Night Swimming

by Robin Schwarz

  It was nearing the end of Blossom’s season. She had fooled death, kept it from nipping at her heels so she could finish her unfinished business. But she wouldn’t kid herself. Hadn’t her mother thought she could beat it? And when she couldn’t, she had pumped herself full of false hope in the form of chemo. Blossom would not do that. But at least she had time to forgive. At least she had time to do the most important thing of all before the end came. She had time to love.

  As she made her way from one end of the pool to the other, a comforting resignation filled her entire being. It wasn’t fatigue or giving up or inevitability; it was a feeling of coming home, of belonging somewhere, of finally having a place in the heart.

  She swam for several more hours and did not tire. It was as if her own well-being kept company with her, lap after lap. How on earth, she wondered, could she remain so invigorated, so alive? Back and forth, back and forth she swam, cradled in the watery arms of the happy night, rocked to and fro in some hypnotic and infinite rhythm. And still she did not tire.

  When she finally lifted herself out of the pool and lay down on the cold grass, she understood. It was love that brought her here. Love that brought her the gift to forgive. How could she have tired? How do you tire of love?

  The next morning Blossom relaxed in the garden, reading poetry. Hidden under her big-brimmed straw hat, its silk tie blowing back in the breeze, she was surrounded by books: Theodore Roethke, Philip Levine, Maya Angelou, John Berryman, Graham Greene, John O’Hara, Ralph Waldo Emerson. She looked like something out of a Merchant Ivory film. The air was cool and silver, and the petaled tongues of the roses were drunk with morning dew.

  Wrapped in a towel, she leaned back and closed her eyes, thinking about nothing at all. It was so nice to be able to do that from time to time. She must have fallen asleep, because when she awoke, the sun had shifted in the sky. She didn’t even realize Skip was late for work until he showed up at noon.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Are you just arriving?”

  “Yeah. I had an appointment. Guess what?”

  “What?

  “I think I figured out what I’m going to do with my life.”

  “That’s all?” She laughed. “Tell me.”

  “Well, remember a long time ago, when we first met, I told you my dad and my grandfather were in construction?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “My fondest memory of my childhood was going with my father to the various sites and watching them move these giant blocks around like Legos. It seemed, out of nothing, something wonderful was emerging.”

  Blossom listened intently.

  “Did you know my grandfather helped build the new Pru and the Boston Public Library?”

  “No.”

  “And he worked on some other very impressive buildings. I realized that’s what truly interests me: architecture, construction, creating something wonderful where there once was nothing. Hell, it’s why I’m on the Protection and Betterment Committee in Venice. Venice is always going through some sort of structural change. It was so obvious, Blossom. It was right in front of my face for years and years. I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”

  Blossom thought about how Skip had viewed Jeannie. How something could be right in front of your eyes but you don’t see it. And then she thought about herself. How many times had she done the same thing?

  “So, I met with some old friends from Yale who have this very successful architecture firm. I’ve decided to go back to school and study architecture, Blossom. And you know what?” Skip continued excitedly. “I called my dad last night and told him. I had no idea what his reaction was going to be.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He cried; he said if my grandfather were still alive, he’d be as proud as my dad felt at that moment. And you know what else he said, which completely hit me from left of center?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘I never saw you doing that lawyer thing anyway.’ God, I had to laugh.”

  Blossom laughed, too. “I’m so happy for you, Skip.”

  “And this firm has offices all over the U.S. and Europe. It might give me a chance to start fresh, get away from California, Jeannie, all the stuff that’s happened to me this year. I gotta tell you, Blossom, I feel like I’ve had heavy iron chains unlocked from my ankles.”

  “Destiny, Skip. This is your destiny. I am so happy for you.” Blossom was tempted to tell him right then and there to look at the note she had tucked away in the secret compartment of the box. But she worried it was too soon.

  “When would you go?” she asked, barely able to contain her envy.

  “I don’t know. I have to apply to a couple of schools first. But that being said, I guess I would shoot for August. Either way, staying or going, August seems like a good time. It sets you up for September. No matter where I decide to go, I’d have time to find an apartment, get straightened out for fall enrollment. The firm is willing to pay me as I learn, sort of like an internship of sorts. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to survive.”

  She could clearly sense his new buoyancy. He floated just like Saturday’s balloon, light and happy and ready to take to the sky. August. It was July. That gave them a little time.

  “Let’s celebrate!” Skip exclaimed.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tonight I’ll take you out.”

  “Perfect.”

  He turned, making his way to the garden shed.

  “You see, Skip, everyone has a destiny, and you have found yours.”

  “I just might have, Blossom. I just might have.”

  Blossom picked up the book she’d been reading before she fell asleep. There was a poem that had accompanied her well into her dreams, and was still with her when she woke up, hovering just above her conversation with Skip. It reverberated with such a sense of truth. Caught in the inevitable passing of time, I must find my fate by not being afraid to find it. In short, “I learn by going where I have to go.”

  She had indeed felt her fate by overcoming the many fears that ran her down so many days and nights, and she had learned by going wherever her new life took her. She pondered this notion over and over till the small black letters of the poem floated off the page like birds lifting off a wire to begin their migration. Some birds would fly over four thousand miles to go where they had to go. We learn by going where we have to go. Me, Dolly, Skip, even the migrating birds. They, too, must find their way home season after season. Yes, if we’re lucky, we learn, and if we’re brave, we go.

  CHAPTER 54

  BONJOUR,”Skip said to the maître d’.

  “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous ce soir?”

  “Bien, merci. J’ai demandé une table prés de la fenetre. Est-elle libre?”

  “Absolument. Suivez-moi.”

  Skip could speak French? Why not? He was always so understated about his accomplishments. What else could he do that she had no idea about yet? Probably everything.

  Blossom loved hearing him speak French. She didn’t know what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Everything sounded better in French. You could tell someone to go to hell, and it would still sound wonderful.

  “Madame.” The maître d’ held out Blossom’s chair. She sat down.

  “Monsieur.” And Skip was seated.

  “Je vais appeler le garcon. Bon appetit.”

  “Merci.”

  “Wow, Skip, you speak so beautifully. Just like Maurice Chevalier.”

  “You flatter me. I had to learn a language in order to graduate from college. I had to work hard at it. Some people have a knack for it. Not me. And you?”

  “Pig latin, that’s my second language. Ipslay oopslay.” They both laughed.

  Blossom looked lovely. The pretty ivory dress with a low-slung neck flattered her figure. A simple diamond solitaire rested in the hollow of her throat. While she still felt shy about showing off her shape, she had dared just this once to wear a more revealing dress, which Doll
y swore looked fabulous. Her hair was gently pinned up, with a few tendrils falling around her face. The candlelight fell on her soft pink skin, making her look almost ethereal in the mahogany dark.

  “You look lovely,” Skip said.

  Blossom blushed. ‘‘Thank you. You do, too. I’ve never seen you all dolled up in a suit before. It makes you look very... handsome.” Sexy.

  “Really? I’m so not used to it. It makes me feel like I have an appointment with an arrogant agent. Working days.”

  “Oh, no, it’s perfect.” Here was a perfect segue to ask Skip all about his former clientele, but she didn’t care anymore. Funny.

  “I also like your necklace, Blossom—simple, yet very elegant. Did you just get it?”

  “No. It was the one thing my mother left to me when she died. It had belonged to my great-great-grandma. My mother kept it in her jewelry box. She never wore it—I didn’t even know she had it. She gave it to me on her deathbed, literally. It’s a solitaire, but as I watched her suffer, it filled a void of emotions crying inside me; I couldn’t help thinking of this diamond as a solid tear.”

  “You have such a way of turning something ordinary into poetry, like straw into gold. Who have I met as special as you, Blossom?”

  “Oh, many, I’m sure.”

  “Not true.”

  Skip picked up the wine list. “Red or white?”

  “White, I think.”

  “Good. A nice Pouilly Montrachet.”

  “But of course,” she giggled.

  He gave the wine steward their choice and settled back.

  “So, you must be excited, Skip.”

  “I’m happy. I’m finally moving forward toward something I have a genuine interest in. I feel so much better about this than I did about becoming a lawyer. As I told you, it was easy for me, so I took the road most traveled.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Regret? No. That’s a dead-end emotion. Every decision we make has its place. There’s always something to get out of it. If I stayed in law, if I had stayed with Jeannie, I would have had a job and a marriage I wasn’t comfortable in. I can just hear the clinking of silver now during dinner, in lieu of conversation. A country house with all my business partners visiting for the weekend and Jeannie entertaining up a storm. Putting chocolate shavings on the tiramisu. Or better, instructing the cook to. Jesus, she’d have loved that. I would have been discussing cases, stocks, the new Beemer just off the block, billings, and how Bucky J. Worthington managed to sneak in those Cuban cigars during his last trip. As you would say, ‘Just kill me now.’”

  They both laughed. “How do you know I say that?” Blossom asked.

  “I know.”

  “I have some regrets,” Blossom quietly admitted.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I waited until this year to take my life by the horns and go after what I wanted.”

  “But you’re doing it now.”

  “Yes,” Blossom said, thinking how late she’d come to it and how little time she had.

  The wine steward came over and showed Skip the bottle. He nodded. The steward opened it and poured a small amount into Skip’s glass. With his eyes closed, he swirled the cold, gold elixir and then took a sip. Again he nodded, and the steward filled both glasses.

  “I propose a toast,” Skip said.

  Blossom lifted her glass to his.

  “No regrets,” he said.

  She smiled. “No regrets,” and they clicked the crystal together like tiny silver cymbals, sealing it with a sip.

  Their hands brushed as they were toasting; Blossom blushed at the mere feel of it. The tiny touch was nothing, yet it held the impact of an embrace for her. She pulled away, taking a generous sip of wine in an effort to soothe her nerves. Then she searched for conversation to distract Skip from her obvious embarrassment.

  “Does Jeannie know you’re leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does she feel about it?”

  “She’s anxious to get our paperwork squared away regarding the divorce before I leave.”

  “Sentimental, isn’t she?”

  Skip smiled.

  “I have to look at it like this. When it was good, it was very, very good, and when it was bad . . .” He shrugged, unwilling to finish the thought. “No regrets,” he said again.

  “You know, ‘no regrets’ is a good philosophy if you can do it. Sometimes it’s just too hard to move on. Sometimes you carry the pain or the loss around with you like excess luggage.”

  “It sounds like you know something about that.”

  “I do, but I’ve worked hard this year to put that in back of me. And for the most part, I have. As you say, no regrets.”

  They brought their glasses together again.

  “Are you happy now?”

  “Happy? That’s a funny word. I’m smarter, freer, more accepting. And that makes me happy. But I could still be happier.”

  “How?”

  Blossom didn’t want to say she longed for intimacy, love with a significant other before she died, the very same thing she had wanted so many months ago. It seemed odd to say this to Skip. She didn’t want him to feel it was directed toward him, didn’t want to do anything to make this wonderful dinner become awkward.

  “How?” she repeated, stalling, searching for an appropriate answer. At this point the waiter came over.

  Thank God.

  “Our specials this evening are blah, blah, blah. Blossom wasn’t listening. She was thinking about her answer. She still believed it was okay for her to desire this connection. She didn’t want love to save her, but to add to what was already good. It had taken her many months and hard lessons to find her center. She didn’t want pity. Just to love a man and have a man love her. This was nothing to apologize for or feel weak or needy about. It just was. And that was fine. In fact, it was as it should be. Men and women needed each other. Of that she was sure.

  “Blossom?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “May I make a suggestion this evening?” She suddenly got uneasy. Was he reading her mind? What possible suggestion was he about to make? Oh, God. “Sure. What’s your suggestion?”

  “Escalopes de Bar aux huitres.”

  Jesus, thank you, God. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.” She paused. “It’s not frogs’ legs, is it?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Good. It’d be like eating leftovers from science class.

  “Rabbit?” she asked fearfully.

  “No, it’s striped bass. You’ll love it.” “Good.” Because frogs’ legs would be a breeze compared to the Easter

  bunny.

  He handed the waiter the menus.

  “So, are you seeing anyone?”

  “Me?” Blossom giggled to cover her nervousness. “No.”

  “You laugh.”

  “A little.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you looked at yourself lately?”

  Blossom blushed.

  “I’m serious. Have you?”

  “No—yes...I don’t know.”

  “You’re transformed. And it’s not just the weight you’ve lost. Of course, that’s an obvious change, but it’s other things, Blossom. You’ve just...I don’t know, emerged.”

  “Thank you, Skip.” She paused. “Skip?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you promise me something?”

  “Yeah, sure. What?”

  “This might sound like a strange request, but it would mean a lot to me.”

  “Sure, anything. What?”

  “When you go to... wherever you end up...”

  “Stay in touch?” he interrupted.

  “No. When you go, will you take the present I gave you?”

  “The box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course. I was going to take it anyway.”

  “Good. Just something to remember me by.”

  “You think I’m going t
o forget you?”

  “No, but it would make me happy if you had it with you.”

  “No worries. I’ll definitely bring that with me, Blossom.”

  “Good, good.”

  “You will come and visit, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Blossom lied. She wanted this evening to be perfect.

  “Anyway, let’s not talk about endings tonight. There’s a whole month left. You still have your list?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What else is on it?”

  But at that moment she was distracted by the sight of Gene Hackman being escorted past them, to his table. She sat there open-mouthed.

  “What?” Skip asked, looking around. “Gene Hackman? Is that who you’re looking at?”

  “Skip, this is unbelievable. Ever since I came to Hollywood, I’ve only seen one celebrity. Gene Hackman. This is my fifth or sixth time seeing Gene Hackman. You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think there are only a handful of actors in Hollywood, and they all play Gene Hackman.”

  Skip laughed. “It’s true. He does do a lot of movies. Maybe too many for one man. I bet he’s eating somewhere else at this very moment.”

  “You kid. I’m telling you, he’s been cloned.”

  Gene Hackman looked over toward Blossom’s table. She looked down, afraid of being caught gawking. Skip gave him a little wave.

  “Skip,” Blossom whispered.

  “What?”

  “Don’t wave.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause he’ll think we’re stalkers. One of those weird fans that breaks into your house, goes through your underwear drawer, tries on your red panties, and waits until the owner comes home to kill him.”

  “Jesus, Blossom, where on earth do you come up with these things?”

  “Movies.”

  Skip started to make ridiculous faces at the table where Hackman was sitting. He stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes, scrunched his face.

  “Jesus, Skip, what are you doing?”

  Skip laughed again. “Look.”

  Blossom turned slowly, self-consciously. He wasn’t there. He had gone to the men’s room. Thank God.