Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  “Fish swim forever,” Gotthorm says.

  Wednesday looks a lot like Tuesday. It’s a bit after high noon. Coffen has run into the locker room to shower, shit, and brush his teeth, and then flees back to the pool deck to eat another Mexican lasagna—a snack that doesn’t age well. Each bite a chore. Each bite probable food poisoning.

  Jane’s just crossed the fifty-hour plateau, which puts her nine hours away from her personal best. Nine hours away from uncharted waters.

  That night, Gotthorm doesn’t come out to talk to Bob, which he takes as a bad sign. Coffen’s up on the lifeguard chair, peering in at them. The coach looks worried, leaning down and talking a lot to Jane as she treads. The African pompano has been thrust to the side. This can’t be good.

  Erma, Margot, and Brent have gone home to get some sleep. The same judge is there, alert as always, clipboard in his hands.

  Coffen channels his inner Gotthorm, thinking to himself, Why would a fish need any words of encouragement to keep on swimming?

  Through the binoculars, Jane appears no different. Her eyes are closed. She paddles and sways her limbs with the same nimble fluidity. She breathes her puckered breaths.

  But Gotthorm’s shift in demeanor has Bob flustered, and a flustered Bob Coffen isn’t known for shrewd decision-making. Pretty soon, he’s creeping up toward the window. Pretty soon, he’s pantomiming a big thumbs-up with a simultaneous shrug of the shoulders to Gotthorm, who responds only with pursed lips and a shaking head.

  At 5:00 AM on Thursday, Jane’s been treading for sixty-seven hours, and this is the moment when her eyes pop open. The skin tone changes, going pale. Her rhythmic, puckering breaths go into shallower, almost panic-stricken sucks of air. Her head slips a bit under the water. She catches herself, rights her stroke, but it’s the first slip she’s made.

  Coffen sees all this through the window. Face pressed right up to the glass.

  Coffen sees this and wants so badly to whisper in her ear: You’ve come this far. You can do it. You can do anything in the world you put your mind to.

  Gotthorm comes out to the crowded pool deck at 10:00 AM. He has the exhausted look of a surgeon who’s been doing his best to keep a patient alive, but whose tireless efforts might be in vain.

  “Have you gotten any sleep?” Bob asks.

  “We’re at seventy-two hours.”

  “She’s really struggling, it looks like.”

  “She’s exhausted.”

  “Will she make it?”

  “I worry she’ll cramp soon.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Fish swim until they die,” says Gotthorm.

  “Before you said that fish swim forever.”

  “Nobody can wiggle a mackerel’s tail but that very fish.”

  “Is there any way to help her?”

  “You are in your own competition, like Jane and me,” Gotthorm says. “You’ve been here as many hours as us. You’ve been competing. I’m impressed. You are stronger than you look.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “She needs more strength. She’s used up all her dedication to me, used up all her personal willpower. She’s drawn all the fuel she can from having your children present. Now it’s up to Jane to keep her humanness shut off. She has to stay aquatic or she’ll give in to fatigue.”

  “Maybe her fish-ness has gotten her this far, but she needs her humanness to cross the finish line,” says Bob.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Gotthorm says. “Only the ocean can baptize her. Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.”

  It’s certainly not the intention of Gotthorm to plant any seeds in the head of a certain Bob Coffen. That’s the last thing the coach is trying to do. What is he trying to do anyway? Why does he keep coming outside acting chummy with Bob? All Coffen can figure is that he’s impressed Gotthorm with this round-the-clock peeping and has miraculously weaseled into his good graces.

  The seed that has been planted in Bob now drills down into his cranium and an idea grows. Time lapse. The seed is buried and the sprout shoves up out of the soil in one fell swoop. The seed itself is in these previous words from Gotthorm: “Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.” And the idea growing inside Bob’s head is this: If the coach’s fish philosophy seems as if it’s failing, really failing—Jane’s head going underwater, Jane seeming as if she’s going to come up short of the world record—if this happens, then Bob Coffen has a plan to help her with some good old-fashioned humanness.

  “I need to get back to her,” Gotthorm says, starting his Speedoed strut back toward the indoor pool. “The sea can flick a catamaran like it’s a cigarette butt. The ocean can hack up a submarine like a wad of gristle from a fat man’s throat after the Heimlich maneuver.”

  “I still say she has some human in there,” says Bob.

  “I pray not,” Gotthorm says.

  The club closes at 7:00 PM, which happens to be the eighty-one hour mark. At midnight—when the plock strikes its only time—she’ll have broken the record.

  Once the outside deck clears of other club members, Coffen climbs back up on the lifeguard perch to get the best view. Jane’s once lovely rhythm is shot. Her puckered breathing seems more like someone waking from a nightmare. Stunned. Scared. She is pale. Her eyes are wide open, blinking lots.

  Erma, Margot, and Brent are no longer there. Gotthorm sits on the side of the pool and says things to Jane—words Bob so badly wants to hear. He so badly wants to help. On one hand, sure, he wants to respect her wishes to stay away, yet also he wants to disassemble those wishes. Obviously, they’re not the right ones. He hasn’t been near the pool and it’s clear to anybody’s eyeballs that she’s about to go under. She’s about to lose. And Bob Coffen isn’t about to let that happen, not without a fight, not without trying to help her.

  Jane is not an urchin.

  Jane is no manatee.

  She’s not an anemone or a dolphin or a cuttlefish.

  Jane’s no shark.

  She is a human, a woman, his wife. This is real life, and she needs to hear real encouragement, needs to know her family believes in her. Whether Jane knows it or not, she needs her husband to be there.

  Coffen throws the binoculars down, hops off the lifeguard chair. He runs toward the door to the men’s locker room. It’s locked. Of course. They’ve shut down for the evening. He knocks on it. Nobody answers. Duh. He slams his shoulder into it. Twice. Four times. Six.

  Why is breaking down doors so easy on television? That’s going to bruise.

  He kicks it. He moves and tries the door to the women’s locker room, too. No luck. No shoulder slams. No kicks. Think. Coffen has little time. She looked so pale. No choice but to try and lure Gotthorm to invite Bob inside. So he runs to the huge window. So he knocks on it. So he waves at Gotthorm. The judge looks over. Gotthorm only shakes his head. Gotthorm only keeps talking to Jane. Coffen only keeps knocking. What can he do? What options are there? He’s trying to bring Jane her humanness. He has to help her. Jane pulls her swim cap off. It drifts in the water like a small octopus. Reminds Coffen of their first date. Their first online date. In the chat room. In the Italian restaurant. Jane said a two-ton squid escaped the zoo. It lived under her bed. She fed it a steady diet of saltwater taffy. Bob fell in love with her right then. Wanted to kiss her imagination right on the mouth. Imaginations should have mouths. Imaginations should have great big puckering lips. Imaginations should sit on people’s shoulders like mousy Schumann had been sitting on Bob’s. Coffen needs to get inside. Needs to tell Jane she’s not a fish. Needs to tell Jane that she’s a gorgeous woman. He should mention he quit his job. But not until later. Not until she’s broken the record. After that the job thing won’t be so bad, maybe. The doors are locked. He’s knocking on the window and Gotthorm and the judge don’t move to let him in. Her swim cap starts to sink. Bob can’t see Jane’s face and he knocks harder. She said that every squid who ever escaped the zoo after that first
one always came to her house. Word travels fast with squid. Everybody knows that. Nobody’s going to help Bob get in there. This is going to be a Bob-only enterprise if entering the indoor poolroom is his chief pursuit. Coffen runs back to the outdoor deck. Coffen is getting good at throwing things. Ask that flowerpot. He is no longer afraid of consequences born from the sound of shattering.

  Coffen says, “Bob is me.”

  He doesn’t throw the chaise lounge at the window so much as he uses it as a kind of battering ram and it works. The window explodes. The judge’s face is sort of scared. He clutches the clipboard to his chest like it’s a crying baby. Gotthorm’s face is not scared so much but wearing a wondrous What the hell? Bob can no longer see the sinking swim cap. Bob climbs through the busted window. Bob is still fully clothed. Bob is still wearing shoes. There are problems with his plan. He is saying to the judge, “Will she be disqualified if I enter the water but I don’t touch her or interfere in any way?” and the judge is saying, “Who are you?” and Gotthorm is saying, “That is her husband,” and the judge is saying, “What’s wrong with using the door?” and Gotthorm is saying, “What are you doing?” and Coffen is saying to the judge, “Can I get in the pool so long as I don’t physically aid her?” and the judge nods, Sure, do it, go ahead, you window-shatterer.

  So:

  Fully clothed Bob Coffen leaps into the water. About twenty feet away from his wife. Jane is really struggling. Bob swims over, not getting too close. Judges probably love to issue disqualifications and Coffen won’t give the smug prick the satisfaction. Her swim cap is flat on the bottom of the pool. Bob is treading water maybe ten feet away from her now.

  He says, “Jane, it’s me, Bob. You’re almost there. You almost have the record. You can do it. I know you can do it. Don’t give up now.”

  Jane doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head above the surface. But barely. Her strokes are arrhythmic, all over the place.

  Bob says, “You’re only about four hours away from the record.”

  The judge says, “Five hours, eleven minutes.”

  Bob says, “You’re only five hours and eleven minutes away from the record.”

  Jane doesn’t say a word.

  Bob says, “Do you remember a two-ton squid that escaped from the zoo? You told me that it snuck in your bedroom window and hid under your bed. You fed it salt-water taffy.”

  “I named it,” Jane says, eyes finally focusing on Bob.

  “What did you name it?”

  “Geraldine.”

  “How did you know it was a girl?”

  “She chewed her taffy in a very feminine way.”

  “Geraldine the giant squid,” says Bob.

  “What are you doing here?” Jane asks.

  “Gotthorm invited me. He said that all your training has worked perfectly—that you’re the best athlete he’s ever trained. But he thought you might be getting tired and he asked if I wanted to tread water with you for the last five hours.”

  The judge says, “Five hours, nine minutes.”

  Bob says, “Five hours and nine minutes.”

  Jane says, “You’re going to tread water for five hours and nine minutes?”

  Bob says, “Only if you’ll do it with me.”

  Gotthorm smiles at Coffen: “Yeah, Jane, we thought that seeing your husband might help you finish it off.”

  “Yes, we did,” Bob says, already wishing he’d taken off his shoes.

  “Are the kids here, too?” Jane says.

  “I can call your mom,” Gotthorm says. “She can bring them back. They were going to set an alarm and return at midnight if you broke the record. Would you like them back here now?”

  “Yes,” Jane says.

  Gotthorm goes to call Erma.

  The judge stands on the side.

  Bob bobs. Jane bobs.

  Jane says, “I’m so fucking tired.”

  Bob says, “A porpoise is one with the water.”

  Jane says, “Don’t make me laugh right now.”

  Bob says, “Sea otters look like my uncle Mickey.”

  Jane says, “What are you doing in here with me?”

  Bob says, “I needed some exercise.”

  Jane says, “I don’t think we can do this.”

  Bob says, “Watch us.”

  Five hours and nine minutes is what Jane needs. What Bob needs, too. He has a sturdy guilt about doubting her likelihood of breaking the record earlier and the only way to purge it is this.

  Getting rid of his guilt is like sucking venom from a wound: Coffen has to draw his doubt out of his system or it will poison him, poison them, and he’s not going to let that happen. If she can make it well over eighty hours in the pool, Bob can handle five hours and change.

  Bob tries visualization to fight his fatigue: he and Jane are in a bathtub, relaxing. It’s not working. He tries counting his exhalations, inhalations, tries humming a tune to himself. Nothing seems to ease his exhaustion. He tries silently chanting, We need five hours and nine minutes in total, five hours and nine minutes, five hours and nine minutes …

  “How much time has gone by?” says Bob after half an hour.

  “Nei, nei,” Gotthorm says. “Kelp can’t decipher the clock.” Bob looks at Jane. She seems to have stabilized, her stroke improving. She’s not as pale as before. Her breathing’s steady. Her eyes are shut.

  Coffen copies her, shuts his eyes, too. Trying to rally. He has no idea that you can sweat so much while swimming. Has no idea how woozy an individual can get simply treading water. Certainly, he has no idea that you can almost hyperventilate just staying in the same place, flailing your arms and legs, head slipping under the water every now and again.

  The fatigue and cramping pain poking up his thighs are getting worse.

  He notices he’s hungry.

  Notices his vision isn’t quite double, per se, but it’s certainly more than single.

  And yet there’s something about Bob Coffen that’s enjoying this arduous task. Digs the exertion and mounting headache. Thrives on how thirsty he is.

  He accidentally swallows the chlorinated water and coughs. The taste left in his mouth is salty, almost like a cured meat.

  We need five hours and nine minutes, keeps ringing in Bob’s mind.

  Strip, jump

  “Dad, are you okay?” Margot says.

  “What happened?”

  “You almost drowned.”

  “What?”

  “He had to pull you out.”

  “Who?”

  “Gotthorm.”

  “Huh?”

  “He gave you mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “You were dead, I think, for a minute or so,” she says.

  “Did you watch Gotthorm give me mouth-to-mouth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brent, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jesus, kill me.”

  “G-Ma watched with us.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Mom couldn’t watch because she was finishing up.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Talking to those reporters. I filmed it for you.”

  “She really made it?” Bob sits up on the pool deck, still in his soaked clothes, and peers over at Jane talking with two reporters.

  “Yeah. She finished.”

  Gotthorm walks over to Coffen and Margot. “You needed to tread water for five hours and eleven minutes,” he says. “You made it about five hours and two minutes.”

  “Thanks for saving my life.”

  “I had no choice; your kids were here.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “You made it much longer than I thought you would. You have fight in you.”

  “I tried.”

  “You succeeded,” Gotthorm says. “She did it. That’s what you were trying to do.”

  “I guess.”

  “There was some human still inside her. You were right, Bob. Do you want me to call an ambulance?
You seem fine to me. I’ve almost drowned about fifty times playing water polo over the years.”

  “I guess I’m fine.”

  “You’re more than fine. She wouldn’t have broken it without your help,” Gotthorm says.

  “Yeah, good job, Dad,” says Margot. “Can I film you?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Basking in your glory,” she says.

  Bob nods and says, “Go ahead.”

  “Ro’s going to flip when she sees all this footage. Okay, action!”

  Coffen smiles as his daughter shoots him sitting there. He’ll never say it to her because it would ruin everything, but he can tell: She’s proud of him. No doubt about it.

  “Do you have any words for your fans?” Margot asks, beaming.

  “Treading water is harder than it looks.”

  The two reporters—one columnist, one photographer—take pictures, nab their quotes. Both Jane and Gotthorm are interviewed. Bob sits with his mother-in-law, daughter, and son on some metal bleachers, waiting for Jane to finish up the festivities.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Brent says.

  “Me too.”

  “Next time, I want to go swimming.”

  “Go swimming right now if you want,” Coffen says.

  “I don’t have my suit.”

  “Are you wearing underwear?”

  The boy nods.

  “Strip down and go in those. We need to get my shoes off the pool floor anyway. I took them off when I was treading. And your mom’s swim cap is down there, as well. Do you want to go in, too, Margot?”

  “Not a chance,” she says.

  “Can I really?” Brent asks.

  “Strip, jump,” Bob says.

  The boy does just that, losing his clothes and leaping in, feet first. He swims down and gets Jane’s cap, then Bob’s shoes. He sets them on the side of the pool and gets to playing, swimming in little circles, holding his breath and diving down.

  By the time Brent climbs out, Jane and Gotthorm are done chatting with the press. They slowly walk over to the Coffens.

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a shovel,” Jane says. “I want to eat a pizza and sleep for the rest of the week.”