by Landon Beach
Next, he had packed the narcotics. Morphine as the primary—the gold standard in pain management; his back-up was Demerol. Both were injected with a syringe—he preferred using carpujects—so he had packed a dozen. Both Morphine and Demerol made a person drowsy and constipated; he had thrown in a box of suppositories. He had loaded a bottle of Dramamine for motion sickness if they faced heavy seas, and a bottle of Phenergan for nausea to be taken three to four times a day. Even though his “home supply” was replenished, he was taking no chances of either he or Trist becoming dehydrated at sea. Therefore, he had filled the rest of the bag with materials for an IV: alcohol swabs, a rubber band for a tourniquet, tubing, bags of saline, and a variety of needles—the bigger the needle, the smaller the gauge. The bags would have to be kept at room temperature. If it got too hot, he could place them in the boat’s refrigerator, but he would need to warm them up so that they wouldn’t hurt either he or Trist. He had read that in World War II, medics tucked bags inside their shirts to keep them warm.
Tomorrow, he would stow the new compressor and two complete sets of dive gear—fins, mask, snorkel, wetsuit, weight belt, BCD, regulator, and dive knife—in the dive equipment cabinet he had built with Tyee in the v-berth. When he dropped Trist off for work, he would go behind the hardware store and use his brother-in-law’s compressor to fill up the four scuba tanks. He had also ordered brand new West Marine oilskins and rubber boots for them in case of foul weather. They had arrived at the store yesterday, and Tyee had the box waiting for them.
Robin aimed his flashlight at the bottom of the page and ran his finger down the last items on his list. Tennis racquets and balls, basketball, camera, binoculars, air pump, tent, sleeping bags, hiking boots, stove, two propane bottles, backpack, six bottles of Deep Woods Off, three tubes of sunscreen, two fishing poles, tackle box, bait, a dozen bars of soap, lantern, and—he looked at the flashlight in his hand—the rest of the page was blank. He switched the flashlight to his left hand and wrote FLASHLIGHT and BATTERIES underneath LANTERN. He switched off the light and took the glass of wine from Levana. He had been advised not to drink—the hell with that.
“I think we’re ready,” he said.
She sat between his legs and leaned her back against his chest. They each took a drink of wine—the only sound in the night air was of waves hitting their beach.
“I scheduled the truck to be at the hardware store at seven a.m. the day after tomorrow to load up the food and supplies.”
“Thank you, darling,” Robin said. “I’ll have the boat out of the water and on the trailer by eight. After that, we’ll wait for you and Tyee to show up in the truck. Then, it’s on to the U.P.”
“So,” she said, and took another sip. “How did it go?”
“We’ll be all right,” Robin said. He took a sip now. “In fact, sometimes, I think he knows more about sailing than I do.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
He knew it too. She wanted to know how he and Trist were getting along. “We had our moments,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
Here goes. “He still doesn’t respect the fact that I know what’s best for him, even if it means telling him something that he doesn’t want to hear.”
“With that line of thinking starting last summer, right?” Levana said.
“Yes. Ever since I came home from my shift because I got sick that night and found his bare ass moving up and down on our couch over his girlfriend, he thinks that every talk we have is a lecture.” Robin swirled the wine in his glass and tipped it back. “He wasn’t even wearing a rubber for Christ’s sake. I know he thinks I embarrassed him when I asked them to get dressed and then made Rachel leave, but he’s gonna mess up his life if he gets some girl pregnant right now.” He could feel his temper rising. “I don’t want him to corner himself as a teenager. Do you realize how hard it would be to make it now being eighteen with a baby?”
“Are you lecturing me now?” Levana said.
Robin exhaled—damn it—another trait Trist had picked up from him. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed her left shoulder with his free hand. They listened to the waves once again.
“You can’t control every move he makes, Robin.”
“I know. It’s just that I keep thinking back to my old man. I told myself time and time again I would never be that kind of father to Trist and Jon—.” He still couldn’t say his name. He stared at the water, gathered himself, then continued. “Do you know the only thing I remember from my college psychology class is the day my professor walked in and said, ‘For those of you wanting to treat your kids differently than you were treated, I’ve got some news for you: unless you make a conscious effort to treat them differently, you will end up treating them how you were treated whether you like it or not.’”
“You’ve never told me that before,” she said.
“Do you want to know where I’m really at?”
She lifted her head off his chest and nodded.
“I know that I don’t have much time left with him,” he paused, trying to stay calm. “I’m in a tough spot. At some point during every day the past few months I’ve thought of something that I should pass on to Trist. Some pearl of wisdom,” he paused, “no, that’s a stupid saying. Some lesson learned where I messed up and don’t want him to. And I feel the need to tell him, because soon I won’t be able to.”
Levana raised her hand to her face and began wiping her cheeks.
“For sixteen years, I have been a different father than my own and been proud of that. But now I’m frustrated because for the past year I’m sure that I have been like a monkey that won’t get off his back. He’s confused because I’m not like that. And now I’ve got him thinking that he has to prove his manhood to me. And that’s not what I want at all. I already respect him, but I’m struggling with knowing that I have less time than I ever imagined to pass on what I’ve learned. Not only am I getting cheated out of getting to see my son become a man, I feel he’s getting cheated by not having me there to lean on after he graduates from this hormonal overload.”
Robin’s eyes filled. “I wanted to help him buy his first car,” he said while raising his wineglass and his other hand at the same time in protest. “I wanted to be there when he bought his first house and help him fix it up. I wanted to be there when he brought home the woman he was going to marry, and have the right to say something stupid and inappropriate like, ‘When do you guys think you’ll start trying to have kids?’.”
Levana kept wiping her eyes.
“I wanted all of that,” he said and wrapped his arms around her.
She hugged him back and then turned around and faced him. “I don’t know how much longer I can go not telling him what you have.”
“It’s not the right time yet,” Robin said.
Levana cried, “When will it be?”
Robin stood up and walked to the railing overlooking the water. “I plan on telling him on the sail,” he said.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But I promise I will.”
She joined him. “I have a suggestion to help you with your lectures.”
He turned to her. “Anything. My method is ripping me apart.”
“I want you to buy a journal tomorrow after you drop Trist off at the hardware store. You can pick one up at Lily’s. It will be behind the art pencils before you get to the books.”
“I’m not a writer, Levana.”
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to sound writerly and call it a journal; call it a notebook.”
“What’s it for?”
“Whenever a lesson or piece of advice comes to mind, I want you to write it down,” she said. She gathered herself. “I will make sure he gets it.”
He considered her suggestion while watching the wind blow her hair away from her face, exposing her high cheekbones and dark complexion. “I have to ask this. Do you still want us to go?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. And now I h
ave to ask you something.”
“Anything,” he said.
“Are you so hard on him about his future because at one time you thought he was a mistake?”
“We did what we had to do.”
“Answer me.”
He pulled her against his chest and looked over her head at the water. The moon had slid behind a group of clouds, and the entire lake looked like a black bedsheet with someone moving their hands underneath it. “No. He was never a mistake,” he said. “And neither were you.”
6
When Robin Thomas Norris was eighteen, he registered for the core freshman course load at Central Michigan University. He told his parents before leaving that in four years he would have an undergraduate degree in Sports Medicine with a minor in English and would be on his way to being a trainer for an NBA team. The perfect life awaited: he’d help keep athletes on the floor during the season, get to travel the world, and read everything he could get his hands on while doing it. His mother believed in him; his father thought he was wasting his life.
Robin’s entire childhood had comprised of reading about injuries, studying their cause, getting injured—then studying himself and going to seminars once a month at St. Luke’s Hospital on the newest treatments for tennis elbow and shin splints. Going to Central to study his passion was a no-brainer in his estimation; he didn’t care what anyone else thought.
The first semester passed without incident. He secured a job as a student trainer for the men’s basketball team, and when he wasn’t doing that, he worked at the university library where on off hours he had access to books, magazines, and video documentaries about sports psychology, athletic training, and famous sports stars and their injuries—most of which ended their careers. He abused authority by sending official notices to students who had material checked out that he wanted, requiring them to bring it in.
There had been the usual partying and socialization, but when one finds the keys to his uncle’s liquor cabinet at fourteen, there is little left to the imagination by eighteen. He was not as prone to make drinking a central focus in his life as other freshman who were experiencing the juice of love for the first time. As for women, Robin had ended a high school relationship early in the semester and other than an occasional kiss or even inebriated consummation, he wasn’t interested in the long term—until February.
On his way to class, and running late, he watched a girl slip on a patch of ice right in front of the academic building they were about to enter. Helping her pick up her books and get to her feet, Robin got caught in her dark brown eyes. Black hair fell to her shoulders, and her cheeks were red due to the chill. Their breaths created a small cloud between them. After an eternity—one moment—she said “Thank you.” Before Robin could say anything, she had turned and entered the building.
For two weeks he thought of nothing but her. He searched by bike and on foot, checked the university registrar, asked around, and crashed parties he wasn’t invited to. About to declare defeat on a Friday night while filling in at the library for a student who had called in sick—probably to party—Robin saw her. He approached. After botching his opening, he recovered with concern about how she was doing after her fall. She asked what his name was. When he said, “Robin,” she replied, “Named after our state’s bird, huh?” In fact, he had been, but he lied and said, “No.” Then, he faltered again showing his age through nervous attempts at small talk and humor. With nowhere left to go, he helped her locate two books for a paper she was writing on the status of Michigan’s High Schools. Attempting to prolong their time, Robin told her that he was getting off work in a half hour and asked if she’d like to get some coffee—which he didn’t drink. She accepted.
Levana Ogin Beecher was a junior, pursuing a teaching degree in secondary Mathematics. Her father had wanted her to study business so she could take over his hardware store one day, but she had other plans. Her goal was to get out of Michigan as soon as possible and teach someplace—anyplace—that didn’t have snow.
Robin had shared her sentiment and explained his plans to travel the country with a professional team. The mutual interest catapulted the conversation into the wee hours and led to a repeat the following night.
A month later, they were dating and—against her better judgment—sleeping together every chance they had. Robin was keeping his grades up, and they planned to see each other over the summer. He’d still be helping with the team and working summer camps. She was heading home to some place called Hampstead. They would make it work.
As a source of pride, he reported the success of his first year to his father, hoping for a glimmer of approval. His father replied, “Life happens when you’re making other plans.” On the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend, Levana found out she was pregnant. Robin had asked, “Is it mine?” and was slapped across the face.
The marriage took place in July, and, with no other option that made fiscal sense, they moved into the basement of her parents’ house after their weekend honeymoon to a Michigan State Park where Robin drank for three days and Levana threw up for three days. Feeling the responsibility of bringing in some form of income, Robin dropped out of school and got a full-time job working as an orderly at the Hampstead Hospital. He was mopping floors when Levana went into labor, and on December 3, 1978 Tristian Dichali (meaning “speaks a lot”) Norris was born.
The following fall, her mother agreed to take care of the baby during the day while Levana resumed her college classes. After receiving her teaching license in the spring, she started interviewing for teaching positions. On the third interview, she ran out of the room and vomited all over the hallway floor—she was pregnant again. They hadn’t planned for the second baby—or the first—but in a way, Levana felt relieved. She hoped that by getting pregnant again so soon, she could prove her relationship to Robin was strong and that her parents would accept them as a family and not as two kids who forever altered their lives in a dorm room bed. Levana’s mother professed a love for their family; Levana’s father hovered in the background, waiting for Robin to prove him right: to fuck up beyond belief and be dismissed for good.
The exact opposite had occurred. With another child in the wings, Robin attended community college at night in addition to working at the hospital during the day. He received a nursing degree, and when their second child Jonathan turned two, he delivered the proud news to Levana: they had saved enough money to move out of the basement.
Movers had been hired, an apartment picked out, and a plan made that would get them out of Hampstead in five years. On the afternoon of the move, Levana’s mother loaded the boys into the family station wagon to take them to lunch, Jonathan sitting behind Levana’s mother.
Right before the turn-in, a concrete mixer truck traveling in the opposite direction blew a tire and swerved into their lane. Levana’s mother and Jonathan were dead before the ambulance could be heard. Tristian entered the hospital in a coma, but would come out of it a month later just in time to see his grandfather laid to rest after suffering a massive heart attack.
The Norrises never left Hampstead.
7
Beecher Hardware shared a parking lot with the Hawthorne Fish House. There were sixteen parking spaces with fresh yellow lines painted over smooth blacktop that had been finished two weeks before. Business had suffered a little while the lot was being redone, but it had been way past due. Now, the customer flow was back to normal.
The sun cast a warm glow above Lake Huron as Robin pulled the Suburban in next to Tyee’s pick-up. Levana was still sleeping back at home, and in the passenger seat Tristian had the blank red-eyed stare of a person who had not had much sleep the night before. Robin was holding back his checklist of questions to determine just what in the hell his son’s night had entailed.
He shut off the engine. “Ready?” He said to Trist.
Trist nodded then rubbed his eyes.
They exited the SUV and started walking toward the front of the store. From across the parking
lot, the owners of the Hawthorne Fish House, Gary and Lucille Hawthorne, walked out the front door of their building. Robin hadn’t seen them since the parking lot had been finished.
“Mornin’, gents,” Gary said.
“Hi Robin. Hi Tristian,” Lucille said and waved.
They stopped, and Trist gave a half-hearted wave. Robin said, “Parking lot looks good.”
“Took long enough for them to finish,” Gary said. “You guys are headin’ out this week, right?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Robin said.
“What an experience,” Lucille said, smiling as if fighting back pain and tears.
She knows. Robin looked into Gary’s eyes; he does too.
“I better head in and see what Uncle Tyee needs me to do,” Trist said and then waved goodbye to the Hawthornes while heading toward the door.
“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Robin said.
“Okay,” Trist said over his shoulder. He reached the door and it opened with the familiar chime.
“He’s turning into a nice young man,” Lucille said.
“Got a ways to go,” Robin said reflexively. Don’t be a jerk. “But we’re proud of him.”
“Got your fishin’ poles ready?” Gary asked. “I hear the whitefish are almost jumping out of the water and into boats up there.”
“Got ‘em packed,” Robin said. “I’m heading over to Mickey’s for bait later this morning.”
“He’s doing pretty well for himself,” Gary said rubbing his chest. “But that bait store that just opened up near Shelby’s Marina is startin’ to burn my ass.”
“Why?” Robin asked.
“Because he keeps spreadin’ lies about Mickey just to get more business. Well, he hasn’t been around this town long enough to know how things work. If he keeps it up, I’ll submarine him and his business because I know all the fishermen.”
Robin smiled. Gary Hawthorne was not a man you made angry.
