Swimming with Bridgeport Girls

by Anthony Tambakis

  “You gonna tell me what’s on your mind?” she said.

  I wanted to tell her about Howie. About how there’s not much good I remember from when I was a kid, except for building model rockets with Howie Rose, and how he always carried a Swiss Army knife and would cut any candy he had in half and give it to you without you even asking. I wanted to say that. And tell her that I had never gone back to see him after that first time, even though he was my best friend, and how I’d avoided eye contact whenever I would see his father around the neighborhood. I couldn’t tell her those things, though, because I had already lied about my childhood, and I couldn’t share anything like that even if I’d wanted to. I had imprisoned myself.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m not thinking about anything.”

  “You don’t like this, do you, Raymond?”

  “What’s that?”

  “This. Being here.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “I would have come earlier, like I said, but the boss said not to. Plus, I’ve been working on this new show idea.”

  “L said you might get a new show. I miss watching you in the afternoons. You were the most entertaining one. What’s it about, or is it top secret?”

  “What?”

  “The new show.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, which couldn’t have been truer. “It’s, you know, investigative in nature. Issues and what have you. For example, casino gambling could be a possible segment.”

  “Have you gone to the casinos?”

  “I’ve done some research, yeah.”

  “Do you watch or play?”

  “Mostly I just watch. You know. Pretty much.”

  “You and I would have had some fun in the casino,” she said. “We would have broken them. I can’t believe we never thought to go to Biloxi.”

  “We’ll go soon,” I said. “We can still go. I can teach you.”

  “What will we play?”

  “Blackjack.”

  “Oooh, blackjack. I like the sound of that.”

  She closed her eyes. For a second, I thought she had fallen asleep, and I thought about getting up and checking on Ed’s status with the golf cart, but I stayed put and held on to what was left of her hand. I looked at her. It was hard to believe she was the person I once knew. How could it be? Where had all that beautiful red hair gone? What the fuck was this?

  I thought of the first time L and I had gone to Myrtle to visit her. L was tired from the drive, but Lucille and I hit it off and stayed up late, drinking margaritas and going through old photo albums. While I was clearly alert to the fact that I had stumbled into being loved by the greatest girl alive, I couldn’t look at the old photos without being overcome by a vague sense of loss. A sense that I belonged in this new life and always had, and I had been robbed of every moment up until the time I met her. I felt like it should have been me with her in all those pictures. It should have been me picking her up for her first date. Me in the prom photo. Me in front of the Christmas tree. It was as if my life suddenly made sense, because, to be honest, I did feel like an orphan then. I mean, wasn’t anyone looking for a home a kind of orphan? Did the details truly matter that much? Is it really anyone’s fault what they’re born into? Aren’t we supposed to find our home in the world?

  Lucille and I stayed up until sunrise that first night, and she played her favorite movie for me, an old one from the fifties called The Man Who Never Was. It was a World War II story about how the Allies took this corpse, dressed him up as an officer, loaded his pockets with top secret military plans, and dumped him into the sea off the coast of Spain. The plans were fakes, of course, and designed to make the Nazis think the Allies were invading one place (Greece, I think) when they were really planning to invade somewhere else. It was a great plot but pretty boring overall. Lucille liked it less for the espionage and more for the idea of a man who never was. She found it inspiring that a nobody in life could somehow become a somebody in death. She saw hope in his story. That there could be meaning to your life even after your death, and you could accomplish something as one person even if you were born another (this much I could relate to). Like a lot of people who grew up poor, she saw everything in aspirational terms. People at the bottom need to believe in the possibility of rising to the top. They need to believe that anything can change at any moment. That everyone was just one good break away, one chance meeting with a benevolent stranger, from the opportunity for a new and better life. She carried that attitude with her until the very end. She was hope incarnate, that woman.

  I felt her hand lightly squeeze mine. She wasn’t asleep. I was fighting back tears at that point. I couldn’t take the bones.

  “I’m glad you came,” she whispered, “but I kind of wish you hadn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not yourself. You don’t like being here, and I guess I don’t like it much, either. With other people, this seems OK. I can talk about it. I’m fine with it. I usually just sit here with my bald little head. You’re the first person I put this silly hat on for.”

  “You don’t have to wear that thing for me,” I said.

  “I know. But I just knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “It’s an OK hat.”

  “Not the hat, honey. This. I knew you wouldn’t like this. And now that’s got me thinking about what there is not to like about it. Which is a lot. I’m embarrassed for you to see me like this.”

  “You look fine.”

  “No, I can tell by looking at you how I look. I know you, honey. You don’t hide things well.”

  “Everybody has tells.”

  “Tells?”

  “Little habits that give poker players away.”

  “I like that,” she said. “A gambling term. Give me another.”

  “On tilt,” I said.

  “On tilt?”

  “On tilt is what they call it when you’re losing, and you’re mad about it, and you make terrible decisions because you’re mad and can’t control your impulses.”

  “Have you seen it at the casino?”

  “I’ve seen it,” I said.

  She closed her eyes again. I looked out the window for a change.

  “Ray? I need to talk to you.”

  “OK.”

  “About L.”

  “OK.”

  “Are you listening?”

  “Listening to what?”

  “Ray.”

  “I’m listening,” I said. “I’m all ears over here.” I leaned back and put my head on her shoulder. That was all bone, too.

  “Sweetheart, I have never meddled in your life. I wouldn’t. I love you. You’re the son I never had, and I love every last hair on that handsome head of yours. You’ve been such a joy to me. But you have to know how difficult this is for L. And how difficult the miscarriage was, too. She feels very guilty. She thinks she’s being punished for that decision you made back when she was in school.”

  “I didn’t make that decision,” I said quickly.

  “Not you, honey. You as a couple.”

  I thought about that rainy day in Atlanta. The slick roads on the way to the clinic on Peachtree Dunwoody. It wasn’t something we ever talked about. Never once. I had forgotten about it entirely.

  “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  “I know, but she feels like she’s being punished for it.”

  “That’s retarded.”

  “She feels it.”

  “It’s probably that stupid priest messing with her,” I said. “Religious people like to work on you like that.”

  I told you that during the time L had been away, some priest had been hanging around the house with her and Lucille, riling them up in the way they do. I imagined he looked like Father Phil from The Sopranos, who was always chumming it up with the Mob wives, eating their food and flirting with them until Carmela called him on his shit.

  “Pastor has been a great comfort to both of us,” Lucille said. “I don’t think I could mak
e it through if I didn’t feel there was more than just this. That Jesus had taken my sins for a reason.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong. If there’s a Jesus, then he’s got to like you more than just about anybody.”

  I had no idea where all the religious stuff had come from. Neither Lucille nor L liked church people. They rolled their eyes at them. They used to love to say, “I wanna do right, but not right now.” I think they got it from a country song. That was the only religious philosophy I ever heard out of them. Now it was all about Father Phil, or whatever the fuck his name was.

  “I wanna do right, but not right now,” I said. “What happened to that?”

  “Right now is here,” she said softly, and here came the tears again, and I had to squint hard to hold them back.

  “I think we should all move down here,” I said. “I got a bunch of board games. We can start having some fun again.”

  “I think you should settle down,” she said, ignoring the idea about all of us living in Myrtle Beach, which was too bad, because it sounded so good to me.

  “We have a house and jobs. How much more settled can we be?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re getting older now. She wants a more stable life. A family life. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I turned my head away from Lucille and stared at the pillowcase, which was covered with all these little purple birds I had never seen before. I thought it was an odd choice for a pillowcase, and that Penny would have liked it, and maybe even knew what kind of birds they were.

  “Ray?”

  “I understand,” I mumbled. “I wanted the kid, too.”

  “I don’t think she believes that.”

  “No, she does.”

  “No, angel. She doesn’t. You’re not listening. Do you know that poem she loves, ‘Not Waving but Drowning’?”

  “No, but I’ve been meaning to do some more reading. I went to Barnes and Noble. Got a bunch of the classics.”

  “Do you understand what that title means? ‘Not Waving but Drowning.’ ”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “It means sometimes people don’t notice important things.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “It means they think one thing is happening, but another thing is really happening.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you scared, baby? Is that it? You can tell me. I won’t say anything. I’ll take it to my grave.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said.

  She smiled. “Gallows humor.”

  “Nobody’s dying. You said so yourself. You just said we were going to go to the batting cages and play blackjack. I mean, you just got through saying it.” I was seconds away from losing it.

  “I know, honey. We will. But first tell me what you’re scared of.”

  “I’m not scared. I just don’t like changing things.”

  “Change is good,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s necessary to grow.”

  “I guess. I don’t know. You have to worry a lot about a kid. It could drown in the pool.”

  “You don’t have a pool,” she said.

  “No, but other people do.”

  She shook her head. “I know you hear me.”

  “I do,” I said. “I hear you. I’m on it.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I promise I hear you.”

  “Good. Now I’m going to close my eyes. You talk for a little while. Tell me a story about my daughter.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “Something from everyday life.”

  I had told our origin story a million times, how I knew it would be forever when we’d driven to DC that night, so I went with something else.

  “Before we moved, it snowed in Atlanta, and everyone freaked out, like they do, and made a run on the Kroger,” I said. “They cleaned the place out like a nuclear apocalypse was coming. We only got maybe three or four inches, but the roads were empty, and L and I took the truck out. We were skidding around. Acting up. She was driving and doing her crazy-Southern-girl thing. We went over to Oakland Cemetery. You know that old cemetery near Memorial Drive? It was all covered in snow and really beautiful, and there was no one there. L and I walked around and stood in front of graves and made up stories about the dead people. What they did. What they were like. Who they loved. Stuff like that.”

  “That sounds like you two.”

  “Totally,” I said. “Anyway, we were standing there, and L bent down to wipe off one of the stones, and when she looked up at me, some snowflakes were caught in her eyelashes. She had that white hat on that you gave her, and her eyes looked really clear, and the snowflakes were just hanging on her eyelashes. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was, you know? I couldn’t believe I had stumbled into this life. I’m sorry. That’s not really a story. Nothing happened. But it was a great day.”

  Lucille lightly gripped my hand. “I love you, sweetheart,” she said.

  I sat up and looked at her. “I love you, too,” I said. “I love you so much.”

  She smiled, but her face was sinking in on itself. You could see her cheekbones and eye sockets. And then there was the hat.

  I started to cry. She was all hat and bones. I couldn’t take it.

  “This is bullshit,” I sobbed, and she reached out as I put my head down into her hands.

  “It is,” she whispered. “It’s complete bullshit.”

  And that was the last time I ever saw her.

  BECAUSE YOU WERE MINE

  September 9

  I worry about what will happen to him sometimes. Even though I know that’s not my domain anymore, it’s hard to stop feeling responsible. But he’ll be fine. He’s Ray. I can actually see him living in California, enjoying being the single man at cocktail parties. He’s perfect for that place. But that’s sad to think about. Is there any version of this that isn’t sad to think about?

  L STOOD ON THE ROOF of the Peabody and looked me over. The signature-covered cast. The black buzz cut. The busted sunglasses. The bloodied clothes. The hacking cough as I tried to smile at her. None of it seemed to bother her. She looked at me as impassively as a seasoned mortician takes in a fresh cadaver. I felt like my instincts were right. That this was what she’d been waiting for all along. She had wanted me to step up, and now I was. So what if I looked like I’d been through hell. I mean, hadn’t I?

  “He seems a little gimpy,” I said, nodding at Bruce. He was so happy to see me. I hoped it was rubbing off on her.

  “He’s fifteen years old, Ray,” she said, handing me my phone back.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Have it your way.”

  “How long do they live for?”

  “Fifteen is already a long time.”

  I scratched his head. He was a handsome old boy. He wasn’t dying. Though I did wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have given him Pringles and French-bread pizza so often.

  “He’s a spring chicken,” I said, letting him lick my sweat-covered face. “You’re just getting started, aren’t you, boy?” I scratched his ears. Looked at what he was wearing. “What’s this contraption he’s got on?”

  “He’s the ring bearer.”

  I stood up. Stared at him. Et tu, Bruce? He glanced away in shame. There was so much white on his face. He was old, once you looked for it.

  “It’s OK, pal,” I said, patting his head. “It’s not your fault. This has been a difficult situation for everybody.”

  L sighed. Walked past the makeshift altar to the four-foot wall lining the rooftop’s edge. In the distance, cars crept across the bridge into Arkansas, and families began to line the banks of the Mississippi, waiting for the fireworks as the final light of a long summer day bled away.

  “You surprised to see me?” I said, walking toward her with Bruce, who plopped down at her feet.

  “Not particularly. It’s not like no one saw this coming.”

  She s
eemed resigned, which I took as a relatively positive sign. She had been nothing but angry for so long. Not to mention she had basically admitted that she knew I’d show up if she called me. Which she had.

  “Warren kind of looks like D’Angelo from The Wire, right?” I said, trying to start things on an even keel, since that was a show we once spent an entire winter devouring. “Remember how bummed we were when he got killed? I mean, it wasn’t as bad as when Wallace got shot in season one, but still.”

  The door to the rooftop opened again. Out stepped the Old Bastard himself, Boyd Bollinger, wearing a tux, his silver hair coiffed. He stared at me incredulously as L walked toward him. I watched as she spoke to him in a low voice. He nodded as she touched his face. I wanted to go brain him with my cast but decided that wasn’t the right thing to do. He kissed her cheek, then turned to go back inside, taking a last look at me as he did. I stared daggers at him. He thought he was going to use my dog as a ring bearer? To marry my wife? Think again, motherfucker.

  “You’re lucky,” L said, walking back toward me at the roof’s edge.

  “How’s that?”

  “Boyd is very well connected here, Ray. The chief of police is in the ballroom right now.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s all I’m hearing about. I think they’re going to change the state flag to a pair of Dockers in his honor.”

  “If he were a different kind of man, he’d have you arrested.”

  “If he were a different kind of man, he’d date someone his own fucking age,” I said, then immediately regretted it. “Plus, I didn’t do anything. I’m standing on a roof. It’s a free country.”

  “You’re a wanted man, Ray.”

  “I don’t see where that’s any of Boyd’s business.”

  “You’ve spent the past eighteen hours trying to ruin his wedding. How is it not any of his business?”

  “This is bullshit,” I said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Really? Then why are you on every channel on TV?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. That’s not important. That doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  She gave me a long look. You could tell she couldn’t believe what I looked like.