Swim to Me

by Betsy Carter

  “The silver dollars . . .,” he said.

  “Yeah, I found them. I used some of them to get down here. I never told Mom about them. I still have a bunch left over. You want them back?”

  “No, what would I do with them?”

  “Did you leave them for me and Westie on purpose?”

  “Wish I could say I did, but honestly, I’d been collecting them for years.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled for the first time since they’d started talking. “I liked how heavy they were. Money should feel like money—something with purpose, not just a flimsy piece of paper. I collected them for years. Money for a rainy day. I guess that rainy day came around.”

  “I guess,” she said.

  He looked at his watch. “Gotta go,” he said.

  “Sure,” she said.

  They got up from the picnic table. She still didn’t have it in her to call him Dad or Roy.

  “Ummm, good-bye” was the best she could do.

  Twenty-one

  On the flight from Tampa to New York, Lester wore a blue suit, a white button-down shirt, and a red tie with blue stripes. When Delores asked him why he was so dressed up, Lester said, “My father says you should dress for an airplane ride the way you’d dress for church.”

  “Have you ever been on an airplane?” she asked.

  “No, never. Have you?”

  “Nope, this is my first time. But obviously, I’ve never been to church either,” she said, looking down at her tie-dyed shirt and denim bell-bottoms.

  The stewardess came around and offered them a drink. Lester chose hot chocolate, Delores ordered a Tab. The drinks arrived on separate little trays, each with a cocktail napkin and chocolate-chip cookie wrapped in cellophane. They exchanged smiles that said, “Can you believe this?” and unwrapped their cookies. Lester took a sip of his drink, which was so hot that he spit it back into the cup. Then he looked up at the nozzle over his head that was hissing out a stream of cool air. He held his cup underneath it. The cold air blew into his drink causing the hot chocolate to spray over the sides of the cup like a fountain. It splashed onto Lester’s face and all over the front of his white Oxford shirt. At first, he seemed stunned, so Delores began dabbing at his shirt with her napkin; a ribbon of chocolate dripped onto her arm.

  “Willy Wonka,” said Lester, referring to one of his favorite recent movies.

  “Augustus Gloop,” said Delores, remembering the name of the boy in the movie who nearly drowns in chocolate before being spit out by one of the candy factory’s machines.

  Lester started laughing; Delores started laughing. Lester never laughed with the others because it turned out that when he did laugh he made a kind of braying sound. Delores laughed wide open for once, baring her overbite.

  That laugh was the most eventful thing that happened between them on the airplane. Delores soon lost herself in the newest issue of Teen Girl, and Lester pulled out a paperback, To Kill a Mockingbird. Delores glanced over and noticed how small and jammed together the type was. “You read a lot of books?” she asked, interrupting him. He looked up at her. “Yup. That’s what I do when I’m not working.” She didn’t know anyone who read books. Lester was what her mother would call “a queer duck.” That’s not exactly how she’d describe him, but he was different—she’d give him that.

  Later, she interrupted him again. “So, you sure you don’t mind sleeping in Westie’s room? It’s small, I mean, it won’t be the most comfortable place in the world.”

  “You’ve seen me sleep on the rock. It can’t be smaller than that, can it?”

  The size of the room was the least of it. “You’ve never really met my mother,” she said.

  “No, but I saw her when she was at the park. I thought she was pretty—kind of looked like you.” Lester stared down at his book again.

  His comment gave Delores pause. Why should she bother telling him that her mother was a phony, and a whiner, and an egomaniac? Let him find out for himself. When she had called home to ask if she could bring Lester, her mother had made a harrumphing sound. “How do you like that?” she’d said. “My daughter, coming home with a strange man. That’ll really give the neighbors something to talk about.” The way she said it made Delores wonder if the neighbors already had other things to talk about.

  There was a crowd of people waiting at the gate, but it wasn’t hard for Delores to spot her mother. Even without her craned neck, she was tall. She could make out the top of Westie’s head next to her and could see how she held his hand in hers. Westie seemed to have grown a lot since she last saw him in April, and it crossed her mind that he might not recognize her. But the moment he saw her, he tugged at their mother and started yelling: “Dores, Dores.”

  Delores ran toward them and scooped up Westie. His bare arms and legs were sticky and warm, and he smelled like vanilla. She held him until he started wriggling to get free; even then, she hesitated before putting him down. The image of her father standing head to head with Nehru flashed into her mind. Then she realized that her mother was standing behind Westie, waiting to be greeted. Kissing wasn’t a Walker family tradition; they were genetically inclined to back away from each other and avoid eye contact. But Delores felt effusive in that moment, maybe even wanted to impress Lester a little. So she leaned over, gave her mother a smacker on the cheek, and said in a chipper voice: “Hi, Mom. It’s great to see you.”

  Her mother, encouraged by this show of affection, threw her arms around Delores and called her “my gal.” Then, she extended a hand to Lester and said: “You must be Lester Pogoda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  They took a taxi to the apartment in the Bronx. Taking a taxi was an extravagance that her mother treated herself to only on special occasions. Having her daughter come home, with a boy no less, was one of those occasions. She sat in the front seat with the driver; Lester and Delores sat in back with Westie squeezed between them. Gail tried to make conversation, but every time she’d say something, Delores would holler “What?” until finally she gave up and they all sank into their own thoughts.

  Lester was staring out the window at the concrete buildings and deciding that he already didn’t like New York. The people in the airport looked pale and agitated. In Florida, everyone was brown and red; their faces were animated. The people here looked washed out and exhausted. So did the buildings. And what trees there were sagged under the weight of their withered leaves. There was humor in the sun colors of Florida: the burning yellows, screaming corals, pulsing greens. There was nothing humorous about this place: it seemed just a monolith of gray concrete. So far, New York was certainly not for him.

  Gail was worrying that she’d make a fool of herself in front of Lester. Between the magazine and Watergate, she should have plenty to talk about; that wasn’t the problem. She had views about these things—it was a shame about that nice man John Mitchell having to resign; and Martha, what a chatterbox—but she wasn’t used to giving voice to them, particularly in front of strangers. This boy was just a kid, though. He seemed perfectly nice and not bad looking.

  Delores was staring at her mother in the front seat. She looked good. The makeup she wore gave her face a kind of glow, but it was more than that. Even the way she held herself was different. She was no longer stooped. Now she sat upright and walked with purpose. If she were someone else’s mother, Delores might even think she was pretty. She thought about her father, how much more relaxed and peaceful he looked now, and she wondered how it was possible for two people to write misery all over each other the way these two people had done.

  Only Westie’s chatter filled the car. Mainly, he kept repeating, “Dores, I want to swim with turtle,” until Delores said to him, “Westie, do you want to go back to the Springs and see the turtle?” He just kicked his legs against the back of the front seat and kept talking about the turtle. “I brought you a present,” said Delores, reaching into her duffel bag. She pulled out a gray stuffed animal with brown buttons for eyes. “Do y
ou know what it is?” she asked. Westie studied the toy. “Babar,” he said. “That’s right,” said Delores. “Babar. He’s the biggest animal in the world. He’s bigger than this taxi; bigger than a horse. Maybe as big as a barn.”

  Westie took hold of the toy and squeezed its trunk. “I know a real elephant. Maybe I could introduce you to her sometime,” she said. His eyes got round and wide, and he waved the elephant up and down. “Babar, Babar,” he said excitedly.

  “Delores,” her mother turned around. “Don’t go filling his head with make-believe. He’s got enough of real life to deal with.”

  “Mom, believe me, the elephants are the least of it.” She thought ahead to the conversation they would have to have about her father and the circus and Weeki Wachee, and for the life of her, she couldn’t quite see her way to the other side of it.

  THE APARTMENT WAS SMALLER and more dingy than she remembered. Nothing except Helene’s globe was new; nothing had been replaced. Only the food stains on the walls had been painted over. After they put away their suitcases, they sat around the kitchen table drinking fruit punch, a little recipe her mother had picked up from the magazine, and egg-salad sandwiches. Westie sat on the floor in front of them playing with his new elephant.

  “So, Lester, what would you like to do in our fair city?” asked her mother in her cheeriest voice.

  He wanted to answer, “Not much, to tell you the truth,” but there was so much expectation in her voice, he knew enough to say more. “The usual stuff: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Macy’s department store.” His father had suggested he take a look at Wall Street, that maybe he’d be inspired by all the men who went to work there in suits and ties every day. But that held no interest for him.

  “You know, I’ll bet you’d really like Orchard Beach, which isn’t too far from here,” said Delores. “We could take Westie.”

  “No siree Bob,” said her mother. “Absolutely not. Westie’s going nowhere near that beach.”

  “But Mom, why not? He looves the water,” Delores could hear a whine rise in her voice.

  “How do you know he looves the water?”

  “When you were in Weeki Wachee that time, I took him swimming. He really liked it.” She started to tell her about the turtle, then stopped herself. “Why are you so against him learning how to swim?”

  Her mother clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Because having one mermaid in this family is quite enough. I have other things in mind for Westie.”

  “Oh, like what?” Delores shot back.

  “Something a little less cheap than wiggling his ass at some second-rate amusement park.”

  Delores, startled by her mother’s comment, had the impulse to say the meanest thing she could think of. She wanted to blurt out that she understood why her father had walked out, that her mother was a real bitch who didn’t care about anyone but herself. She could hear Blonde Sheila saying “bitch,” coming down hard on the word and making it sound solid and authoritative. Maybe if Westie hadn’t been there, she’d have said it. Instead, she snapped back: “You may think that what I do—what we do—is cheap, but I’ll tell you this: I love my job and I’m really good at it. When I’m in the water, I get to be a real sea creature. That’s an honor, to be one of them, and nothing you say can take that away from me. And, by the way, do you make it a habit to use words like ‘ass’ in front of Westie?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about being a mother. At least I am here, which is more than I can say for Westie’s sister or father.”

  Blonde Sheila’s voice was in Delores’s head now, and later she’d tell Lester that that was what made her say what she said next.

  “I’ve been in touch with Westie’s father. I know where he is. I know more than that actually. He’s got this whole other life. It sounds crazy until you see it, but in his own kind of pathetic way, at least he’s trying.”

  “You’ve seen him?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him. He works right near me. In fact, right now he’s kind of working with me.”

  Her mother seemed to be pulled across the table by Delores’s revelation. Her face got hard and white, and her body caved in. Delores had just answered the question she’d asked herself earlier. This was how one person wrote misery on another, and she immediately wished she could erase her words.

  “It’s a long story, Mom,” she said, her voice becoming softer. “You’re really not going to believe it.” Delores told her mother about the circus, Mr. Hanratty, the elephants. She said she believed her father was sorry for leaving them and, in his own way, was trying to make up for it. “I think he thinks he’ll never be forgiven, but he sure tried hard to make me understand why he did it.”

  “I’m not really interested in why he did it,” said her mother. “Though I do think it’s pretty strange that he left one circus to join another. I’ll say one thing about that man, there’s nothing predictable about him.” Color came back to her face, and she sat up straight. For a few moments, mother and daughter reclaimed their family, laughing and reveling in the strangeness of one of their own. Then her mother grew angry again, breaking the spell. “He was a coward to leave us the way he did. I’ll never forgive him that. If you want to think that he’s trying to make up for it, then that’s your business. But don’t expect me to buy into it just because you do. You’re a big girl now, and I can’t stop you from choosing him. But don’t ever forget that that man, your father, walked out on you and your baby brother.”

  They both looked down at Westie, then across the table at Lester. Lester? Amid the bedlam of the friendly fire, they had completely forgotten that Lester was still in the room.

  “Westie,” said Delores. “Let’s take Lester to your room so you can show him your toys.” As Westie led them to his pile of toys, Delores spotted the puppet right away. He was lying in the corner with a heap of other dolls. His skirt was wrinkled and covered with brown stains; his head was turned toward the wall. She picked him up and began examining him for cracks or scratches. The rhinestone tear was gone from his cheek. “Otto,” she whispered. He lay lifeless in her palm. She placed him on her hand. Westie was showing Lester his train set. Delores brought the puppet to Westie. “Westie, didn’t you promise to take care of Otto? Look at him; he’s filthy.” Westie ignored her. For so long, she’d needed Otto to make her world whole; now no one seemed to need him anymore. As she placed him back on the pile of dolls, Delores saw that there were dustballs and a couple of toys strewn under Westie’s bed. What a mess!

  Later that evening, after Delores and Lester came back from seeing the Empire State Building and Macy’s, they walked into the apartment as her mother was talking on the phone. Her mother’s voice, which to Delores seemed overly flirty, drifted toward them. “Oh, Bert, you are too much,” she was saying, as she wrapped the telephone cord around her little finger.

  Oh my God, she’s talking to a man, thought Delores. That’s just great. She probably parades men in and out of here like some back-street whore.

  The following morning, after talking with some potential babysitters in the neighborhood, her mother went back to work at the supermarket, and Delores and Lester took Westie to the Statue of Liberty. Even Lester was moved by that sight, the lady in the harbor welcoming strangers with empathy in her unblinking eyes. New York was like Weeki Wachee in that people came because they’d be accepted here. People who couldn’t go anywhere else made this their home and, like the people at Weeki Wachee, they formed a family defined by their otherness.

  On the morning of their third day in New York, Delores decided to call Molly.

  “How are rehearsals going?” asked Delores.

  “Pretty good,” answered Molly. “Slow. You know how Mr. Hanratty is—we have to do everything over about a hundred times. So how’s it going up there?”

  “We’re doing fine up here. Lester’s been great. My mother’s the same—for better or
worse.” She told Molly about Westie’s messy room, her mother’s cursing, the men she was sure were coming and going. “Let’s just say she’s not going to win the Mother of the Year award anytime soon.”

  There was dead air on the other end of the phone. “Molly, you still there?” asked Delores.

  “Yes, but I have something to tell you. I heard that Armando’s doing your job.”

  “What? At the TV station?”

  “Yeah, he’s doing the weather,” said Molly. “Well, I don’t think permanently,” she said. “But I just thought you should know.”

  Somehow, the news about Armando didn’t surprise Delores. There was something about him that was too good to be true. He was too everything: too handsome, too polite, too smooth. Too ambitious.

  Delores tried to keep her voice even. “Listen, I really have to get off the phone now.”

  “Yeah sure. Well, good luck with Lester and your mom.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Delores was waiting when her mother got back from her cleaning job. Lester and Westie were asleep in his room, so it was just the two of them. “Can I get you a Tab?” asked Delores, as her mother plopped onto the couch, took off her shoes, and rested her bare feet on the arm of the couch. Her mother often complained about how hard she worked, but now, looking at her red and swollen feet, Delores could feel it viscerally. “Mom, you know what you need as much as a Tab? You need a pedicure. And lucky for you, one of the things I’ve learned in my career as a cheap ass-wiggler is how to do pedicures. So go soak your feet for a few minutes and I’ll get my tools.”

  Delores pulled a cosmetic bag from her duffle while her mother stood in the bathtub and let the cold water run over her sore feet. When she came back to the living room, Delores was waiting with the Tab and polish. “You get comfortable and gimme those,” she said, patting her lap. Her mother lay back and closed her eyes while Delores massaged her feet with moisturizer.