Night Swim

by Jessica Keener

  “Not too good, is it?” Sophie said, chewing.

  At the far end of the room, a fight broke out between two Italian girls. Several boys jumped out of their seats and ran to form a circle around the fighters. Just as quickly, Mr. Bingham appeared, pulling two boys away by their shirt collars. A woman teacher ushered the two girls out. The girls wore dark skirts and nude stockings like Margaret.

  “Crazy,” Sophie said. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go outside,” I said.

  The playground was a fenced-in parking lot with fading basketball court lines at one end. We went to a quiet spot near the teachers’ cars. Sophie held onto a car door handle of a red Saab and lifted her leg in front of her. She took dance lessons twice a week.

  “This is a plié.” She tapped her foot up and down in a controlled, regulated way, then curtsied. She repeated the same motions with the other leg. “I have to do twenty-five on each side.”

  The wind blew gently and her hair floated again. I had thicker hair. It only tangled in the strongest gusts. At the far end, a group of Italian boys were playing basketball. I saw Anthony among them. A basketball arced into the pale, blue sky. Someone called out, “Pass it here, Tony!”

  Anthony stole the ball from another boy and expertly made his way to the basket. His straight hair flickered over his eyes as he bounced the ball. Two more boys tried to block him but he leapt up and the ball went in. Shouts followed. He applauded himself and surveyed the entire playground as he ran back to his team. He spotted me and nodded. I looked away.

  “Plié,” Sophie said, dipping up and down.

  The bell rang twice and everyone headed back in. Sophie walked next to me up the cement steps. It had been so bright outside, the dark hallway blinded me. I moved instinctively beside her.

  At the end of the day, Sophie and I walked to the auditorium for chorus. We stood on graduated platforms on stage. The music teacher, Mr. Edwards, had delicate hands for a man and very white complexion. Even the bald spot on the top of his head glowed candle-white under the lights.

  “Everyone, listen up.” He rapped his director’s wand against a metal music stand. The wand was a long, white plastic stick.

  “I want to sing the whole piece without stopping. You’ll make mistakes but keep going.” He scooped the air with his sinewy arms.

  “One, two three and — ”

  I sang second soprano, the range below first soprano. Sophie stood on the row above me. She sang first soprano and her voice, like her hair, had a wispy, airy sound.

  Mr. Edwards encouraged us by throwing fake confetti in the air when he wanted us to sing louder, or patting the air softly when he wanted us to quiet down.

  “Keep it going, keep it going!” he said, scooping more air. “Don’t lose it,” he called.

  Unlike Mr. Giles whose voice often failed to have any sound at all, or Mr. Bingham, who spoke hyperbolically, blowing pot-clattering sounds into every syllable and word, Mr. Edwards’ voice had a clean tone, like a single guitar string humming.

  Today, he passed out new sheets of music for the Thanksgiving Day program in November. “To Dream The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha was one of the selections, and a song called “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” from Gypsy. At half past three, the bell for the end of the school day sounded.

  Outside, the wind flew between my knees and smelled moist as overripe apples. Sophie’s mother waited at the curb in a dark green Cadillac to take Sophie to her ballet lesson.

  “See you tomorrow,” Sophie said and ran to the car.

  I started home, my books a heavy pile in my arms. I carried my biology and math textbooks, three spiral notebooks, my French book; a small, paperback of Hamlet on top. Along a chain fence outside official school grounds, I passed a surly looking group of Italian boys and girls smoking cigarettes. All the boys wore tight black pants and pointed black shoes. Two girls wore maroon athletic jackets that zipped in front and had large side pockets. I recognized one of them from the cafeteria fight. She flicked a burning cigarette toward me as I passed her. It hit my shoe.

  “Kike.”

  Stunned, I walked faster and faster. I didn’t dare turn around, in shock partly, and in fear, and in anger. I crossed the street, hurrying away from them, keeping my pace until I reached the beginning of Soquaset square. I had never experienced anti-Semitism firsthand. I couldn’t believe this was happening. My neighbors were Jewish. Sophie was Jewish.

  The familiar storefronts calmed me and I slowed down. I knew these stores like old friends: the hardware store; the record store with its files of top 40 hit singles, owned by a man with balding hair. The dry cleaners smelled of mothballs and dumped hot winds onto the sidewalk.

  I looked behind me. Still no one from the chain link fence. Ahead, the corner drugstore with its aroma of bubble gum, the one that supplied Mother with her back pills, which a high school boy delivered once a month. The pills arrived in a white paper bag folded and creased like fine linen. Next to the pharmacy, a Five & Dime took up the rest of the block. I looked behind me again but saw no one following. I slipped into the big, discount store. Safe.

  How well I knew the aisles of this discount store sprawling in a messy grid. The green speckled linoleum floor dull and mottled. Aisles of clothes. Shoes. Women’s make-up. Parrots squawking in back next to dusty changing rooms. At the front of the store, next to the cash register, a small boy rode an electric horse. The horse made a whining, thumping sound as it pumped up and down. I went to the aisle that stocked cosmetics.

  Piles of lipstick filled cardboard boxes on a shelf. I rummaged through the heaps until I found the color that Margaret wore and slipped it into my jacket pocket. The electric horse stopped and the store grew quieter, except for a few squawks in the back. I heard the child plead with his mother for another ride. The thumping sound resumed.

  In the next aisle, I spent a long time studying the packages with nylon stockings in them. I picked through the cellophane files until I found a pair that fit my measurements, five feet one, ninety-two pounds. The Nude color had a brownish tone. I took the nylons to the register and paid for them, then hid the package between my notebooks. The horse stopped again. The child moaned and wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck. I went back outside. A mother with her toddler walked by. Across the street, in front of the library, two young boys skipped down the sidewalk, tossing stones in the air.

  I headed home, passing the town sign: Town of Soquaset Incorporated 1689. Cars picked up speed and raced past, making water sounds. The sun eased down toward the rooftops. I felt the lipstick, again, deep in my jacket pocket.

  “Starting here!” I began singing — whispering at first, then with more force — the song from chorus practice. I opened my palm the way I’d seen professional singers on TV dramatize songs with their hands. “Starting now!” I twirled as I passed Soquaset’s local junior college: a small gathering of Victorian, red brick building with windows so old the glass looked wavy. I knew from Mr. Bingham’s class that glass was really in a liquid state not solid like most people thought, which is why it rippled over time. Gravity pulled it down. Behind a hedge, a boy and a girl were kissing on a bench. I walked faster, anxious to get home to my room.

  When I entered the kitchen, the house was distinctly quiet. I hung up my coat in the hallway and headed for the stairs. Mother lay asleep on the living room couch in a turquoise mohair suit. A glass lay empty on the green carpet beside her.

  “Mother?” I stood over her. The glass had the same sweet, tangy smell as her breath. “Mother?”

  She moved and opened her eyes.

  “What time is it?” She sat up and smoothed her hair. The stocking on one leg twisted around the knee.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” I asked.

  She stood up and straightened her stocking.

  “My back’s acting up again. I’ll go upstairs.”

  She moved slowly away from me and started up to her bedroom. The tangy p
erfume covered me like a veil. I waited until she reached the upper landing and shut her bedroom door, then went up to my room. In the dusk, I put a desk chair in front of the bedroom door to keep anyone from coming in and held my new stockings high, dangling the silky legs like puppets. I tried them on and walked in grand arcs back and forth around my room. My legs felt cool and delicious and daring. I wondered what Anthony would think.

  The sun slid below the edge of the earth leaving a sky layered in purple and brown outside my bedroom window. The weeping birch tree in our driveway had dropped its leaves early. Vine-like threads hung straight down to the blacktop. I imagined Anthony standing in the driveway calling to me. I went down to him in my sheer stockings, feeling light and beautiful, and together we walked into the darkness like bathers wading in a warm sea.

  Chapter Eight

  The Closet

  I took the stockings off, hid them in my underwear drawer, and opened my jewelry box. Buried in a nest of silver bangles, I found a necklace with a Jewish star that Aunt Annette had given me on my eighth birthday. The star was the size of my thumbnail. I put it on and went down the hall to see who else was home.

  Robert’s door was shut. I knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  I opened the door. He sat on his bed reading a science fiction book. The yellow light in the fish tank flickered on the surface. Streams of bubbles exploded rhythmically.

  “Isn’t the air coming out too fast?” I pointed to the tank.

  “No.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Time Planets.” He held the book cover up for me to see. “It’s a series. There are twenty-two books. Twenty-two is a power number.”

  “Power for what?”

  “I’m on number one,” he said, ignoring my question. “I’m going to read two a week. In eleven weeks — eleven is another power number, by the way — I’m going to know everything about ancient numerology. Numbers have energy levels. I made a chart, see?” He pushed a piece of paper to the end of his bed. On it, he had written book one and a box ready to be checked off beside it.

  “So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have to stick to my schedule.”

  I went up to the third floor.

  Elliot looked puffier than ever. He lay on the floor on his elbows, cleaning his plastic animals with the bottom of his shirt and repositioning them on the windowsill that overlooked the backyard.

  “Has Peter been home?”

  He shook his head and went back to rubbing one of the elephant’s legs.

  Peter had started a rock band called The Symbols. The group had a drummer and bass guitar player. Peter played lead guitar and sang. During a practice session in his friend’s basement, Peter jumped off a chair singing a Rolling Stones song and fell on his ankle, causing a hairline fracture. In the last few weeks, he had been getting rides from friends, coming home later and later every day.

  I went back down to my room and started on homework: twenty-five math problems, an essay for English, French sentences on future tense. Downstairs a clatter of pots and dishes began but not from Dora’s hand. Dora was gone for two weeks to care for an ailing aunt. Mother had called a maid agency for a short-term replacement. Clarisse from Jamaica had gray hair, a quiet speaking voice and kind eyes. She moved with great deliberation and I quickly felt sorry for her bad luck. Had the agency warned her about my family? Would Dora return? In her absence I found myself missing her. What if she never came back like every other maid? Over the months, I’d grown used to her tough comments, her sharp eyes watching us. She paid attention to me.

  The kitchen door thumped shut.

  “Anybody home!” Father called out.

  I heard him go to the hall closet and hang up his coat. Mother walked past my door and went downstairs to join him, then called us down to dinner. Downstairs, the dining room shone. Clarisse had draped the table in white linen. Mother still looked sleepy. She held a glass of red wine and took a long sip, then sat down at her place at the table. Father put the wine bottle at his end and sat down.

  “Where’s Peter?” Father asked no one in particular. He looked toward the kitchen. Elliot and Robert shrugged.

  Clarisse came back into the room carrying a casserole dish of noodles and fish.

  “Set it down right here,” Mother said, gesturing to a spot in the middle of the table. “And would you get the children their milk?”

  Clarisse nodded and went back into the kitchen through the swinging door.

  “Monsieur Robert,” Father said, smiling. “Let’s hear about this new series of books you’re reading. Your mother told me.” Father dished a spoonful of the casserole onto a plate and waited for him to answer.

  “It’s about time.”

  “And what about time?” He smiled and looked at Elliot, then at me and then Mother.

  “It exists on twenty-two planes.”

  Clarisse came in holding two glasses of milk and placed them beside Elliot and Robert.

  “Next time you can bring out the glasses and pour at the table,” Mother instructed.

  Clarisse nodded and went out.

  “How many times have you told her that?” Father asked.

  I looked into my glazed china plate and saw a reflection of the ugly round chandelier hanging above. Appalled, again, by my father’s rudeness toward our maids, words kicked inside my head: get the stupid milk yourself!

  “Where’s Peter?” he asked again, lumping the casserole onto my plate. “He’s late.”

  “What’s this about time?” Mother asked Robert, repeating what Father just said. She sipped her wine, sensing a blow up I knew was coming.

  “We live on the third plane of time,” Robert said. “Our house exists in the third plane of time.”

  “Third?” Father asked. “Why not the fourth?”

  “That’s the way it is,” Robert said, irritated. “The first is before we’re born. The second is in the womb. The fourth is after we die.”

  The kitchen door opened and Peter walked in. His foot was healing but he still limped.

  “You’re late,” Father called to him.

  “My watch says six-oh-three,” Peter said, stripping off his jacket in the hallway. He wore a dungaree shirt and red bandana around his neck. His hair fell to his shoulders.

  “It’s six-twenty-three. You’ve been late every night this week.”

  “I’ve been busy.” My brother sat down in his chair and reached across the table for the casserole dish.

  “Don’t be fresh,” Father said.

  “You didn’t wash your hands, dear,” Mother said.

  “I got my first paying gig. That’s why I’m late.”

  “You could have managed that earlier. You’ll have another excuse tomorrow.”

  “It’s not an excuse. I’m not excusing myself. You don’t even care about my music. You should be congratulating me. But you don’t give a shit. All you care about is time!” He pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “What do you know about time?” Robert asked.

  “You sit down,” Father commanded.

  Peter laughed a bitter laugh as if he had made up his mind about something.

  “What’s fifteen-twenty minutes?” Peter said, raising his voice. “Nobody lives in such rigid time zones. It’s insanity.”

  “I said don’t be fresh with me, young man,” Father said, standing up. His face turned red. His eyes looked big as bowling balls. There would be no stopping him now.

  Peter stepped back and began to move away. “I’m going to my room. I’ll eat later.” He looked at Mother.

  I stared into the jumble of noodles and fish, to avoid the molecules that I knew would fly. Mr. Bingham’s theory couldn’t be entirely correct. In my house, things heating up made the volume of space decrease. I felt claustrophobic. I couldn’t breathe.

  “You’ll sit down and eat now!” Father thumped his fist on the table. “In fact, you’ll st
ay in for the weekend.”

  “Leonard, please.”

  Mother flinched and reached for her wine glass.

  Peter widened his eyes and looked up at the chandelier. “You can’t be serious,” he said, waving his hand.

  “Sit down!” Father yelled. “We’re not finished here.”

  “You’re not but I am.” Peter walked behind Mother and started for the first stair.

  “Get back here!” Father pushed out of his chair and charged toward Peter, catching his elbow. Peter twisted away. Father almost lost his balance and tripped backwards.

  “Don’t touch me,” Peter said. He started to climb the stairs again but Father lunged up and yanked Peter’s shirttail.

  “You listen to me, young man.”

  “You listen to me,” Peter shrieked. He shoved Father on the chest and Father fell onto the carpet. Robert wailed and charged around the fist of bodies, upstairs to his room. He slammed the door. Mother closed her eyes.

  “Leave me the hell alone,” Peter said, standing on the stairs. “I’m not a little boy anymore, understand me? I’m almost eighteen.”

  “Go. Go,” Father said waving a weak hand.

  Peter’s chest heaved. “I don’t have to pay for your failures, either,” he added. He turned away from Father and walked upstairs.

  Father nodded pathetically but didn’t speak. Slowly, he returned to his chair. Mother said nothing. Elliot tugged at his hands. I didn’t speak but I knew things would be different now. Peter had won. I felt oddly gleeful, inwardly cheering for Peter who I knew was plugged into his earphones by now, soaking in music, already far away upstairs.

  At the table, Father looked boneless and lost. I studied my lap until Father picked up his fork and resumed his meal. He took bite after bite of the casserole, chewing endlessly. Mother emptied her wine glass. Dinner was over when Father swallowed the last forkful, wiped his mouth, scrunched up his napkin and placed it beside his knife on the table.