Drowning Lessons

by Peter Selgin

  In a strained voice Clarke cried out: “Hello? Hello! Help!”

  But the lights were too far; his voice was too weak. Sounds of surf and insects overpowered it. There was nothing to do but keep moving, through the rising surf toward the tempting lights. He heard a sound in his head, a humming sound mixed with the surf and insect sounds. The humming sound rose in volume and pitch until it sounded like someone screaming. He switched Lewis to his other shoulder and the sharp object dug into him again. Then something in the water — a skate or a stingray — stabbed the bottom of Clarke’s foot and he toppled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, hoisting Lewis’s inert body up from the mounting waves. “I’m sorry.” Tears and salt water stung his eyes. The stars were out. “Jesus,” he said. “Holy Jesus.”

  With the last of his strength, hobbling on his throbbing foot, he carried his brother to the nearest rock and sat there, holding him, catching his breath. They wouldn’t die like this. No one dies like this, in a dream. As Clarke held him, he felt something sharp in Lewis’s pocket: the stone, the good-luck charm, the lie from Tulum. That’s what had been digging into his shoulder. He pried it out of the drenched pocket and held it, weighing it, considering whether he should toss it into the sea. Then he changed his mind and put it in his mouth instead. It tasted like salt. He sucked on it thinking, we will not die like this; we will not die like this.

  He sucked on the stone and stroked Lewis’s head as the tide continued to rise.

  WEDNESDAY AT THE BAGEL SHOP

  IT’S NOT LIKE ME to wait for people. Ten minutes, okay maybe fifteen. A half hour tops. Any person more unreliable than that isn’t worth waiting for. But for you I’m willing to make an exception.

  One reason, of course, is that I realize it takes you at lot longer to get from one place to another than, you know, the average person. The four blocks from your apartment building to the bagel shop, which would take, you know, a healthy person maybe five, six minutes, would take you at least twenty-five. At least …

  Not that you’re not healthy. I’m not saying … that is … well, you know. What do you call yourself? Disabled, is that okay? (Christ, I’m not good at this stuff.) I mean, I wouldn’t want to offend you. I don’t exactly have much experience in these matters. Who does?

  It’s not even like we’ve known each other all that long. We met — when was it? — two months ago? Not here, in the bagel shop, but there, right across the street, 105th and Broadway, that lousy corner where the creeps play video games in the cigar store, and they’re always setting off firecrackers on the sidewalk, those rotten kids. I was waiting for the light to change when suddenly you pulled up alongside me with your crutches. I mean, the thing is, normally, this being New York City and all, I wouldn’t have noticed. That is, I wouldn’t have paid any attention. But you were … well, hell, you were like really beautiful, you know? Okay, pretty. You were real pretty. I’d never seen such a pretty … oh, Christ. Do you believe that? I was about to say cripple. I meant a pretty … well, you know what I mean.

  Then you did something really unusual. You talked to me. Right there, on the street, to a perfect stranger, in broad daylight. “Good morning,” you said, like you knew me, which, of course, you didn’t. You said it with this big smile. At first I figured, okay, now she’s gonna want something. I mean, this is New York, right? She’s gonna hit me up for some change, or maybe a cigarette, or ask me to help her cross the street, something. But you didn’t ask for anything. The light changed, and you just kept right on going. It was like really weird.

  Now when I say you were pretty, I’m talking about … well, your eyes. They’re like really blue, like the sky. That’s dumb. Eyes aren’t like the sky — or like diamonds or stars or any of the other dumb things writers are always saying they’re like. Eyes are like eyes. To be honest, yours were kind of small, are kind of small (they’re still in your head, right?), but really shiny. And the way they looked straight at you, like really direct, through the bangs of your short, almost black hair. And those really full lips, you know, what’s the word? — sensual, like, with teeth showing lots of gums, but in a nice sort of way, making your smile look extra big and, I don’t know, juicy. I guess that’s what I’d call it. A juicy smile. If that’s not, you know, pushing things.

  As for your clothes, all I can say regarding them is no one is ever gonna give you an award for fashion. We’re talking yellow Danskins the color of Gulden’s spicy brown mustard with tear holes in them the size of my fist from falling, which I know you do a lot of in your condition. And a sweatshirt the color of green mold with the hell stretched out of it so it’s like hanging off your shoulder, you couldn’t even give it to Goodwill without getting dirty looks. Then you had this big, floppy shoulder bag, the kind with all the fancy colored stitching, like a Ukrainian egg. Not exactly Women’s Wear Daily material. But still, I mean, take it as a compliment, the fact that you managed to look pretty damn decent, you know, for a girl on crutches. Or should I say a lady? These things confuse me.

  So anyway there we were with the light already turned green and you starting to cross when some spitooey-faced jerk sets a firecracker off practically right under your legs — or should I say your crutches? Anyway, it shook me up, but you, you went right down. I mean, one minute you’re standing, walking, or whatever you call it, and then boom! You’re down — flat on your face, your crutches all over the street. You said as I was helping you up it was because you were spastic. At first I thought you had to be joking. I mean, give me a break, how many people go around saying, “I’m spastic,” to complete strangers? But you meant it. You have what’s called an adverse reaction to sudden loud noises. Your brain gets screwed up and all your muscles go haywire and if you just happen to be standing, down you go. I mean, it must be awful around the Fourth of July.

  So then I help you get up and we cross the street and sure enough, we’re both going to the bagel shop. You tell me it’s your favorite place, which I find hard to believe, I mean, the way it smells and all. Actually, I was just gonna pick up my usual coffee (dark, two sugars) and buttered raisin to go but you asked me if I’d join you, and I thought: what the hell. So we’re sitting there in the bagel shop with coffee. That’s when I first really notice your eyes, the way they sparkle, shine, whatever. Tell you the truth, I’m not that used to women looking at me. Not that I’m ugly, but I’m just not used to it. And the way you did was so direct, so like looking inside me, like almost right through me, just about.

  What the hell did we talk about? Bagels? I was afraid to ask about the crutches, you know, to come right out and say, “Hey, what’s wrong with your legs?” like a jerk, though that’s exactly what was on my mind. I mean, you can’t expect a person to just ignore a thing like that. So I say, you know, real subtle, “How long have you been on those things?” — those “things” being crutches, not wanting to say the word, figuring it might make you sensitive or something.

  Again you surprised me; you were full of surprises. “I was born this way,” you said. Not nasty, just matter-of-fact, with a shrug, like it was some kind of freak ability you didn’t want to boast about, like those people who can drop a whole box of matches and shout out the number. What do they call them? Idiot somethings.

  Not that you were an idiot. As a matter of fact you seemed very intelligent. Just from the look of your eyes I could tell. To be honest, something about them made me feel pretty dumb. I mean, for some reason I felt intimidated, don’t ask me why. I mean, I’ve never been shy with girls. I’m usually pretty cool. The people in my building, the ladies in particular, they know. They think I’m like a ladies man, a real maneuverer. They even tease me about it. I mean, some of these ladies are as rich as they are beautiful. Still, they don’t intimidate me. But you. I don’t know, maybe it was the black and blue marks on your forearms, the ones from falling all the time. I kept on looking at them, I couldn’t stop. It’s unusual to see so many bruises on a girl (lady?). I mean, it’s interesting. Also I was noti
cing your muscles. I mean, they were like big. You must get pretty strong, going around on those crutches. I have to admit, for a second I wondered if your arms were stronger than mine.

  It’s ten after nine now. I figure I’ll wait another ten minutes.

  So we talked. Blah, blah, blah this and that. You told me you did social work, reading books out loud to people. I still don’t get it. I mean, if they can’t read, what good’s being read to gonna do them? I mean, I personally don’t read, not that often, catalogs and shit, a newspaper now and then, maybe the Racing Form if I’m in the mood. But getting paid to read to people, is that really a job? I mean, isn’t it more like babysitting or volunteer work?

  Then you drop the big one on me. You tell me you’re a writer. Holy shit. A writer?! Oh, sure, I figure, shit, like she writes poetry like my sister in her diary. But no, you say you’ve had a novel published, and you got a contract for a second one you haven’t started yet. Imagine, getting paid for something you haven’t even started!

  Me, I know what I’m paid for. I stand by the door. That’s it: I’m a doorman. I see what comes and what goes. All kinds of weather. Got to have an eye for trouble. I know this other crip —, this lady like yourself, only she’s in her seventies, walks, you know, with one of those things like a backward chair, back and forth to the grocery store. Takes her forever. I guess she’s not really a … I mean, she’s not like you, she’s just old. I used to feel sorry for her, but then I found out she does just fine. It’s why she tips me like she does, every Christmas.

  But you’re a totally different story. I mean, you really do things. It’s amazing all the things that you do, considering … The thing is, you’ve got spirit. I guess you know that.

  Quarter after …

  Like when we decided to go to the movies together. I figured: what the hell, give her a nice time. At first I didn’t know how you’d get on the subway. I mean, would I have to carry you down the stairs, or what? Yeah, it was slow going. But you made it down the stairs all by yourself. Me, I just stood there. Mostly I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. I mean, do I watch her legs, her feet, do I stand there smiling like an idiot, or do I just look around, you know, nonchalant, like there’s nothing special going on? It took some getting used to.

  And the crack between the subway and the platform; that must be scary. I mean, what if one of your things got caught, and then the train started moving, with you stuck there, and you’d get dragged? I hated to even think about it.

  Or what, God forbid, if some creep should decide to push you, like some of those creeps do, in front of a train? What then (God forbid)?

  Then you told me something truly amazing: that people actually spit on you. That you’ll be going down the street or just standing somewhere minding your own business and suddenly someone passes by and lays one down right at your feet, or worse, right on your feet, splat. When you told me that, I swear I got so mad I was like shaking inside. I wanted to get my hands on one of those spitters, to grab him (or her) by the neck and choke them and spit in their eye and see how they like it. I almost wished it would happen right then. But it didn’t.

  From the moment you told me about the spitting, I felt different about you. It was almost like I started to feel, I don’t know, possessive or something. Standing next to you on the subway platform, with all those strange people, I felt like (wow, this is weird) proud, like I was privileged to be with someone special like you. Or maybe I just felt, you know, like the good guy, the hero, the guy who comes to the rescue of the lady in distress … you know, not that you’re helpless or anything but … I mean, shit, I can’t get over the way you move on those things. I mean, it’s not like you need any help from anybody. Me included.

  But listen (and this is the big point I’m leading up to here): when we got to the theater and were in our seats, and the lights went down, and it was dark and we were both quiet, staring at the screen, eating popcorn out of a big bucket in my lap … it was at that moment I started feeling certain, well, I guess you could say typical male feelings. Maybe it was the darkness, or the quiet, or the smell of the popcorn, or your hand reaching across through the dark over my lap, or just the way your face, and those eyes, looked in the light reflected off the screen as the credits started rolling … but I started to get, well, excited. And I thought to myself, holy shit! This can’t be happening to me! I’m actually getting excited over a … with a … I mean, she’s a … you’re a … Christ, I said to myself: what the hell is wrong with you, Dominick? Didn’t your parents teach you anything growing up? Huh? Didn’t they teach you not to take advantage of crippled girls? I mean, shit, what an ape.

  Okay, so I used the word “cripple.” So what? Disabled. Same difference. Call a spade a spade.

  Twenty-five past. Hey, are you gonna show up, or what? What’s happening? Christ, I hope you didn’t fall or something. Another ten minutes, that’s it. Then I’m out of here.

  So afterward, after the movie that is, I escort you back to your place. I mean, it’s dark and God knows what could happen to somebody like you, you know, with so many creeps around. I mean, I’m not about to let you go home by yourself.

  So we get there, this big old hotel on Broadway at 105th. By that time I’m hardly even noticing anything. I mean, I guess people are looking at us coming down the street, wondering, you know, what’s he doing with her, and vice versa. I feel like I’m in a scene in some gritty movie, with newspapers blowing at my feet and steam coming out of the sewer, that sort of movie, what they call film noir, which is French for black and white, not the kind of picture you take your family to. Not for mass circulation, or whatever.

  The hotel is sort of run down. There’s a doorman there, but really he’s more like a security guard, no gold braid, no cape coat, not even a uniform: just a white shirt with big, round perspiration stains under the arms. I mean, this guy wouldn’t last ten seconds at my building. At least he calls you by your last name. Me, I try to know all the first and the last names of everyone in my building; I even try to know their dogs’ names, though that isn’t always possible. But at least this guy’s that much on the ball, even if he does look like shit. Or else he just remembers certain people, you know, with things that stand out.

  “Good evening, Miss Daltrey.”

  He smiles a big, greasy smile, then looks at me. I’m not sure I like the look on his face, which to me seems to be implying something like, “It takes all kinds.” Something like that. Or it may be just the fact that he hasn’t shaved, which is pretty inexcusable.

  Then he says, “Package arrived for you.”

  He hands it to you. It’s a big envelope, about as big as I’ve ever seen. You look at the return address, nod, and shove it in your shoulder bag. I ask you what it is. I can’t help it; I’m curious.

  “Galleys,” you say.

  I don’t know what that means. I figure it has something to do with the fact that you’re a writer. But if you plan to keep me in the dark, I say to myself, go right ahead, be my guest.

  Then you look up at me and say (another surprise!), “Coming up?”

  I’d feel really rude saying no, so up we go. I have to say they’ve got that whole place well figured out. No stairs. Elevators all over the place. And where there aren’t any elevators, there’s ramps. Obviously there are a lot of people like you living there.

  When we get to your room, the door’s unlocked. I can’t believe you just leave it like that. Can’t believe, that is, until I take my first look inside. Jesus, what a (pardon my language) shit hole. I mean, not to be offensive, but I’ve seen seventh-graders with neater rooms. For starters there’s kitty litter all over the floor. It kind of irks me, the idea of someone like you having a cat to take care of, like you don’t have enough problems of your own. Plus there’s clothes, papers, and books scattered everywhere, like a hurricane just blew through the place. Even if the place was straightened up, it wouldn’t be any palace. It’s only one room, first of all, with a tiny kitchen stuck in the
corner and shelves made out of bricks and scrap wood. Plus it smells sort of like fried cat pee, if you know what I mean. No wonder you leave the door open. Worst thing a burglar could do is leave the place cleaner than he found it. There sure isn’t anything worth stealing, except maybe the computer, which kind of shocks me at first. I mean, it doesn’t look like the kind of place you’d see a computer. I mean, you’d think the kind of person that lives in a mess like that wouldn’t know what a computer was.

  Then I remind myself: hey, she’s different. She can’t take care of herself like other people. It’s a miracle she’s even alive.

  “Would you like some tea?” you ask me then.

  Tea, shit, I need a drink. I ask, “Do you by any chance keep any bourbon around?”

  You don’t drink, you say. “The strongest thing I can offer you is Constant Comment.”

  Constant Comment: sounds like something you use to permanently clean your toilet. But it isn’t; it’s funny-tasting tea, with spices and shit. I wonder, is it something all cripples drink?

  So we sit there, me on your unmade bed and you in your wheelchair, which is the only chair in the place. At this point I’m starting to get really nervous. Somehow seeing you in that wheelchair makes everything … I don’t know, more intense. I mean, you’re sitting right up close to me, and there I am on your bed with the sheets all rumpled up behind me, and naturally the thought crosses my mind, you know what I mean. And meanwhile I’m sipping this weird-tasting tea, asking myself: Can I be doing this? Am I for real?