Richard and Gerald descended into the pool, stopping on each step to adjust to the water. Finally, pushing their chests forward, they waded in the rest of the way. The water rose to Gerald’s chin.
As he touched the water with his foot, George realized why they had entered slowly. The water was scalding. He didn’t see how anyone could bear it. But he could not back away from the challenge. He forced himself down the steps, exhaling as the water covered his stomach and chest. In pain, he looked at his brother. Gerald, however, seemed oblivious to anyone else’s presence. The ends of his drooping moustache lifted in a tranquil, beatific smile. His plump cheeks looked even rounder. Gerald submerged himself in the steaming water, curling his body, arms to the side and front, floating in a posture sailors are taught to assume if lost at sea. Like a huge jellyfish, he floated without movement or tension. His head came up; the creature breathed; the head sank once more.
A vase of flowers and an orange rested in a niche in the wall. Richard was staring at the flowers and the orange, breathing deeply, as if in prayer or meditation.
George was feeling such an intense heat that he imagined his bodily fluids were coming to a boil. Weakness and nausea swept over him. He wobbled in the water. He admired the woman lying on her back, her knees in the air. He stared at her glistening breasts. He thought that he had never seen such a beautiful woman.
He thought his body might soon adjust to the water, but he felt dizzier as the moments passed. His ears pounded. The flowers in the niche in the wall were brilliant. He shut his eyes, but he could still see the flowers. He could see each petal separately. He parted the flowers. He was looking through the flowers at a cool pool in a hidden forest. The blonde woman knelt beside the pool, smiling at him, beckoning. She held forth a bright, luscious orange.
As his face fell into the hot water, his body reacted in panic. His heart pounding, George splashed to the steps and dashed upward, out of the steamy cavern-like room, into the cool night air.
At breakfast in the dining hall the next day, Richard informed George that he had had a mystical experience. George had never had a mystical experience before, so he wasn’t sure. But he was intrigued by the idea.
Mrs. Brady had boycotted breakfast and was moping in her room. Gerald toyed with his oatmeal and seemed anxious to leave the dining hall. George had grown accustomed to his silence and wished some of his students back in Iowa would undergo this approach to self-discovery.
Richard and Gerald returned to the baths and George brought his mother coffee and a roll. She was still in her nightgown, her hair disheveled. George had seldom seen her looking so depressed, but she accepted the coffee and roll. She sat at the desk, nibbling and swallowing coffee.
“You know, Mother. I don’t think our being here is helping. I think it’s Gerald’s decision.”
She chewed vigorously, flecks of roll gathering on her lip. She pushed her plate away. “Well, what should we do? Should we just forget him? Should we just let him rot in this madhouse? Or should we commit him in a real madhouse? That’s what Sharon wants to do with him. Maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s gone bug nutty. Maybe he belongs here. This is about as crazy as it gets.”
“Don’t fly off the handle.”
“Okay, mister, let’s just forget him. Let’s just let him rot. If that’s what he wants, okay.” She stood up and looked for something to throw. She rooted through her suitcase and flung clothing about the room. “The hell with him. Let him rot. He won’t talk to us; we won’t talk to him. Okay, by gum, okay. That’s what he wants; that’s what we’ll give him. The next time we see him, let’s don’t say a single solitary word. Let’s pretend like he doesn’t exist. We’ll see how he likes that. We’ll lock him up. Okay, let’s lock him up!” She flung her clothing against the walls, up at the ceiling. George told his mother to calm down. She kept throwing the clothing.
“I’m mad now!” she shouted. “Now I’m mad!”
“If you don’t calm down, I’m leaving.”
George ducked out the door as she threw a girdle at him.
George wandered the forested mountain trails. Green-golden light fell through the Ponderosa pines. He felt he could walk forever. He puffed hard as he climbed steep paths, and breathed deeply and stared in silence as he came to points where he looked out on the blue ridges of distant mountain ranges.
He supposed he should agree with his mother. He supposed that it was terrible that Gerald had left his family, but he couldn’t help thinking that Gerald and Sharon usually seemed irritated with each other, and that their three kids were whiny and demanding.
He couldn’t help thinking that Gerald was having a wonderful time. What an existence! Floating in a pool, not a care in the world, not even having to speak to anyone. Why did he, George, have to go back to a freezing winter to face feisty and petulant eighth graders? Not to mention their parents and the paranoid school administration. How pleasant it would be to stay here and take baths and hike the trails and let the answers to life slowly unfold to him. And if the answers took years to unfold, so much the better. There was, of course, the problem with money. He could not afford to stay for very long, and after a few weeks he would undoubtedly be booted out, penniless, having achieved only a partial unfolding.
In the afternoon, he returned to the baths. This time, only slightly self-conscious of his slender, pale body, he stripped and joined Richard and Gerald in the warm bath. In the sunlight the baths seemed more casual, less mysterious. There were no intimate embraces, no Arapaho cleansings taking place.
Richard chatted for a few minutes, mentioning that he suspected Mrs. Brady ate too much red meat. It tended to make one inflexible, he said. He floated away and left George alone with his silent brother.
Gerald looked as if he wanted to talk. He opened his mouth and shrugged his round shoulders. George looked into his brother’s face. Was Gerald crazy? George did not think he saw insanity there. What did Gerald want to tell him? What had gone wrong in Gerald’s life? George realized he had never really talked to his brother before. Not talked to him in any close, confiding way. Naked, in the bath next to him, it seemed suddenly possible.
“Was it so awful out there, Gerald? I’m not blaming you, you know. It’s just that we’d like to be able to tell Sharon something. Do you plan to go back? I guess you don’t know, do you?”
George found it easy to talk to someone who did not talk back, who only listened. It was almost like talking into a mirror. “I certainly know something’s missing in my life, Gerald. I know that. I’m not sure what it is. I’m afraid I’ve never been very spiritual. I’ve always been very careful. I sort of believe in some kind of God, but I don’t even usually have the time to stop and think about it, or if I do I get depressed. I’m afraid my spiritual essence is all blocked up.”
Gerald’s face strained. His lip quivered. The serene expression that had been there the day before had faded. George was looking into a troubled face.
Richard floated back. “His life was dead back there, George.” He squeezed George’s shoulder. “Most people’s lives are dead.”
“What about yours?” George asked, shaking the hand off his shoulder.
“I’m a happy man, George,” Richard said. “I really am a happy man.”
And it seemed true. George had seldom met people who struck him as truly happy, but Richard looked and acted like a happy man.
“People don’t have to live dead, boring lives.” As if to prove it, Richard added, “This afternoon I’m going up in a hot air balloon!” His voice rose as if he were already sailing.
“Oh, my God,” George said. “Mother.”
She was wearing sunglasses that hid most of her face. She wore a skirted swimming suit. The skirt dropped almost to her knees. She frowned at them and sat on the edge of the pool and adjusted the skirt beneath her thighs. She dangled her feet in the water and kicked slowly.
George called, “Why don’t you get in?”
“Is it chlorinated?”
Richard laughed. “Mrs. Brady, these waters have natural healing properties because of the magnesium content. We once lowered a woman in a wheelchair into the water and she climbed out and took off running.”
Mrs. Brady frowned. After a few minutes she eased herself into the water, but she did not approach them. She stood with her back against the side of the pool, looking out through her dark glasses.
George waded over to his mother. “I’m glad you decided to join us. It shows tremendous courage.”
An elderly man with crinkled skin, loose chest muscles, and drooping buttocks gingerly pigeon-toed his way to the pool. Mrs. Brady’s eyes followed him. “What’s he got to show off?”
George laughed. “I’m glad you’re getting your sense of humor back.”
She took off her glasses and laid them alongside the pool. George saw that her eyes were red and puffy. She headed toward Gerald, treading water with her arms like an explorer fording an African stream.
Gerald’s moustache drooped a notch lower as she drew near.
“I’m not going to interfere,” she said. “I’m not going to argue. I’m going to mind my own business. I just want you to know that Sharon may try to have you committed.”
Gerald’s face grew stern and stubborn. His tongue pushed against his cheek. Richard hovered at his side. “I really must insist you quit harassing him.”
“You may be enjoying yourself now, but I know you’re not the kind of man who can forget his family. You can stay in the water all day, but your problems are still going to be waiting for you when you get out. If you need spiritual help, your own church is the place to start looking.”
“Cadillacs, rosaries, and pass the collection plate,” Richard said.
“Would you shut up?” Mrs. Brady shouted at him. “You just shut up, you! I’m on to you, Gerald. I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I don’t think you give two hoots about spiritual essence. I think you’ve just got weak and lazy.” Her voice cracked and wheezed. “You’re a good man. I know you are. These people will use you. They’ll take all your hard-earned money.”
“My god, you’re a crazy old bitch,” Richard hissed. “I’m trying to save his life!”
Gerald spun away. With choppy strokes he swam across the pool. He climbed out. Head down, plump buttocks jiggling, he hastened through the doorway into the stone temple that contained the hot pool.
“I’ve been very tolerant until now,” Richard said, “but now I want you off the grounds. You’re ruining all my work.” He bounced away through the water in pursuit of Gerald.
“Come on, George,” his mother said. She climbed out of the pool and marched toward the temple, feet slapping wetly on the tile.
“Mother?” George pleaded, but he followed her through the doorway.
She stood beside the pool, hands on her hips, staring down on her son. He was floating on the water in his shipwrecked sailor’s pose, head rising for air. In the stillness Mrs. Brady’s voice rang out: “You may think I’m a stupid old lady, but I know this. Every day you hide out here is going to make it that much harder to come back into the real world.”
Richard looked as if she had fired a gun. He pointed to a sign embedded in the rock wall. The sign read: please maintain silence in this holy temple.
George could hear his mother’s heavy breathing. She looked from the sign to Richard, who was standing indignantly in the pool, and at Gerald, still bobbing up and down. It seemed to George that his mother was going to turn and flee. “This isn’t a temple,” she said. “This is a swimming pool.”
She aimed her words at Gerald though he was submerged in the water. “I can’t believe you’d leave your wife and children for a swimming pool. Holy, holy, holy, baloney. God helps us with our lives. He doesn’t want us to quit life and float around naked all the time. What if the saints had floated round naked? Where would we be? This isn’t religion; it’s selfishness.”
Richard tried to shush her; he put his finger to his lips. He cupped his ears with his hands.
Mrs. Brady’s wheezing grew. In the steamy, vaporous room she seemed witch-like, her gray hair disheveled, her skirted swimming suit absurd, her voice crowing, halting, gasping for air; she seemed to George magnificent.
“This isn’t the Gerald I know. This isn’t the Gerald who drove ninety miles an hour to the hospital when his son fell out of a tree. I wonder what Jake . . .” She broke off, coughing, patted herself on the chest. “I wonder what Jake thinks now. This isn’t the Gerald who takes his family to Yosemite every summer, builds the fire, sets up the tent, puts . . .” She wheezed. “Puts the food in the trees so the bears don’t get it.” She stamped her foot to bring her breath back. George took her arm and tried to lead her away. She batted at him to leave her alone. As Gerald bobbed up, she shouted, “This Gerald would let the bears eat all the food!” Gerald dove under. “This Gerald is a seal.” She pretended to be taking peanuts from a bag and tossed them to him as he bobbed up and down. “You’re unfolding into a seal, that’s what you’re unfolding into. A foolish, childish seal. A good-for-nothing seal. An irresponsible, selfish seal. I know you hear me, Gerald. Gerald, do you hear me? You are not a seal, Gerald. You may want to be a seal, but you are not. You are not—”
Gerald’s head rose from the water. “Shut up, Mother.” He stood up and pulled at his ears to clear the water from them.
“Gerald,” Richard warned.
Gerald trudged up the pool steps and walked to his mother. Exhausted from her speech, Mrs. Brady was breathing hard. Gerald put his arms round her. She draped her arm round his waist. “Why didn’t you bring your inhaler, Mother?” he asked. He led her to the temple door. Turning back to look at Richard, whose face was now fierce with anger, Gerald said, “I miss them.”
As Gerald walked out of the temple, George watched Richard’s look of fury transform itself into an expression of awe. “Fantastic,” he said to George, “this unfolding.”
George looked at him uncomprehending.
Richard continued. “Now he’s ready to appreciate his home. I’m so glad I was able to help.” He held out his palms to George. “But you, George,” he said solemnly, “you’ll be staying. We have progress to make.”
As George hurried out the door, Richard called, “George! Le tu so! Encounter true life! True life, George!”
Escaping into the sunlight, George walked on trembling legs past the warm pool, where he caught sight once again of the beautiful blonde. She smiled at him from the water. Was it a message? An invitation? Could they share some glorious union?
Mrs. Brady and Gerald were going down the steps that led to the dressing room, but Mrs. Brady turned back and seemed to notice for the first time that George was naked. “My God, George! Get some clothes on.” She threw him a towel. As he hesitated, his mother cried, “George, don’t be a traitor.”
His mother disappeared down the steps, and George stood, towel in hand. The woman was no longer smiling at him, but was looking at him curiously. It seemed to George that all the faces in the pool were now looking at him in this curious, shy way, as if he were a stranger from a foreign land and they were trying to determine how to help him.
“What is your name?” he asked the woman, startled to hear his own voice. He was even more startled when she replied, “Heather.”
He nodded, wrapped the towel round his waist. “I’ll call you,” he said. He hurried away. He felt she was watching him to observe his progress.
THE YELLOW HOUSE
I tote our one-year-old boy over my shoulder as Peter, our realtor, leads our small family down the short hallway of the little yellow house. Peter’s from England, though his accent has softened from years in the States, and until recently he’s been as cheery and tactful and deferential as one often pictures the British. With our finan
ces, most of the houses we qualified for were dumps, and Peter discouraged us from many of them: “Wouldn’t feel quite right letting you buy this one . . . not really the right thing for you . . . not right for the baby . . .”
But at last he’s found a nice, if modest, house we can just afford. He’s brought us back for a second visit; my wife’s already convinced, but he’s developed a metallic edge in his voice because I won’t make up my mind.
He pauses in the hallway to rap on the wall. “Sturdy,” he says proudly. “I know how you feel about sturdy walls, Frank.” (Not my real name, but he has been mistakenly calling me Frank for so many weeks now that I have come to enjoy being called this.)
He knocks again and I think I detect a fragile sound in the woodwork. My thoughts again drift to Mexico; our hard-earned dollars would stretch far if we lived in a palapa on the Pacific coast.
“This is your man, Frank. I say go for it.”
I jiggle the baby in my arms. “What do you think, Tolstoy?” (Not his real name, but he has come to enjoy being called this.) “Do you think you’d be happy here?”
“Bah.” He widens his blue eyes and lets drool seep over his lip onto the lapel of my windbreaker.
“I appreciate your candor, Tolstoy. Stick to renting. Let someone else fix the furnace.”
“Oh knock it off,” my wife says, chuckling from behind us. “You know you like the house.”
My wife is a husky blonde with a kind, oval face. She is also a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and while I trust she would never dislocate my kneecap with a front snap kick, break my ribs, or cause me any other harm, she makes me uneasy when her left shoulder dips and stiffens as it does now. She’s had it with the cramped apartments we’ve lived in for years, tired of moving from city to city, state to state. Now that we have the baby it’s time to stop our drifting, time to settle down. I know she’s right, but my spirits sag in this pleasant enough neighborhood of small ranch homes and faded lawns. I can’t help yearning to run with the bulls in Mexico one last time, one last time to run free.
A Night at the Y Page 5
