Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter (9 page)

“Go ahead.”

“It was a knife attack,” she said. “I guess it started out as a small scrapple, but then the kid got frustrated, probably because his dad was a liar, and he’d just been diagnosed with dyslexia, and next thing you knew he pulled a Swiss army knife out and started slashing. It’s a good thing you were wearing a skateboard helmet. He might have cut your ear off.”

“I ran into a stop sign,” I said, tossing aside the sports section. “I was about eight or nine, running alongside a school bus and shouting to a friend of mine. The stop sign jumped in my way.”

“That was my next guess,” she said, rolling to her side and propping up on one elbow. “Did you used to get into fights as a kid?”

“Only once. With a couple of older kids. There was a dog kennel in my neighborhood and the people who owned it had two fat kids, the Berbee boys, who used to love to sneak into our part of the woods to destroy our forts. We used to build a lot of forts, tree houses, wigwams. All that stuff.”

Emily shook her head in dismay, sprinkling a few blades of grass in the breeze. “Nothing like a team of brotherly terrorists.”

“Eventually we got back at them, much better than they ever got us. Their dog kennel had a bunch of outdoor cages and one day we let all the dogs loose. I don’t remember how Zach stole the keys, but I think he walked right into their house, which was also the kennel office, and just snatched them off the hook. There must have been thirty dogs running loose, barking and chasing each other, really going crazy.”

I chuckled to myself, remembering the pure glee we’d felt in finally winning our revenge. Emily chuckled along with me, even if she didn’t find the story quite as funny as I did. “So where does the fight come in?”

“The fight comes in a few weeks later when the Berbees and a few of their friends caught up with Zach. Four or five guys beat the crap out of him. I tried to help him and then I got beat up, too. But that was just the beginning of it. Over the next couple of years, I’m pretty sure Zach caught up with every one of those guys when they didn’t have any friends to back them up. When you fuck with Zach, eventually you get fucked with. He’s not really one to turn the other cheek, or however it goes.”

“You mean like the bumper stickers: WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?”

“Jesus probably wouldn’t have done what Zach did. He rang one kid’s doorbell and kicked his ass on his front doorstep, right in front of his mom.”

“That’s bold.”

“You could say that.”

Emily sat up and tugged at another tuft of grass. “Come on, George, even if most people would be too scared to do what Zach did, wasn’t he just doing what we’ve all been taught? Even the military has priests to make the soldiers feel that attacking their enemies is perfectly all right, that that’s actually what God
wants
them to do. And when I say enemies, of course I’m talking about God’s other children, the foreign ones.
Turn the other cheek.
Blah blah blah. Not even the priests take that stuff seriously.”

“You know Smitty’s applying to the Air Force Academy?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. How advanced of a country are we when a sensitive, intelligent guy like Smitty starts thinking his way of helping people in the world is by getting trained to fly a thirty-million-dollar killing machine? This girl from my workshop called me a radical the other day. I know it’s stupid to say, but it sort of hurt my feelings. I mean, what could possibly be more radical than going to war after war after war, expecting peace to suddenly break out.”

“But after a war, peace usually does break out. I don’t see the Kuwaitis complaining. What’s there to complain about getting your country back?”

“Because, George, peace that’s accomplished like that can never last. If someone maims your brother, or rapes your mom, or kills your dad—” She cut herself short, shaking her head at her own rising volume and flailing arms. For the next few seconds both of us paused to watch a jogger popping in and out of the shade, struggling along the perimeter of the park. Emily flopped onto her back again. “Oh, whatever. I just need to stop expecting people to make sense. God bless the bomb.”

I didn’t say anything. Emily covered her eyes and started blowing bubbles again, obviously working through the rest of her argument on her own. I scooted over a few feet to catch a few at bats of the Little League ball game. But the game was almost over and soon the boys were lining up for high fives as their parents flushed out of the bleachers. I wasn’t sure if Emily was right, but I knew she was trying to be right, that her only aim was to decide something practical about how to improve upon the old traditions. I also knew that if I didn’t say right then what I’d meant to say when we first came to the park, that she’d somehow discover the news on her own. I reached for the section of the paper I’d tucked into the front pocket of my backpack, slowly unfolding it to build the drama.

“You gonna read me the front page or what?” she said, uncovering her eyes. “Any updates on Nicholas Parsons?”

“Even better.”

“That’ll be tough.”

“Hollywood’s coming to Iowa. They’re filming
The Bridges of Madison County
on the real bridges of Madison County and you’re gonna be the star.”

Emily gave her stomach a little drum, then glanced in the direction of a group of ballplayers huddling into a minivan. “I really doubt that, George.”

“You’re gonna be an extra who’s such a natural star that Meryl Streep looks like an extra.”

“Meryl Streep?”

“All you have to do is go down to Winterset Elementary School next weekend and wait in line.”

Emily crawled sideways and bent her neck to view the headline (“Madison County Gets Casting Call”) that I’d deliberately hidden from her. “Gimme that,” she said, grabbing the article and spreading it open on the lawn. She leaned on her elbows and began reading, her legs slowly scissoring behind her.

“Coming this summer,”
I said, in my best theatrical trailer baritone.
“A love story set in Iowa . . . that’s Iowa . . . the state below Minnesota . . . above Missouri . . . three hours from Chicago . . . ”

Emily ignored me. She took her time reading and scanning the side box filled with additional details and directions. “Think the crew can make it here without getting lost?” She cracked a smile as she searched with her pointer finger, then read aloud: “
The Winterset city council was hesitant about inviting Hollywood to their quiet town, until Warner Bros. offered to gift them a new auditorium.
Ha! Like they’d really say no to Dirty Harry.”

“Could be your big break.”

“It says they’ll give preference to Winterset residents.”

“They’ll see your qualifications.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said, already doubting how she’d measure up in the eyes of the casting folks from California, despite her success at the Public Playhouse and the fact that she was the only high school student accepted to the Shakespeare workshop at Drake University. (That said, I always felt her insecurity about her talent was her most valuable professional asset.)

“Maybe you should bring a few clips from your Burlington Coat Factory commercials. Or that hair style poster they’ve got hanging up over at Great Clips.”

Emily folded the article and handed it back to me. “You’re not supposed to know about those things. And anyway, I’d have to read the book before Saturday. I’m not much of a speed reader, you know.”

“That’s what Katie told me.”

“I’m sure she did.”

I folded the paper until it was thick enough to slap in my palm like a playbook. “I’m waiting for the movie. I know you’ll get the part and I don’t want to want to stress myself out trying to guess which scene you’re gonna show up in. I wouldn’t be surprised if they hire you as an extra, then end up writing you into the main story. If I saw you on the set, I’d rewrite the whole thing. Probably send Meryl packing.”

Emily smirked and briefly met my eyes. She spoke softly, in a tender and downcast whisper. “You really think I’m gonna be famous, huh?”

“I’m sure of it. So long as you steer clear of idiots like Peyton Chambeau. Last week in the locker room, he pissed on a freshman for missing a free throw.”

“That’s not a good place to piss.”

“It was just a scrimmage,” I said, chuckling as though it were a humorous anecdote unrelated to us. I had no idea what possessed me to mention his name, at this particular time or any other.

“Okay, George. I’ll try to take your
completely obvious
advice, for what it’s worth.”

She shoved her chewed wad of gum in its wrapper and checked her watch. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder and stood up.

“Sorry,” I said, which I could never stop myself from saying and which always annoyed Emily even further. I blocked the sun and stared up at her. “But tell me honestly, do you think you’ll get the part?”

“No.”

“Care to bet?” I said, reaching into my backpack, soon holding out a mint first edition of
The Bridges of Madison County
. Emily stared at the cover for a while without reaching for it. She sat down next to me and took it and opened it to the first page. She read the first sentence. She thought about it. Then she read it again out loud.

Ten

The truth is that Des Moines was and continues to be one of the safest cities in the country, a well-earned achievement regularly noted on top ten lists of most desirable American cities, often adjunctive to the category of child rearing. But the systems by which these rankings are calculated often fail to account for the trauma inflected by certain rare but heinous crimes, such as that of one teenager tugging on a telephone cord that he forcefully wrapped around the neck of another at a business hotel in the suburbs. They also neglect the grave effects of legally permissible crimes, including the daily gossip-mongering and passive-aggressive nitpicking that in my experience thrive on such hosts as midsize Midwestern cities with inextricable ties to their state’s agricultural economy. I turn to the example of Maureen Schell, a transplanted Des Moinian, dually progressive and small-town stubborn, whose priggish parenting style effected consequences that stretched far beyond the borders of her front lawn.

I received a harsh lesson in the extent of these consequences during the three days of excused absences that Emily spent on set with
The Bridges of Madison County
, which involved twelve-hour shifts largely confined to a corner booth at the Northside Café, mouthing silent small talk so as not to disturb the recording of Clint Eastwood’s exchange with Lucy Redfield, the town harlot. Lauren begged me to meet her at the Civic Center downtown for one of Ashley’s dance team competitions, despite the fact that we had almost nothing in common and struggled excruciatingly in the absence of the rest of our group. Perhaps this awkwardness (not to mention our confrontation with such a bizarre contest, primarily judged on components of turbo crotchwork and surgical smiles) deserves the most blame for that afternoon’s backstabbing revelation. According to Lauren, Emily was systematically lying to her mother about the time she spent with me. If the two of us went for tacos at Valley West Mall, she explained, Emily would likely tell her mother she was watching
Aladdin
for the hundredth time with Ashley, who was stuck babysitting her nephew. If we went to a movie, she’d say it was a dull night at the bowling alley with a bunch of basketball players who were pitching balls from one lane to the next and obfuscating all the scores. In terms of explanations for Mrs. Schell’s negative opinion of me, Lauren’s best guess was that it had something to do with Marcus Panozzo getting caught stealing boat motors up at Gray’s Lake, and the fact that his accomplice had escaped unnamed. The word on the street was that despite proving his loyalty at the police station, back on his mother’s antique sofa (humped from Sicily by his poor plumbing grandfather), Marcus blamed his uncharacteristic thievery on the influence of the new kid from Davenport. Lauren hinted that this fabrication had probably spread from Mrs. Panozzo to a good number of St. Pius mothers, but she did so with great tenderness and consolation, going so far as to criticize Mrs. Schell for harboring prejudices that extended far beyond juvenile delinquents to include exotic pet owners, anyone over thirty in a miniskirt, people with BEWARE OF DOG signs (or yard signs that try to trick people into thinking there’s a woman with a big fat ass and a polka-dot apron bent over in the garden), territorial Italians from the South Side, the fat blobs who needed electric wheelchairs to grocery shop, etc. As Lauren prattled on I considered that the mere mention of my name had Mrs. Schell summoning images of cheap motels with crack pipes and Betacams, fraternal redheads with country bumpkin boners, and other criminal threats that invoked acid nausea at the thought of my representing them.

I should mention that by this time Katie’s crush had grown increasingly eye-battering and obvious, most fully present in her feigned, pirouetting healthfulness and the simpering lilt of my name off her lips. A few hours after Ashley’s competition I exploited these feelings by way of a shamefully entrapping phone call that paved the path for a vile and secretive line of communication. Katie not only confirmed Emily’s fictions related to our daily excursions, but also shared her opinion that the entire drama related to Peyton Chambeau was misconstrued. “She was
relieved
,” Katie said. “She had the perfect excuse to walk away. You think she really wanted to date that guy? I’m sure she was curious about
something
, but as far as I can see, she’s pretty occupied with her acting, and discovering the deep mystery of herself. I don’t know, George. Maybe you’d better let this one go for a while.”

While I wonder to this day exactly what Katie meant by
letting this one go
, I had every intention to probe for the reasons why Emily encouraged her mother’s misconceptions about me by attempting to deceive her. The situation came to a head after her last day of shooting, on our way to a roller-skating event organized by Smitty and his fellow youth ministers. With an utter lack of artfulness, I informed her of all the technical information related to that evening’s college fair at Lincoln High, suggesting the event would provide a convenient alibi.