Our Brothers at the Bottom of the Bottom of the Sea (21 page)

“You sure?”

“Look for yourself,” Ethan said, abandoning caution as the prayer came to an end and they were asked to exchange a sign of peace. “You can't miss it. But it doesn't make sense to me. If you're going to pour water into a hole, why would you use a broken shell?”

Then it came to Rachel, what she should do with the journal. It wasn't a clue, a source of information, a legacy from the person who had written it, or even a gift for the surviving brother who had found it. It was a tool, plain and simple. She would not return it to Ethan; she would put it to good use. Finally, she thought, a moment of insight in a church
—
it could be a first. It certainly was for her.

“You know why?” she said to Ethan, shaking his hand.

“Why?”

“Because you use whatever's available.”

 

 

August 13, 2014

They say the two most dangerous words for people who grieve are “if only,” but like death and taxes, they're impossible to avoid. The more I resist, the more they arrive, swarming around most of the memories I have. Since Curtis died, I've been swatting “if onlys” like flies from my thoughts. If only I hadn't felt so shitty that day. If only we had stayed home. If only I had taken a hint from the Ferris wheel. If only I hadn't been so eager for a break.

That's the thing: I just wanted a moment's peace. But “just wanted” is “if only's” partner in crime.

I just wanted to feel better. If only I had listened to Betty. That morning, my stomach was killing me, like a hand twisting from the inside.

“Why don't you just stay home and rest on the couch?” Betty said.

That's so Betty. As if Curtis would sit still for an hour. And a whole day? “It's easier to take him out,” I said.

“Your call.” Curtis and I had been up a full hour before her, yet with my daily struggle to wrestle him into his clothes, she managed to get ready first. “Do something for yourself,” she said on the way out the door. She buzzed her hand around her head. “Maybe fix your hair. At least do your nails.”

And what would Curtis do? Read the Times? At least it inspired Betty to pull a twenty out of her purse for me.

We went shelling. Curtis got to run around in the sand. I got his “gift,” a crab shell and a gash on the hand. Still, it was better than what Curtis got in return.

My stomach grabbed me again, and I tried to lure Curtis into the food court: an ice cream for him, a hot cup of tea for me. Again, if only. As we entered the court, I heard Curtis whine. He tugged at the crotch of his shorts.

“I gotta go pee,” he said.

I tried pulling him past the tables and umbrellas to the restrooms at the far end of the court.

“No, not here,” he said, pulling the opposite way. “The other one.”

“This is just as good. And it's closer,” I said. The “other one” was at the north end of the boardwalk, just beyond the side entrance to Happy World. I could see the lure, the trap lurking ahead. Curtis was no fool.

“Go here. Then you can have an ice cream,” I said, sweetening the deal. “Cookie dough with M&M's on top.”

He would have none of it. “The other one!” he shouted, squishing his fly again. Faces turned our way, full of the righteous indignation of people who don't really know what's going on. Most of the time, I can plow ahead without regard to what other people think. But this time, it required energy I just didn't have.

“Fine,” I said. “We'll go to the other one. And then we're coming right back.”

Right.

No sooner had he come out of the men's room than he slipped out of my sight and into Happy World. I had the twenty Betty had given me. I could get a page of tickets, and maybe he would get something out of his system. And then, with the few dollars of my own, maybe I could get that tea. Sit in the shade. Watch Curtis work his way down an ice cream cone. After all, I just wanted some peace.

We started at the kiddie rides in the covered area of the park—a shrewd piece of work contrived to attract tired grandparents to the shade. And sure enough, in the daylight hours, they and their strollers made up most of the crowd.

With just two tickets, Curtis could get in one of a ring of fiberglass boats floating in a shallow circle. He was plainly too big, his knees practically banging against his chin. The attendant almost raised a fuss, but when he saw Curtis's Down syndrome face—broad as a pumpkin with forward eyes that seem ready to leap from their sockets—he turned sunburn red and mumbled something about enjoying the ride.

That Curtis did enthusiastically, gripping the wheel in complete concentration, pounding squawks from its horn as he howled along. An elderly couple, following the progress of their granddaughter—a little blondie immobilized with seasickness—were a whole lot less appreciative. The old man's video camera bobbed in synch with the boats, rising with the appearance of his little sunshine, dropping to his side as Curtis crossed his view.

With every Curtis howl, Grandma looked more disgusted. “Zoom, zoom, Gracie,” she called out to her girl. “You go zoom!” There was a pride in her voice that suggested no other child could zoom quite like her granddaughter. But little Gracie remained silent. When the ride stopped, Grandma and Grandpa moved with unexpected speed to shepherd Gracie from boat to stroller; together, they darted rapidly among the rides to the carousel at the opposite end of the pavilion.

“She was slow,” Curtis said. “My boat was much faster.”

Curtis burned through a number of tickets on the kiddie rides and once again got bored. He wanted action; I wanted to sit down. Exasperated, I rolled my eyes. But looking up, I suddenly saw the Ferris wheel in a new light, realizing that it's just a chair in motion—and a slow motion at that. Curtis eagerly approved my suggestion. Big is good. Height is good. He grabbed my hand, and we went almost instantly from gate to gondola—there was no line at this time of day.

Once we got moving, our carriage swayed gently like a boat in calm water. The beach and the boardwalk rose and fell under us, the sounds yawing and fading like a slow lullaby. At the top, I counted forward from familiar landmarks—a corner ice cream parlor, an abandoned drive-through bank—trying to find our street, our home among so many look-alike houses. I was just beginning to feel at ease when, bam, my stomach spoke up. I squeezed my knees together and, focusing on the rocking motion, closed my eyes. When I opened them, Curtis was standing, leaning over the rail. In a flash, I saw Curtis up on his toes and nothing but empty space all around, ready to suck him into the sky.

Without a moment to think, I rushed at Curtis, pulling him back into his seat by the wrists. “What the hell are you doing?” I said wildly. “What the fuck's wrong with you?”

I regretted my words as soon as they had left my mouth. When Curtis cries, his face riots: his eyelids flutter, his lower lip trembles, his noses flares hot and red, while tears roll down the sides. “Okay,” I said, wiping his face with the sleeve of my windbreaker. “That was a moment, and now it's over.”

It was a phrase we shared in crisis, one I've used so often I can't remember when it started or why. But it was a handy tool for getting unstuck, for jimmying us out of tears, tantrums, or disappointments. “That was a moment, and now it's over.”

I reached into my pocket: five tickets left, just enough for one of us to go on one good ride. “Tell you what,” I said. “How 'bout the Rock-It Roll-It Coaster?”

If only. If only I had run out of tickets. Or suggested the flume ride. Or led him out of the park altogether.

But I didn't. I led him up to the Rock-It Roll-It Coaster—again, there wasn't much of a line—and to Leonard. I didn't know him then, of course. He was just another attendant in a red Happy World vest. Skinnier than most, with a head of shaggy hair—an animated Koosh ball on a cane.

Leonard waved Curtis forward and placed a measuring pole, like an inverted hockey stick, up to his side. “He just makes it,” he said. “You riding with him?”

“I don't have enough tickets.”

That was the first time I saw the smile that he would roll out at SeaSwift and the coffee shop. “I won't say anything if you won't say anything.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I'll pass. I don't feel quite up to it.”

“Really?” he said, opening the gate for Curtis. “It's not so bad. Its bark is worse than its bite.”

“I'm good.”

If only.

I am trespassing in someone else's journal. But I'm adding my voice here because his story is connected to Curtis's story; his brother's story to my story. And ours to many others'. Maybe telling them changes nothing. But I think that somehow, the pieces do fit together.

This is my piece:

The last time I saw Curtis alive, he was in the front seat of the first car with a world-eating grin on his face. The Ferris wheel was forgotten. The tears were over. A crash of guitar chords thundered over the PA, and an excitable voice asked, “Are you ready to rock?” Another blast of chords. “I can't hear you! Are you? Ready? TO ROCK?”

“I'm ready!” Curtis shouted to the mountain of tracks that towered in front of him. I shielded my eyes from the sun and followed the back of his head as the coaster rattled into motion and climbed up the hill, unsteadily, like an arthritic old man. Then it reached the top, Curtis's head eclipsed the sun, and everything old and slow dropped away as suddenly as a magician's cloak.

I found a bench by the Tilt-A-Whirl and sat down to wait, looking away from the ride. I just wanted a moment's peace.

“That was a moment, and now it's over.”

No, it's not. It never will be. It keeps climbing up over the hill and into the sun, down and back again.

All these years, I'd been lying to Curtis.

That's what's over.

 

chapter seventeen

fathers and daughters

On what had once been a theater marquee, the letter
n
in
STRAND MALL
stumbled out of line, leaning drunkenly on the letter
a
for support. As promised, the front gate beneath the marquee hood was not fully closed, drawing short just a foot from the ground; the remaining gap, black as tar, was about as inviting as a wolf's jaws, but after a third look-around to be sure she wasn't seen, Rachel dropped to the ground, pushing her backpack ahead of her into the darkness. She slid in after it.

Inside, once her eyes had adjusted to the dark, various exit signs and security lights brought shapes out of the gloom, glass display cases and steel racks pinned with swimwear on either side of her; between them, a narrow walkway with an inclined floor opened into a vast womb of darkness. The floor spread wide, cluttered with shop counters and kiosks made small, almost toylike, by the great vaulted ceiling high above them. At the apex of the vault, imprisoned above an iron grill, a lone black fan chopped the air slowly. Although the theater seats, the screen, the little running lights along the aisles had been removed years ago, the space retained a gutted feeling, as if it hadn't quite finished spitting itself out.

Rachel settled the pack on her shoulder and listened. Faint voices emerged from the back
—
a male one, chesty and abrupt, and a female one, much less loud, like a whisper Rachel couldn't be sure she heard. She advanced toward them, her footsteps echoing in the hall, drawing closer to the “smoke shop” displays of glass pipes and plastic grinders, Zippo lighters with grinning skulls. Something clipped her shoulder, and Rachel jumped back, startled. A mannequin swayed from a length of chain suspended from the ceiling
—
a come-on for this season's Sea Town T-shirt, the town's name spelled out in splatters of phosphorescent paint. A few steps beyond it, a horseshoe array of stools surrounded an island of oxygen tanks and hoses. Clear masks, like fruit, hung from a wire tree topped with a sign,
THE O
2
BAR.
It promised rejuvenation and clarity of mind that could be bought in five-, ten-, or fifteen-minute sessions.
A BETTER MORNING AFTER, AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE,
it said.

A funny proposition for a dry town, Rachel thought. She wished she had brought a flashlight, and it occurred to her that this was the second time she had forgotten to carry one: there was the fiasco with Betty, the beach, and Curtis's shells. But this time, she promised herself, what she needed to leave behind, she would leave behind. The exchange would be as sharp and quick as a ripped-off Band-Aid. In a gesture of good faith, Leonard had been released from jail. Now Stone would get the journal.

When she reached the room Stone had told her to look for, around the corner from the wall of blacklight posters, she found the people behind the voices. A young woman Rachel had seen once before sat at a card table with a bottle of Frangelico in front of her
—
the glass friar stood with his hands tucked into his robe, as if patient, ready to offer wisdom should the need arise. Stone stood behind the girl, similarly cross-armed but with a clear plastic cup he swirled in his hand. A weak gray light came from a computer monitor set upon a workbench along a side wall. The computer's cooling fan whirred softly; the old theater's great fan made a slow and steady
chop-chop
sound.