The Wooden Sea (7 page)

"You grew up. Things changed. What did you think life would be like when you got older?"

He nodded toward the house. "Not that! Not what you got.

Not _father Knows Best _or _The Andy Griffith Show. _Anything but that."

"What then?"

His voice dropped back down to earth and became dreamy, slow. "I don't know--a nice apartment in the city, maybe. Or out in LA. Shag rugs, white leather furniture, cool stereo. And women--lots and lots of women. But you're married! You married Magda Ostrova, for Christ's sake! Skanky little Magda in the tenth grade."

"You don't think she's pretty?"

"She's ... all right. She's a woman. I mean, she's like forty years old!"

"So am I, bro. Older."

"I know. I'm still wrapping my head around that." Looking at the ground, he nodded. "Hey, don't get me wrong--"

"It's all right."

Walking down my street I tried to see my world through his eyes. How different did it look from thirty years ago? What had changed?

Whenever I thought about Crane's View it comforted me that almost nothing ever changed here except some shops downtown and a new house or two. But from his perspective it might have been another world.

Home is where you're most comfortable. But the comfort you know as a teen isn't the same as an adult's. When I was a kid, Crane's View was the diving board that would launch me into the big pool. I jumped up and down on it, checked the springiness, thought about what kind of dive to make. When I was ready, I ran down it and threw myself into the air with all the courage and blind trust I could muster. I was comfortable in the town when I was young because I knew one day I'd be leaving and going on to great things. No doubt about it. Despite the fact I did lousy in school, had a police record and no respect for anyone's rules, I was sure the water into which I'd be jumping would be both welcoming and warm.

"Where's Dad?"

"Died four years ago. He's up in the graveyard if you want to go visit him."

"Did _he _like what's happened to you?"

"Yeah, he was pretty happy with me."

"He thought I was a fuckup." He tried sounding amused but behind it was deep regret.

"You _were _a fuckup. Don't forget--I was there. I was you."

We moved on in silence. It was a chilly night. I felt the cold stone sidewalk through the thin soles of my shoes.

"What's the girl like? Magda's daughter."

"Pauline? Very smart, does well in school. Keeps to herself."

"So what's she doing posing naked in front of a mirror in the middle of the night?"

"Trying on different identities, I guess."

"She's not bad looking. Especially if she grows some tits."

Something big in me twitched. I didn't like that kind of talk about my stepdaughter, especially after the embarrassment of having just seen her naked myself. A moment later I was grinning because I realized it was _me _saying it. Seventeen-year-old me. Then he said something else diat took my mind in another direction.

"You're going to have to help me a lot `cause I don't know anything."

"What do you mean?"

He stopped and touched my arm. It was a brief touch, as if he didn't want to but it was necessary. "I know a few things but not as much as you probably think. Nothing about what's happened here since I left. I know what went on before, like when I was growing up and all, but nothing after that."

"Then why are you here?"

"Look at your cat. He's telling you."

Smith was still with us but walking in his own way: he wove in and out of our four legs as we moved along--as if he was sewing us together with invisible thread. Not an easy thing to do, but as with most cats, he made it look easy.

"I'm here because you need me. You need my help. Take a left here. We gotta go to the Schiavo house."

"You just said you didn't know anything about what's going on here now. How do you know about the Schiavos?"

"Look, I'm not here to trick you. I'll tell you what I know. If you think it's bullshit, that's your problem. Here's what I know about the Schiavos:

They're married and they disappeared from here the other day. We gotta go over to their house now because you gotta see something."

"Why?"

"I dunno."

"Who sent you?"

He shook his head. "Dunno."

"Where did you come from?"

"Dunno. You. I came from somewhere in you."

"You're as much help as a tumor."

He turned around and started walking backward, facing me as we went.

"Whatever happened to Vince Ettrich?"

"Businessman. Lives in Seattle."

"Sugar Glider?"

"She married Edwin Loos. They live in Tuckahoe."

"Jesus, they actually _did _get married! Amazing. What about* *Al Salvato?"

"Dead. Him and his whole family in a car accident. Right* *outside of town."

"How old are you now?"

"Forty-seven. Don't you know that? They didn't tell you?"

He blew out his lower lip. "They didn't tell me shit. God didn't point a finger at me and say _Go! _It wasn't _The Ten Com-_

_mandments. _Fucking Charlton Heston parting the waters with his staff. I was just someplace one minute and now I'm here."

"That's very informative." I was about to say more but I heard the sound of hammering. It was three o'clock in the morning. "Hear that?"

He nodded. "Coming from down the street." A look in his eyes--a twitch, a dart from left to right and then back to me-- said the boy knew more than he was telling.

"You know what it is?"

"Let's just go, huh? Wait till we get there." He kept walking backward but wouldn't look at me anymore.

It was clear he wasn't going to say more so I pushed that topic aside and tried something else. "I still don't understand where you were.

You were there and now you're here. Where's _there?"_

"Where do you go when you take a nap? Or sleep at night? Someplace like that.

I don't really know. Someplace not here exactly but not far away either. All of who we are and were is always around. Just not in the same room anymore; the same house but not the same room."

Before I had a chance to mull that one over, we were a block away from the Schiavos'. Even from that distance I could see strange things going on down there.

In the middle of the darkness the house was brightly lit from all sides.

Circling it was a ring of floodlights, all aimed directly at the building. My first thought was mining disaster. You know what I mean--those pictures forever on TV or in magazines of a mining site somewhere in the world--England or Russia, West Virginia. Miles below the earth
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something went wrong and there was a cave-in or an explosion. Rescue workers have been digging continually for thirty hours to reach the survivors. The site is as bright at night as during the day. They've brought in ten million candlepower to keep it lit for the workers.

That's what the Schiavo house looked like. It was so strange and surreal against the backdrop of deep thick night that no matter what they were doing there, it looked suspicious.

And who were _theyl _Workmen. As we got closer I tried to see if I knew any of the men but not one was familiar. Dressed in no special style or uniform, they were guys in yellow and orange hard hats setting up scaffolding. Around the house they were quickly erecting an intricate system of interlocking pipes, struts, and connectors. When done, it would completely encircle the building, holding it captive like an insect trapped inside some kind of giant metal spiderweb. We stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house and watched them work.

You only needed to watch for five minutes to know these guys really knew what they were doing.

No wasted effort, no horsing around, no cluster of fuckoffs scarfing donuts and avoiding work.

This crew was series o ous; they were here to do the job and then get out.

What _was _extraordinary was how little noise they made. To fit the strangeness of the scene it would have been better if they had been completely silent, but that wasn't the case. They made noise--metal struck metal, the creak and strain of things being fitted, bolted, erected. With all the activity and workers on the site it _should _have been a hell of a lot louder.

But it wasn't. You heard things, sure, but not enough to believe it was somehow real--how could all this go on so quietly?

"They're making no noise."

The boy rubbed his nose. "1 was thinking that. The whole scene's got like a muffler on it."

"What are they doing to the house? What's with the scaffolding? Why are they doing it in the middle of the night?"

"Beats me, Chief. My job was just to get you here."

"Bullshit." I didn't believe him for a minute, but it was useless arguing.

He'd tell me only what he wanted and I'd have to figure out the rest.

I walked to the house and asked a worker where the foreman was. He pointed to a tall dark man who looked Indian passing a few feet away.

Taking a few fast steps, I caught up with him. "Excuse me? Could I talk to you a minute?"

He looked me up and down like I was an eggplant or a whore he was considering buying.

"My name is McCabe. I'm chief of police in Crane's View."

Unimpressed, he crossed his arms and said nothing.

"Why are you here? Do you have permits? What are you doing to this place?

Where are the Schiavos?"

He remained mute until a small smile twitched on at the edges of his mouth.

As if what I had said was funny. I ran the tape back in my head but nothing on it sounded funny to me. "I asked you a question."

"Dot does nut mean I have dee an-suh." Sure enough, he spoke with the kind of thick Indian accent where the tongue never moves in the mouth, as if it were a cow lying in the middle of a road and words had to drive around it to get out.

"You wanna explain that?" The boy stepped in toward the foreman and got up so close they could have touched. His voice was one hundred percent disagreeable--a verbal shove in the other's chest.

"I explain nothing. I'm working! Can you not see I'm busy?"

"You won't be busy after I kick your ass, Gunga Din."

The Indian's eyes widened in disbelief and rage. "You little fuckah--"

_Whomp! _The kid kicked him in the balls so fast and hard that the sound filled the air.

Gasping, the man fell down holding his nuts. As soon as he hit the ground, the boy kicked him in the face--boom boom boom--like trying to kick in a door. With both hands on his crotch the foreman had no chance to cover his head before the kicks rained down.

The boy smiled and stretched his arms out like wings, like he was doing the Greek "sirtaki" dance. Zorba the Greek on your head, bam bam bam. The viciousness and speed of his assault was brutal. The kid went from zero to a hundred, from chat to blood, in a second. And that kid was me.

Seeing him attack, part of me shouted _Yes!_

We lose it, it disappears, evaporates. The edge, the courage, the black madness and abandon of the young. The dazzle of living one hundred percent in the minute. It goes away, leaks out of us like water through cracks. Cracks that come from growing older. They start when you buy whole-life insurance policies and mortgages, or hear the results of not-so-good physical checkups.

They start when there's a need rather than a desire for warm baths. Safety over spontaneity, comfort over commotion. Part of me hated it. Not the growing older, but becoming tame, upstanding, predictable, halfhearted, skeptical about too much. A good-sized chunk of me loved this flipped-out kid stomping a man for no reason other than a shitty attitude, a dismissive look in his eyes.

That part of me wanted to join in on the beating. Am I ashamed to admit it?

Not at all.

I grabbed the boy and dragged him away from the Indian. His body felt like electricity through steel; he was all high voltage and tensile strength. I am _very _strong but didn't know if 1 could handle him.

"Stop! Okay, stop. He's down, you win."

"Get off me, asshole!" He tried throwing another kick but was out of range.

"Enough!"

"Don't tell me--" He twisted around and threw a punch at my face. I blocked it and in the same motion, grabbed his arm and twisted it up around his back in a hammerlock. Then I put my other arm around his throat in a chokehold.

No good. With the heel of his cowboy boot he stomped down hard on the top of my right foot.

The pain was like fire. I let go. He jumped away and hands up, started dancing around like a boxer throwing jabs, ducking and weaving. Who was he fighting? Me, the Indian, the world, life.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You think you can beat me?

Think you can take me? Come on, try it!"

I stood like a flamingo on one leg, holding my throbbing foot and watching him taunt me. The Indian lay on his stomach, hands under him, moaning. Teen me kept dancing around, doing Muhammad Ali routines. A group of workers had gathered to watch our festivities. While I held my foot, one of them stepped out of the crowd and whacked the kid on the head with a board.

Afterward the guy just stood there with the two-by-four in his hand, looking stupid, like he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do now.

The kid was suddenly on the ground on all fours, head hanging low.

Someone was helping the Indian up. I tested my foot to see if it still worked. It hurt, but I'd survive. "All right, that's it, everything stops.

Who's in charge, who's the construction company, where are your permits? I want to see everything _right now."_

"Frannie?" A familiar voice said my name. Still down on the ground, the boy looked up slowly because it was his name too. Nearby Johnny Petangles stood holding a large bottle of club soda.

He stared at me with impassive eyes.

"What're you doing, Frannie?"

I looked from him to the house, the workers, to little Fran on the ground. It felt like every one of them was staring at me but none made a sound. And then the idea arrived. I pointed at the house. "What do you see, Johnny? What do you see over there?"