Night Swimming

by Robin Schwarz

  “So, where were we? Oh, yes, I was asking you what else was on that list of yours.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Blossom said coyly.

  “Any biggies? I don’t want to be left out of any biggies.”

  Oh, if only Skip knew. Her last and most important wish, desire, whatever she called it, was to tell Skip how she felt about him. She blushed again.

  “There is a biggie! What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t, Skip.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Okay. Don’t tell me.” He paused, then continued, “Can I guess?”

  “No.”

  “Oooo, it’s killing me. Can you tell me another time?”

  “Yes.”

  Skip was surprised. He was sure Blossom would say no, tell him to stop asking.

  “Yes? Well, that’s progress. When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, give me an idea.”

  “When do you leave for your new job?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking around August fifteenth. I can start looking for work and for an apartment. School would begin in September some time. So I guess around August fifteenth.”

  “Then I’ll tell you August fourteenth.”

  “But you’re going to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goody. I love secrets. So what did I say to get you to change your mind and tell me?”

  Blossom leaned in close to Skip, her mother’s last words pounding in her heart.

  “Because I want no regrets.”

  CHAPTER 55

  BLOSSOM LOOKED FOR WRAPPING PAPER. She had worked on finding just the right present for Dolly for so long, and was thrilled that she had come up with something. It had been hard; Dolly was already rich in books and paintings and friends, rich in money and collections and antiques. What did she need? Nothing. What could she use more of? That was easy. She had taught Blossom what everyone could use more of: love. So she slowly put her gift together with love in mind.

  She wrapped it up carefully in bright red foil, crowning it with a glossy gold bow, and headed to Dolly’s, where her friend was expecting her for breakfast. Jigsy and Pip greeted her at the door.

  “Hello, sweeties,” she said, scratching them both behind the ears while opening and knocking on the door at the same time.

  “Well, hello, yourself,” Dolly greeted Blossom, just behind the dogs.

  “I’m starved,” Blossom announced.

  “You look it. What are you weighing in at these days?”

  “One hundred and twenty-five.”

  “That’s incredible. You could do a Subway commercial.”

  “A Subway commercial?”

  “Yeah, remember that guy Jack, or John, or whatever his name was? Anyway, he was a whale and then he started eating Subway sandwiches—I think he ate roast beef subs for a year—and lost, like, two hundred and forty-five pounds. Now he’s the spokesperson for Subway.”

  “Darn. All those endorsement opportunities, and they’ve slipped through my fingers. Anyway, I’d have to do mine for aqua pool paint or chlorine additives.”

  “Well, come in and have some lox and bagels, and we’ll think of another way to make millions. Of course,” she continued, “we could always make money the old-fashioned way. We could steal it.”

  “Dolly, no one’s supposed to know that. Shhhh.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  They walked into Dolly’s dining area. She always felt as if she were visiting the queen when she came over to Dolly’s apartment. Her walls were covered with tapestries and paintings. A long marble table supported an old pristine silver set bookended by Victorian candlesticks. As usual, the rooms were filled with fresh roses. Roses everywhere, relinquishing their scents, but not their secrets.

  “Tell me, Dolly, why is it that you always have roses and no other flowers? Is it because that was Mr. Feingold’s favorite flower?”

  “Well, that’s part of it, darling, but there’s more to it than that. I think that a rose is the most perfect gift God gave us. Can you imagine that this beautiful color and shape and fragrance emerges from nothing at all? It just one day appears out of the earth to make

  you happy.”

  “They are beautiful.”

  “I’ll tell you a little story that I believe sums up the rose. There is a place in Spain—Barcelona—that runs a poetry contest. For the poem that is selected for third place, the writer is given a silver rose; the second prize is a gold rose; but the first prize, the prize for the very best poem of all, is a real rose.”

  Blossom sat silent for a moment. “Dolly, that’s the most wonderful story I’ve ever heard. I will never look at roses the same way again.”

  “And isn’t this the year you’ve stopped to smell them?”

  Both women giggled. “That it is.”

  “You seem in an especially good mood today, Dolly.”

  Dolly blushed.

  “Okay, tell me, I know there’s something,” Blossom teased.

  “Well, there is something,” Dolly confided.

  “What?” Blossom was bursting with curiosity.

  “Dr. Cohen asked me to dinner.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you going?”

  “Well, I was nervous to say yes at first. And then, of course, I began thinking of Mr. Feingold. But I thought, he would have wanted me to do this.”

  “So...?”

  “So...I said yes.”

  Blossom jumped up and did what looked like the happy dance around the dining room table. “Dolly has a boyfriend; Dolly has a boyfriend.”

  “Hush, Blossom,” she said, embarrassed. “I do not. I have a dinner engagement.”

  “Dolly, I couldn’t be happier for you. You deserve this more than anyone I know.”

  “It’s just dinner.”

  “Sure, and pigs fly,” Blossom said, reiterating the same phrase she had used when Dolly first downplayed her crush on Dr. Cohen. “Well, the timing couldn’t be better. It just so happens that I have a present for you, Dolly—something you might want to wear on your date.”

  Blossom pulled the gift out of her bag.

  “Well, well, well, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Truth is, I’ve been wanting to get you a present for a long time, but I had to wait until I found just the right treasures. Do you mind if we open it after breakfast?”

  “I have to wait till after breakfast?”

  “Well, I don’t want to get too sidetracked....I have to ask you something, Dolly. A special favor.”

  “Ask away, darling, but pass the capers.”

  “I bought a plot at the Westwood Village Memorial Park and Mortuary. Marilyn Monroe is buried there in the corridor of memories, number twenty-four.”

  “Oh, goody. I can visit both of you. Really, Blossom, must you be so morbid before coffee?”

  “I have to think about this.”

  “What you need to think about, Blossom, is getting another opinion from a good doctor.”

  “Dolly!”

  “What?”

  “I need to make sure that someone gets me to it when I die. Someone has to know who I am and where I’m going. I need you to do that. I hate to ask you, but I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “I will do whatever you want if you do something for me: Get a second opinion.”

  “Why? Dr. Jennings said it point-blank. I had a year to live.”

  “If you don’t make this deal with me, then you’re gonna be ripening in your apartment for weeks. And then whoever finds you won’t know what to do. Cremate you, perhaps? Then you’ll end up inside an empty Ronzoni tomato sauce jar. Ever see those jars? Not roomy. And worse, I knew a guy who used to
tap his cigar ashes into his boyfriend’s urn.”

  “Jesus, that’s horrible. Whatever possessed him to do something that awful?”

  “He wanted their mutual friends to think Otto was even fatter than they remembered. So, I’m just saying Blossom, you can face that dreary scenario or you can finally see a doctor.”

  “Okay, okay already. I’ll see a doctor.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that the closer you get to D-day, the better you look and feel?”

  “I’ve been meditating.”

  “Oh, please, Blossom. I’m making an appointment today.”

  “Wait, Dolly, make it for August sixteenth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Skip will be gone by then. I just want to say good-bye without having to think about this other stuff. I want to enjoy this time.”

  Dolly hesitated and finally acquiesced. “Okay. I’m not happy, but okay.... Are you coming to the hospital with us today?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll come over at one-thirty so we can go together. But first, I have one more request.”

  “You know the house limit. Only one request a day if it has to do with burials or cremations, and two if it’s something normal like ‘watch the dogs for me this afternoon,’ or ‘pick up a couple of chickens at the market if you’re going that way.’”

  “Come on, Dolly, I’m serious.”

  “Me, too!... Okay, what?”

  Blossom handed Dolly a bag full of cash. “Now, when I die, I want you to hire a new wizard to continue visiting the children. You can pay whoever it is with this. I don’t want those kids left high and dry. Can you do this, Dolly?”

  “Jesus, Blossom, you are getting weirder and weirder.” Dolly pushed the money back.

  “Take it!” Blossom insisted.

  “You want me to do this for you?” Dolly threatened.

  “Okay, okay,” Blossom said, retrieving the money. “Thank you.” She reached over to squeeze Dolly’s hand.

  “You’re welcome. Now can I open my present?”

  Dolly opened it up with abandon. Out came the most beautiful charm bracelet she had ever seen. But this was no ordinary charm bracelet. This bracelet was thick with charms that had special meaning to Dolly only. Two sterling silver dogs—a bulldog and a French briard—a little silver invitation to a dog party; Dolly’s initials in white gold; a heart with Love inscribed on it; a tiny bottle of brandy; a replica of her husband’s boat, the one that Dolly and Mr. Feingold had spent so many hours on; and finally, a dozen tiny sterling silver roses.

  Dolly was speechless. Tears filled her eyes as she tried to talk. Nothing came out. Blossom broke the silence.

  “You taught me all about this, Dolly. I am only returning a gift that you have given to me many, many times. So thank you.”

  Dolly got up and hugged Blossom, trying to clear the knot in her throat. “I don’t know what to say, and you know that’s very unusual for me. I will hold this gift close to my heart. Will you put it on me now?”

  Blossom attached the clasp, and Dolly jingled it down to her wrist.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Absolutely perfect. I’ll think of you every time I wear it, which means I’ll think of you often.”

  And then she hugged Blossom with all the intensity of a life well lived. Dolly wasn’t eighty-two; Dolly was ageless.

  CHAPTER 56

  THERE WAS A LIGHT DRIZZLE in the air as Blossom walked down to the water. The evening looked blurred behind its wet veil. She was tired tonight. She sat at the edge of the pool for a few minutes before going in. As she stared at the water, a thought worked its way into the front of her mind: Some men die with their music still in them.

  She’d read these words recently, although she couldn’t remember where. She’d read so many books lately. It could have been in one that told her how to live, or one that told her how to die, or how to beat the odds, or how to understand God, or how to meditate yourself to wellness. Perhaps it came from one of Mr. Feingold’s borrowed books. Wherever she read it, the sentence had stayed with her.

  It was the saddest thing she’d ever read. But hadn’t this year been all about finding her music? Yes, it had. If she had stayed in Gorham, she would have died with her music still in her. No matter what, that was no longer true. She wished she had longer to live so that she could make more music. But at least she had gotten to sing, and at least she had been heard. Life could always be more and better. That was simply life.

  She slid into the water and began. Back and forth. Back and forth, swimming with the grace of a ray, fanning out her arms with a wide undulating ease. She could feel the hair on her shoulders, the straps along her back, the water rushing through her fingers. Everything had a heightened awareness this evening, as if another unseen layer had been peeled back and exposed the raw skin of her new perceptions. The water felt good, like a salve, but then, it always did.

  Back and forth, back and forth she went, like a tireless wave curling toward two opposite shores. She thought about how we are here for only the blink of an eye and then gone, and how we try to make sense out of that, out of all of that. Not just she, but everyone.

  And how poets and painters try to crystallize that reality into something immortal so that they might be able to live forever in some way. And perhaps they do. But not really, Blossom thought.

  We are here, we do our thing, and then it’s over. That’s how Blossom understood the idea of love. Love was poetry in its purest form. It existed when it did, and there was nothing that could match its truth, its mystifying magnetism, its unequaled emotion. Love was a perfectly written sentence without using language, an exquisite blend of music without using sound, an unparalleled array of visual harmony without using color. You created it, and it was there to have and to hold without your ever actually being able to see it. It just was.

  The pool lights shut off automatically at midnight, but Blossom continued swimming. The drizzle had subsided and pulled its curtain back to reveal a clear night sky. She floated on her back, finding the seven sisters, the Big Dipper, Venus.

  A sudden swish in the grass startled her, and she dipped down low in the water. She could make out a pair of work boots trudging across the wet lawn. Whoever it was, was walking toward her, deliberately but slowly, trying to find his way in the dark. It wasn’t until he was at the pool that Blossom could see who it was.

  “Skip!”

  He jumped.

  “Jesus, Blossom, you scared the hell out of me! What are you doing in the pool so late?”

  “I like to swim at night. What are you doing here so late?”

  “I was getting my tools out of the shed. I was working on something and I didn’t have the right tools at home, so I had to stop. Then I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come over and get the stuff I needed.”

  Blossom rose out of the pool and wrapped her body in a towel. Skip had finally seen her in a bathing suit. She was grateful it was night, but in Blossom’s mind this was still a personal milestone.

  “Do you want to come in for coffee or anything?”

  “No, it’s late. I think I’ll just pick up what I need. So this is when you swim?”

  “Yeah, I really like it. It’s quiet, and the pool is just sort of... healing. It clears my head. I go back and forth... get lost in my thoughts.”

  Skip looked at the sky. “And you get to see stars. It’s so dark here. I hardly ever see stars where I am. Once in a while, but generally there are too many lights on.”

  “Yeah, I get to see stars. But you know what? I think I honestly prefer the morning sky to the nighttime sky.”

  “Why?”

  Blossom walked with Skip toward the shed. “Because the nighttime sky is all about yesterday. The light that you’re seeing from the stars happened millions of years ago. Looking at the night sky is like looking at the past. But the morning sky, on the other hand, is right now. It is in the present and holds the hope of a brand-new day and so many new opportunities—to live, to be happy.”
To love.

  “Hmmm, I never thought about it like that. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your door.”

  They cut across the damp grass toward the gate and made their way up the circular staircase. The lights were off in Dolly’s apartment, but not because she was asleep. It was because she wasn’t home, and Blossom wanted to share this wonderful secret with Skip.

  “Dolly is seeing someone.”

  “What?” Skip asked. He had no context for the comment and was completely confused.

  “Yeah, she has a boyfriend.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m so happy for her.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A doctor from the hospital she volunteers at. At first he invited her to dinner, and then bam, just like that, he had invited her to his house in Palm Springs. That’s where she is now.”

  “Wow. And a doctor, no less.” Skip smiled.

  “Or as Dolly puts it, ‘a heart man.’ ”

  “A heart man. That has a certain parallelism to it.” Now both of them smiled.

  “Oh, by the way, Skip, about the stars . . .” Blossom said, returning to their original conversation. “One thing remains true about them.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We can still wish upon them.” And with that she said good night and closed her door. Skip wished she had stayed there for just a moment longer. A twinge of something having slipped away crossed over him like an unexpected chill. She, on the other hand, resisted the urge to look through the peephole and watch him leave. If she had, she would have seen him standing there for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER 57

  BLOSSOM SAT ON THE CHAISE LONGUE by the pool, in her bathing suit. Skip was mowing the lawn on the far side of the courtyard. The sun shone down on her like a spotlight, but she was unconcerned. Another milestone. The motor coughed off, and Blossom looked up to see Jeannie opening the gate, holding a large envelope. Blossom watched her, and she watched Skip watching Jeannie, saw the deep breath he took as she approached. It occurred to Blossom that Jeannie never came through those gates without holding some sort of large envelope.

  She heard Jeannie say something to Skip about needing his signature, and she heard Skip say something about having a pen in the shed. Jeannie followed him, and they were in the shed for about twenty minutes. Blossom assumed he was carefully reading the final papers she’d brought, and that his lawyerly training would make him review everything twice before dotting every i and crossing every t. Finally, they emerged. Blossom lifted her book quicky, as if she were thoroughly engrossed, but they were walking her way. Oh, God. You never get a break, Blossom. Never.