The Sea of Light (45 page)

“Mind your manners. She’s out there on the warpath.”

She starts to gather up kickboards and other equipment, stack it neatly along the opposite wall, and, from across the pool, I can see her shoulders shake with silent laughter. Everyone in the water starts a swim-down except for Babe, who pushes up and out so that light drips from her back muscles, crouches there a minute before standing, stretching, walking to the corner where Brenna Allen is waiting. When I head for the locker room I pass them and briefly catch Babe’s eye. Her expression is fierce, intent. I can’t see Coach’s face. But she is talking in low tones, firmly, quietly; Babe is dripping and listening, once in a while talking too; and they are facing each other squarely, standing tall, hands on hips.

They talk a long time—at least, I think they do. I’m showered, shampooed, dry-haired, clean-clothed, baby-powdered and bright-eyed and hungry for breakfast by the time the first of the team starts spilling in from swim-down, Babe nowhere in sight. I want to wait for her, but don’t. Instead I evade the first rush, climb stairs and turn corners, pass racquetball courts and weight rooms, tap bravely on the door to Brenna Allen’s office.

“Come on in, Ellie.”

I do, and sit down, expecting the worst. But she doesn’t sound angry. She pushes the edge of the desk and her chair rolls back, quietly. I wonder if I should apologize first, fend everything off and nip it in the bud; then realize that just keeping my mouth shut will be the best policy. Still, I am nervous. Her eyes search the bookshelves. They find me, and smile.

“How are you feeling these days?”

“Better. A lot better.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. I know that this year has been far from what we planned for you, hasn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“You must be tired of all the work. I would be, if I were you—all the responsibility, no immediate payback—I’d be ready for some fun, and for a nice long vacation.”

“Sure,” I say uneasily. “I mean, you know, maybe.”

“Well, I can’t blame you. The problem is, we don’t always get a break when we need one.” The chair swivels slightly. Her elbows land silently on the desk blotter, fingers meet. She has nice hands, long and slender. Not thick, the way I’d always thought—my own are just as large. They are smaller hands than Babe’s. She leans forward; we lock eyes.

“Tell me something, Ellie—hypothetically, if you want. But for the sake of this team, I really need to know.”

I nod. Hold my breath.

“When you—I mean
you
personally now, not some abstract you—say you love somebody. You care for them. Do you also want what is good for them? I mean, not just fun and pleasure—but for them to succeed, say, at doing something very difficult? Something that you know, in your heart, will mean a lot to them?”

Sure, I say, yes.

“Even if they are afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Or unsure?”

“Yes.”

“Or, for instance, looking for some excuse to stop doing the difficult thing, looking for a way out, maybe without even knowing it? Say you love this person, Ellie—would you help them do the difficult thing anyway? I mean, encourage them to stay on track, stay focused, concentrate, be disciplined, eat right, get enough rest, you know, all the details. Even if, at first glance, there seemed to be nothing in it for you?”

Yes, I tell her, maybe.

“Yes? Or just maybe?”

“Yes,” I whisper, bitterly. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “It’s good to hear that.”

I stand. Asking, Anything else? But there is one thing more, she says, waving me back down.

I rock miserably on the edge of a chair, can feel myself blush, wish I was far away and had never swum for this woman, not ever. But she doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem angry or perturbed at all. She ignores me, in fact, and rummages through a full drawer, paper rustling, objects clanking.

Ah, she says, yes, here. And pulls out a worn little square maroon leather case with metal latch and hinges, rattles it around and holds it to her ear, smiles. Then hands it across the desk to me.

“Go on, open it up, take a look.”

I unlatch it and it folds up into a pyramid, old clock face with gold-green numbers standing still, until I turn a side-knob, winding it, and it comes to life, starts to tick.

“That’s my old traveling alarm clock, Ellie. When I was a kid they didn’t have them on wristwatches. I remember, weekend mornings—well, it got me out of bed. Hang on to it, will you? At least through Divisionals.”

She comes around to my side of the desk and sits on its edge, facing me, and shows me how to set it. I test it through two alarms. The ring is almost pleasant—nothing high-tech or shattering.

“Use it, will you?”

“Okay.”

“People on this team depend on you. It is
all
time, anyway. If you don’t make practice, that sets a bad example.”

“Yes, Bren. I’m sorry.”

Then I freeze. I have never called her by her first name before; at least, not to her face.

But she doesn’t seem to notice, or even mind. She smiles broadly, cocks her head—a rare treat, because it is Coach at her best: bright, knowing, WASPily handsome, engaging.

“And one more thing.”

Whenever she says that, my ass will be grass, for sure. My belly sinks. But I snap the clock case shut and rest it in both palms; can hear it, behind worn leather, gently ticking. I try not to let my gaze waver.

“Yes, Coach?”

“I would consider it a favor, a personal favor, if you’d make it your business to see that Babe Delgado shows up for all workouts on time, no matter what. She’s carrying a lot—the one and two, and the medleys, and medley relay—well, you know all that, there are plenty of points at stake right there. Just make her work. I mean every day, Ellie. Even if you have to drag her in kicking and screaming. Do it for her. Or for yourself. Or, if you like, you can do it for me. But if you see that through, I’ll owe you.”

Never, I think. I will never do it for you. Although I might for
her.
Or even for myself.

Anyway, Bren, you already owe me.

“Fine,” I say, “okay, I will.”

I stand again, slip the alarm clock into a pocket of my coat. She stands too, tells me thanks, and then we shake hands.

Wandering down the hall, dodging notebooks and sweat, it occurs to me that days have gone by. I haven’t called home. Nan and Jean probably think I’m some ax-murder victim. For all I know, there’s a three-state police alert on. I haven’t read, or done any papers, or studied, or exercised much—never mind made workouts—and I couldn’t care less.

All I want, now, is her. Her hands. Her taste. Her pleasure. All I want is to see her. I wonder where she is. I just don’t want to wait.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, what she wants is the same.

Take that! I yell, silently. Take that,
Bren!
You fucked-up WASP bitch. You dumb frigid closet case. I mean, who are
you,
lady? Who the
hell?
What do you know about suffering? Or passion? Or love?

Partway down the hall is a wastebasket. I caress the old maroon-cased alarm clock in my pocket, consider throwing it in. But I feel the worn tick, and think about time, and I don’t.

*

Like Coach’s pet, over the next few weeks I do her bidding. Making sure that I—and Babe—get to every single practice. Sitting with her at mealtime, in the cafeteria or at my place. Making sure she eats. Making sure she drinks enough water. Gets to the weight room often enough. Doesn’t overdo it or slack off when she gets there. Like a mother hen,
making sure we get to bed before midnight every night and do not stay up for hours, even when she wants to and even when I want to so much I can feel the aching and the wanting everywhere, everywhere. It feels to me like I’m paying back some sort of bad karma or something; like I am paying all of my lifetime adult membership dues into some bizarre club of fate. Acting as if I’m really a good, unselfish girl inside.

*

She gets the letter just before spring. Final exams are coming up in a month. So are important meets, essential practice; it looks like we’re going to get a really good crack at a number-one ranking in the division, this year—a lot of which is due to the presence of Babe Delgado, none of which is due to the presence of yours truly—and so we’re destined for Short Course Divisional Championships, in the end.

But all this turns to Silly Putty.

I can tell, when she comes back up to her room on a Saturday afternoon, after going downstairs to get the mail—practice over for the day, nothing else on our minds but a little extremely necessary studying, maybe a walk out to this apple orchard I know about in the country; and, of course, some love.

Something’s worse than wrong. Her face has gone that pasty olive shade it is when she’s afraid, or sick, or upset. Her mouth is hanging open, the lips cracked and dry. She’s holding this letter in one trembling hand.

Hey, I say, what is it?

She doesn’t answer, just leans back on the door to close it. The door thuds, and she does too—falling back like a corpse against it—and I start toward her, to hold her, but she motions me away.

She sighs. Her eyes look red, and damp.

Kenny, she blurts. He’s going to die.

Then she shoves the letter toward me, gesturing for me to take it and read, and I do—first skimming, then in more detail. It is signed Tom and Joan Hedenmeyer, although written in what looks to be a woman’s hand—Kenny’s mother, I guess.

He has for a long time requested that they take him off his life support equipment, she writes. It is something he has obviously considered with care. Our hearts are and have been broken. At the same time, we respect his wishes. We have gone through several months of rather gruesome medical and legal bureaucratic legwork. Now that it is all done, Kenny has decided that he wants the machines unplugged next weekend. He asked me—us—to let you know.

After reading it a few times, I sit on the couch silently. Babe slumps into a chair.

I ask her what she’ll do and she says, God, Ellie, I guess I’ll go. I’ll call them and see if I can. I don’t know what else to do.

“But I can’t, can I?” She laughs, humorless. “We’ve got a meet then—we’ve got tests—”

“Yeah, but so what?” And I know it is the right thing to say, even though it makes me feel immediately abandoned; even though it’s completely at odds with Brenna Allen’s purpose.

“You’re right,” she says, “I have to go. Will you come to the airport with me?”

I nod.

“Will you tell Bren for me?”

“No, Babe. You should do that yourself.”

She shoots me a look of grief mixed with resentment. We’re quiet for a while. I can hear her fighting back sobs.

Okay, she says, then I will.

The Sea of Light

(
KENNY
)

Off and on, I travel.

Pack your suitcase, Babe. Dallas. Munich. Melbourne. Don’t forget the sunblock. Number 15, waterproof. Some of that Bullfrog stuff for the nose. You know what always happens: peel down your suit and there you are, in two colors: pale around the private parts, red or brown everywhere else.

I mean, I get red.

You’re brown.

Then I like it, the way it looks together, in the mirror—red and white rubbing brown. And you say: If your hair was blue, Kenny, you’d be the American flag.

*

They have propped me up near the window.

On good days, they turn my head toward the glass panes and sky, away from the machines. Gravel driveway. Seeded lawn, burned in the sun. Just below, a circle of rocks and wildflowers. My garden. Mom planted it.

For you, Kenny, for you. So you can look out, sweetheart, and see all the flowers.

Planting it, there was tired age in her arms and head. I watched. Stared down at the sunburned red of her neck, beneath the gray hair and a hat. She crouched, digging.

Talked to me, though I did not reply.

What do you think about these? Not exactly tropical, but we’ll give them a try. And when it’s not too warm, we’ll just open up that window. Too much air-conditioning makes the skin stale. Let you feel the air on your face. There, now, that’s better.

At first, she ran in every ten minutes. Adjusting dials. Pointing out flowers. Opening or closing windows. Filling food tubes with purified natural products. She plastered the walls with things she thought I would maybe have asked for, before: posters of mountains, of the sea. As if surrounding me with these figments of nature would heal. Would cure. Would make me speak. Or want to survive.

Patience, son, said my dad. It’s what she needs to do.

What could I respond with, except patience?

Every other morning he comes in to give me a shave. Dish, lather, towel and razor and brush—like some old-fashioned barber.

Sometimes, at night, he’ll sit with me. Stroke the thin remains of my hair. Hold my hand in both of his.

I can’t feel it, but I see it.

Perfect vision. Just one way that my eyes betray me.

Sometimes, at night, I will cry.

My boy, he says. My boy.

When the tears drip far, he takes a cloth and wipes them.

*

Last night, I traveled to the Pan Am Games in Havana. Neat. You could smell tropics in the air: fruit, palm leaves, sea and tobacco. Went to dinner with Liz and Babe—rice and fish and beans, something coconut, lots of bread, flavored shavings of ice chips in paper cups for dessert. Then we walked along a shop-lined boulevard, the three of us, past armed soldiers and rattling ancient cars. Touch of music, somewhere, interspersed with news in Spanish. Laughs. Romance. Dance, I thought, dance. Until there we were on an empty beach, propped up against low grassy dunes sprouting black bushes, watching sunset and the waves. Yawning, burping dinner, whistling out of tune to the far-off radio, me on one side, Liz on the other, Babe in between. Her left hand held in mine. Her right hand, one of Lizzy’s. After a while Liz dug an elbow into sand, lay there sideways looking at us both in the red-tinted dark, smiled and ran a hand along Babe’s forehead, down her cheek and lips and neck.