop squeezing until two fingers touch together through the human flesh.

“AHHHHHH.”

And if you aren’t getting The Claw, you sit and watch politely.

Finally the two fingers touch, and The Claw retracts.

I look over at my brother. To my surprise, he’s reclining, calmly and peacefully, as if to say, “It’s nine in the morning, and I’ve already survived The Claw. How bad can the rest of the day be?”

We pull into the church parking lot. Five minutes late. We run through the lot, Dad’s leather wingtips making that wonderful popping sound of crunching little stones. We run past the metal handrail where last winter I told my brother, “Tongues don’t stick. Do you see any glue on there?” Truth be told, I wasn’t as sure about this one as I had been about the bed. “You won’t stick, go ahead, try.” He did, and it did.

We make it past the metal handrail, enter the church, and silently shuffle into the back pew. We are treated to an anthem, a touch strong on the alto section, then the announcements, car wash on Saturday to buy gear for the Teens Camping 4 Christ. Now it’s time to sing a hymn.

“Holy, Holy, Holy …”

All voices together except one. God gave Dad one note, and that’s the note he brought to church. It was hard to define Dad’s note. When he sang it, neither flat or sharp, it seemed to fall in that mythic area between two real notes. The note was more like a release of sound, sound that had been held captive so long it had lost the ability to work well with others. It flew from his mouth and inside your head and batted around like a bee that couldn’t get out.

“Amen.”

Thank you, God. The congregation takes a seat, and Dr. Richardson rises to perform his sermon. As he approaches the podium, the entire congregation settles back. From the back of the church, it appears the entire room lowers by a good two to three inches. Everyone knows this is going to take a while, and it is going to be on his “one note.” Dr. Richardson hasn’t even made it past the “amusing anecdote” when Dad’s baby-blue eyes roll up in his head and he is out cold. At home Dad always snores, but in church he has a silencer. As he sleeps, it actually appears as if he’s paying attention. When he nods off, his arm slides down his leg and his sleeve rolls back and he inadvertently exposes his wristwatch. Now my brother and I can have our breath-holding competition.

We’ve been waiting all week for this moment. We’d just seen the movie
Houdini,
starring Tony Curtis. In this movie, Tony Curtis holds his breath for three minutes in a bathtub full of ice cubes to practice for an underwater river dive. Three minutes? We figure we can do three minutes easy. After all, we’ve been practicing our whole lives. Besides, we are fully clothed, in the comfort of a church. The sermon starts, Dad’s eyes roll back, and we warm up our lungs. In with the good, out with the bad, in, out, in, out, a great tension permeates the moment, only one will walk away with the coveted Tony Curtis award. There’s the watch, the second hand hits the twelve, inhale, inhale, make it slow, inhale, inhaling counts as time, there, my lungs are full. I lock my lips in an airtight seal. Then the gulp technique, forcing more air down by gulping it like grape soda. I look at my brother. He’s gulping, too, full of air. I can see Dr. Richardson’s lips moving, but I’m so full of air his words are muffled. I look at the watch … thirty seconds. No problem.

My brother is making faces, trying to get me to laugh. He has “happy eyes,” a false look of intense pleasure induced by oxygen depletion. I watch him with a very serious look on my face, so he knows this will not affect me. I also know facial expressions are burning oxygen he will beg for later. One minute. Still no problem. This is when relaxation is vital. Any mental stress can increase the heart rate and cost heavily. The worst thing you can do is think about not breathing, but when you’re not breathing, it seems like that’s all you can think about. I pretend to be engrossed in the hymnal, I pretend Dr. Richardson is saying something very interesting, when one of my eyes starts to squeak near the inside corner. It itches as air escapes. At two minutes, I close that eye and release used air through my mouth until the pressure is down to where the squeaking stops. My brother looks at me, eyebrows raised, excited that I might be dropping out. I shake my head “no” and point to my eye. He nods. Then he takes out one of the tiny pencils next to the collection envelopes and starts to draw. Outwardly a good idea, but I know my brother and this is a sign of desperation. He hates to draw. The only thing worse would be if he took out a hymnal. He hates to sing. He hates music. He is in the school band by force and refuses to practice. He can whistle, but they say there can’t be a whistler in band. They say instead he has all the qualities of a trombone player. He hates the trombone. But now he’s drawing in church, not a sin, but he’s not drawing a picture, more like circles going around faster and faster in the same place.

At two and a half minutes I hear his body try to force air through the lips. The lips hold. He makes a noise in his throat, a vacuum gulp, like the noise was trying to break in instead of out. He looks around until our eyes meet. “Yep,” I nod, “I heard it.” Another gulp. His face goes stern. He’s going to try all to beat this need for oxygen. Mom looks over and gives him a worried look. Still no release. His head drops to one side. He rolls it around. Mom looks away. She doesn’t even want to know. I watch my brother suffer under his own will. Unbelievable, the human mind. More gulps, faster, like a drum solo or a prairie chicken calling a mate, as his hand shakes involuntarily. Then the other hand flicks as if touched by an electric charge, then his feet shoot out under the pew. Now his body is cracking like a whip from the inside. Still he holds on. He looks to me, eyes watering, body taut in a final convulsion. Just this side of consciousness, he lets the air out very quietly through his mouth.

Good man. Always let the air out through your mouth, never through your nose. If you let it out through the nose, people invariably hear you and wonder, “Who’s having a breath-holding competition?”

Now it’s up to me. Ten more seconds. I’m going to do it, the Tony Curtis is mine. Two fifty-five, two fifty-six, two fifty-seven…. “I’d like to thank my dad, whose watch made this possible, my brother, my mother—I love you, Mom …” fifty-eight, “My sister,” fifty-nine …

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.”

The Doxology. The congregation rises.

“Praise him, all creatures here below.”

My dad stands.

“Praise him above, ye heavenly host.”

I stand.

“Praise Father, Son, and Holy …”

But I haven’t breathed in three minutes. The church takes one big spin over my head and I’m blacking out, cold. I drop like a rock, my head hitting the pew on the way dawn. On the floor I feel the blood reenter my head. In my delirium I can hear people shouting.

“He’s had a vision. He’s seen Jesus.”

Except for Dr. Richardson. “Not in my church. Nobody sees Jesus in my church.”

My dad scoops me off the floor and rushes me into the men’s room. He sets me down on the toilet, runs a paper towel under the faucet, and hold it to my head. The cool water feels good.

Dad checks my eyes and says, “Holding your breath again, huh?”

How did he always know? He was amazing.

One year we have Easter dinner at the Edelmans’, friends from church. They have two daughters my sister’s age and an old cocker spaniel and a boy whose age is in between me and my brother. Their house is so neat it feels like a Petri dish, and I am clearly the germ. I’m not alone. I look over at my brother, who is staring down and mouthing the words, “White carpet, why?”

Their kids have Easter baskets. Brilliant! We always filled the nearest thing we could find—bowl, box, pan, pillow case, boot. An Easter basket is a great invention to remember. I ask how long it took to find all those eggs.

“Oh,” he says, “they all came in the basket.” In fact, his name is
on
the basket, so he and his sisters would know which one was theirs. This blows our minds.

“Let me get this straight. The Easter Bunny left an intact basket with your name on it?”

“Yeah, it does that every year.”

“And you didn’t have to slit a couch cushion or pry up paneling? It was just there?”

Clearly, the Easter Bunny isn’t above favoritism.

We are on best behavior for dinner, but it is still fun. My brother finds a high voice that excites the cocker spaniel, causing Mrs. Edelman to quickly pick up the dog and move her into the kitchen where there is linoleum.

Their daughters put on a Beatles record and scream so you can’t hear it. I am proud of my sister when she stares at them. I feel honored that she saves her screaming for my brother and me.

On the way home I think about the Edelmans and their Easter Bunny. I like our Easter Bunny. There is something better tasting about an egg that took a bit of work to find, even if it tastes a little like couch cushion. To be honest, I prefer matching wits with the Bunny. It keeps me sharp and prepared for shifting sands in my relationship with my brother.

I am curious about their Tooth Fairy, however. Something tells me the going price for a molar is higher in the city. I decide I’ll wait for one of my brother’s teeth to loosen and arrange a sleepover.

APRIL FOOLS’ DAY  

My neighbor, three-year-old Johnny Greiling, is running back and forth in front of my house. He stretches his arms out in front of himself, he has a towel wrapped around his neck, and he’s yelling, “I’m Batman, the animated version!”

Johnny comes into the house and heads straight for the dining room table. It’s our ritual. I get him some water and a sheet of paper and crayons, and he makes me a drawing. Then he tells me what it is, and it replaces yesterday’s drawing on the refrigerator. This time Johnny picks up a crayon and, with a look of concentration, works it all the way around, until he’s drawn a circle. He pauses. I have just watched Johnny Greiling draw his first circle. He grabs the paper and runs out the door toward home. The next day he comes back with the paper. He sets it on the table. It’s very wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure he slept on it. I ask if he wants a new sheet. No, he wants this one. Then John takes another crayon, and he puts in the eyes, puts in the mouth. And now I realize why this is so important to him. Johnny has drawn his first face. This picture is someone he knows, or someone he doesn’t know, but now it is someone he can tell what to do. And things are going to be different in the world of John Greiling.

Stories work that way for me. When I can tell a story about something, it doesn’t control me anymore. When I tell about something, it’s from my perspective, in my terms, so I don’t fear those things in life that are larger than I am. That’s what stories do—tackle the big questions: where we come from before life, where we go after life, what’s funny, what’s sacred. And then, even if the question isn’t answered, by asking it, we know we’re not alone.