How could this have happened? What could have happened? Five minutes before, two days into their stay with Molly’s family, they’d been in the midst of a perfect American summertime. Slow and muggy, a big blue sky, plans to go out for custard after everyone went swimming. Then they’d go back to Molly’s sister’s elephantine brick-and-vinyl house for grilled brats and a family rosary in the great room and then FaceTime with the dad on a business trip and Skype with the dad in Iraq, and then more custard and YouTube videos, all in polar-frigid central air.
None of that seemed possible now, even though, just five minutes before, John-Paul and his little brother Ignatius and their cousin Juan Diego had been bobbing around him and his girls, sleek as seals and snickering about some plan they were hatching. They gave each other shoulder punches and high-fives and raced into the deep end. And now one of them was lying on the hard tiles, with lifeguards attending him while his cousins stood off to the side, hands over their mouths.
The chief lifeguard was down on her knees beside the boy’s body, tapping his cheek and checking vitals. She threw back her ponytail, preparing to administer CPR. Prin prayed for his nephew. He also noted the tawny magnificence of the lifeguard’s nape and shoulders as she bent down to breathe life back into his nephew.
He felt nothing. He continued to feel nothing.
Which was great.
He was grateful to have been made forever safe like this, for a week away with Wende. For months now, they’d continue exchanging messages on VaultTok. All the rereading in the world confirmed these were only businesslike. There had been one reference to keeping him abreast of developments, but he was probably just reading into it. And in hopes of what? A temptation he would then have to overcome?
He didn’t even find Wende that attractive anymore. And meanwhile there was all of this non-worrying about non-worry, instead of praying intently for the boy—wasn’t he the godfather to this one? How awful that he didn’t remember just then—while whipping his pleading kids this way and that way so they wouldn’t see whatever was happening. But he could.
“JOHN-PAUL!” his mother said.
But Prin’s heart didn’t buckle and join her pain. It lifted. It eased and sang. Her tone was angry, very angry. She had her oldest son by the ear. He was standing, he was alive, he was wincing and laughing and the lifeguards were walking behind him, to the pool office. The chief lifeguard was at the very back of the scrum. She was six-feet tall, chestnut ponytail, high cheekbones, bee-stung lips, doe eyes, red short shorts, all of her twenty-one years dipped in days of summer sun. She had her arms crossed over the uppermost contents of her gravity-defying swimsuit. And she didn’t look angry, or amused, but something else.
Of course!
If Prin were a teenage boy bobbing around a pool staffed by an Amazonian Venus and not a snipped-out forty-year-old playing mermaid castle in the shallows, maybe he’d fake a drowning too.
And of course this was worth a mother’s vengeance, and a grandmother’s wondering out loud while dishing out custard what his sainted papal namesake must be thinking in heaven. It was also worth the mumbling, awkward confession he’d have to make to their friendly, super-cool young family priest, who would grant God’s forgiveness for all the trouble he’d caused, for all the secret pleasure he’d taken in making trouble: because what else is sin? Of course it was worth it, Prin thought. Not just the lips, but the story of how the boy touched those lips, a story to tell for the rest of the summer.
Prin stopped studying gravity’s rainbows. Off to the side, he saw Molly lecturing the other boys, who were doing their best to feel bad that Aunty Molly was so totally disappointed in them. They were mostly failing. They had a pretty good summer story to tell, too.
“Daddy, is John-Paul in trouble? Is Aunty Elizabeth taking him to the hospital?” asked Maisie.
“Daddy, can you put us down now? Can we go back into the pool and play Elsa mermaid pony underwater castle again and this time can you be Olaf?” asked Maisie.
“No, I want Daddy to play Elsa marries piss-side down!” said Pippa.
“It’s Poseidon, Poseidon, love,” said Prin.
21
Later that evening, while he waited for his turn to Skype, Prin decided he couldn’t talk to his nephews about what had happened at the pool that day. But only he had seen the lifeguard’s face as she walked the others to the office, where his nephew John-Paul’s membership card was cut in half for his fake-out and where he was given a summer-long ban from the pool. Only Prin saw that she wasn’t exactly angry, and she wasn’t exactly amused. You could camp out on the question of what that lifeguard had been thinking for the rest of the summer! If only he could tell them, at least give them this gift as they headed out that night to the dank summer fort they’d built in the little woods behind the house.
Prin wanted to tell his nephews about the lifeguard so very badly, and probably for the same reason he wished Wende had ulterior motives in letting him know that her seat assignment for their upcoming flight to Dragomans was 34C. Not that he wanted to act on these wants. He certainly hadn’t been acting on anything at bedtime with Molly since his surgery, and she really didn’t seem to mind. Hugs and pecks, pecks and hugs. Not even her leg lying upon his midriff anymore, that long, dark night of the groin.
What Prin wanted, really, was to suffer, to struggle with not acting, not looking, not telling, not thinking, not imagining what he knew he shouldn’t. He wished he’d been at least a little moved by seeing that lifeguard! He was old enough now that attraction to a woman was more complicated than that, but it started and ended in the same place. And he wasn’t there anymore. No one moved him. Only God had moved him, and that was to go to Dragomans. That was it, and that had to be enough.
“Uncle Prin, it’s your turn!” said another of his nephews.
“Thanks, Xavier,” Prin said.
He high-fived the boy, who quickly recomposed his face as he exited the study, and his Skype time with his faraway, pixelated father, to rush outside. There, he took it all out on whoever was blocking his path to the backyard zip line.
“Hi Patrick!” Prin said.
His brother-in-law was sitting at a computer terminal in a warehouse-sized army facility in Baghdad. People in fatigues were walking around behind him. In the far background were blobby, bright squares of pure light—either portly angels or Iraqi daylight.
“So, what time is it over there?” Prin asked.
“Five minutes later than the last time I was asked that question,” said Patrick.
“Right. Sorry,” Prin said.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Patrick.
Having recomposed his face after seeing one of his boys, he flashed fresh, stay-positive smiles.
“Prin! Good to see you! So man, what’s going on? I hear the surgery worked out, yeah?”
“Yes. Thanks. How are things with you?” Prin asked.
“Can’t complain … meaning, I can’t complain on hardware belonging to the US military that’s probably being monitored by Russian hackers!” Patrick said.
“But is the whole project coming along?” Prin asked.
Patrick nodded and ran a hand along his heavy jaw.
“It’s not easy, I can say that. But wow, thanks for asking. I gotta say, I was pretty surprised you even wanted to chat,” Patrick said.
“I’m just really interested in hearing more about your experiences over there,” Prin said.
He didn’t sound that hollow, did he? He’d known his brother-in-law for years. They were on fine terms, but little more. Was it Prin’s fault he wasn’t much for competitive woodworking? Was it Patrick’s fault he wasn’t much for animality studies?
“Right. Well, what I can say, truly, is that we’re working with some good people here on the ground, people who want to make this happen. And I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but some
of our Scandinavian colleagues are proving really helpful. I don’t think we really agree on what a new legal code for Iraq should and shouldn’t involve, but they’re kind of a good go-between for my team and our Iraqi colleagues,” Patrick said.
“I know you can’t say a lot, but do you have any advice for someone going into these kinds of situations?” Prin asked.
His heart began beating faster.
“What do mean?” Patrick asked.
“In a couple of weeks I’m going to Dragomans,” Prin said.
“Come again?” said Patrick.
“Yeah, I’m going to the Middle East too. I’m going to Dragomans for work, on behalf of the university. We’re working with some people over there to create a university for young people coming out of the civil war,” Prin said.
“Coming out of the civil war, you mean, like it’s finished? Prin, you sure you know what you’re doing? Do you know the situation you’re getting into over there?” said Patrick.
“Well, the university has hired a consultant, and I’m going over with her,” Prin said.
“I repeat my question,” said Patrick.
“Look, Patrick, I’m there for three days, to meet some people—all US citizens, professors with family ties to the place, who’ve gone back to help out, and also some of their local students,” said Prin.
“I repeat my question,” said Patrick.
“Well, um, I want to help some persecuted Christians get educations?” Prin said.
“Sorry. All good people, I’m sure. Listen, they are good people. It’s not them. It’s the other people who’ve gone back there to help out. You know what I mean, right?” said Patrick.
“I do, and sorry, please, please correct me if I’m wrong, but Dragomans is a peaceful and stable country, correct?” said Prin.
Patrick took a sip of bottled water and nodded.
“In the context of former military dictatorships in the Middle East and North Africa, yes, your account of Dragomans, at present, meaning right now, while we’re Skyping, is accurate. Just remember that over here, peaceful and stable can turn to hellfire and bodies hanging from bridges just like that. My wife loves her baby sister. My sweet little Toronto nieces need a dad. So Prin, I’m just saying, don’t be stupid,” said Patrick.
“I won’t,” said Prin.
“Easy for you to say. I’ll be praying for you, buddy. Just like I hope you do for me,” said Patrick.
“We offer up a Hail Mary for Uncle Patrick every night before bed,” said Prin.
“Great. I have long days of meetings and then late nights of filing reports for Washington. In all that, I feel those prayers, I really do,” said Patrick.
“That’s great,” Prin said.
Where was the admiration for what he was doing? Not that he was doing it for that reason. But still. If great big Patrick believed Prin was doing something heroic, even if he waited a week before telling Molly, he could beam. His soul could skip through God’s backyard sprinkler.
“Prin? Are you still with me? Don’t make me yell what I just said,” said Patrick.
“Sorry, just repeat it,” said Prin.
“I was talking about the situation at the pool today. And, between you, me and the minarets, good for John-Paul, right? I’m assuming the lifeguard in question was worth the collateral damage he sustained,” said Patrick.
“And then some,” Prin said.
He waited, but nothing.
“And this stays on the down-low,” said Patrick.
“Deal!” said Prin.
He said it with vigour, but it was all and only in his voice.
“Okay. Good talk. The things you miss out on, you can’t ever imagine until you hear about them,” said Patrick.
“Yes, I’m sure you must—”
“Listen. When you’re in Dragomans, watch out for people jogging with serious faces, people not making any noise. I can’t really explain what I mean by that, but you’ll know when you see it. And I pray you don’t see it. You know these are not jogging cultures, right? And it’s always so damned hot, and no one’s ever in a hurry to get anywhere. So the runners stick out. And Prin, get away if you see any of them. That’s it, man. That’s the sum total of my personal-security advice based on four months in Iraq,” said Patrick.
“Thanks, Patrick. I appreciate it,” said Prin.
“Good. And yeah, okay, good for you, too, doing something like this! It’s risky, but worth it. Alright Uncle Prin, send in the next contestant!” said Patrick.
On his soul-skipping way out of the study, Prin bent down and high-fived his niece Mary-Angelica, who ran in and jumped on the swivel chair, which immediately bucked and swung around. She told Prin to stay back as she steadied herself, and when she did, she seemed extremely proud of herself. Only then did she really study the screen and remember there was more to this visit to her father’s study than riding his chair. Prin left once she clapped and squealed and began smudging her daddy’s glassy, smiling face with static-sparkly kisses.
Close to midnight, Molly lying beside him, Prin was still awake. He pulled one of her legs on top of him, and right away she pulled the rest of herself warm and close.
He waited.
She kissed him on the cheek and said she liked that he wanted her close to him. He waited. She reminded him that they had to be careful, and not just because of his surgery. Her mother was sleeping in the next room. Molly slipped off and snuggled beside him. Prin wanted to remind her of all those times they’d lain here and not been careful, had risked it, because they’d wanted each other—that closeness, that crush, that fullness and oneness and life beyond, yes, beyond even God randomly rushing through his ears and trilling his heart in the middle of a meeting. The doctors had told him about this consequence, and he and Molly had long since agreed pills were insulting, yet Prin had no idea how much he’d come to miss being a man alive.
Propped up in bed, he began reading blogs, many of them Google-translated into English from Arabic, French, and German: “The old homes of today will be the gravity of tomorrow. We are the liberty for tomorrow. Just wait mercy. God has the most mercy names.” What mattered was that Dragomans was peaceful, it was stable, and there was nothing he could find, even on page twenty of his search, to suggest otherwise.
This was, technically, reassuring.
How could his brother-in-law Patrick offer anything but pure precaution? He was a Milwaukee-born constitutional lawyer working in Iraq: how could he not point out every possible risk? Which weren’t many.
Which was, again, technically, reassuring.
Prin had a greater chance of being gored to death by a rhinoceros in Toronto than he did of being killed by a terrorist in Dragomans, according to a disaster-scenario generator he found before finally falling asleep to vague dreams of a snowy zoo, a rhino on the loose.
22
The next morning, the Fourth of July, everyone went to the mall. Everything was star spangled and 50 percent off the lowest-ticketed price. Molly and her two sisters and all the girl cousins set out with canvas bags full of canvas bags. Prin, who, with the others out of town, was the ranking uncle, had clearance to take the boys to a matinee. Transformers: Terror Alliance had just opened, and the stars of the WNBA spent much of the movie lunging around in shredded titanium spandex. Nevertheless, Prin was still surprised at the size of the crowd gathered in front of the escalator to the movieplex.
“Hello Milwaukee! Hello America!”
A big man was calling out to the crowd. He had a face like a beefsteak tomato. He was wearing a T-shirt with crescent blades and crescent moons floating around the word HISTORY, which was written across it in Arabic-style letters with a giant STOP sign stamped overtop. He was standing on a small stage set up between two cellphone sales kiosks staffed by swarthy, spiky-haired young men in ill-fitting dress shirts and loose belts and shi
ny ties. They were watching while eating their lunch from styrofoam containers.
“Hello Schlaffler!” the crowd called back.
“Oh, Uncle Prin, can we watch this?” his nephew Juan-Diego asked.
“What is it?” asked Prin.
“What is it? Seriously? It’s Schlaffler, Uncle Prin! His radio show’s on every night, between Hannity and Rush. They don’t play it in Toronto?” asked his nephew, Xavier.
“No,” said Prin.
“Mom hates him,” said his nephew John-Paul.
“Yeah, but moms only listen to NPR,” said Juan-Diego.
“National Pointless Radio!” said all of his nephews.
“I’m guessing he’s a right-wing radio guy?” Prin asked.
“He’s a reality-check radio guy, Uncle Prin,” Xavier said.
“But Mom complains when he’s on, so we listen while Dad’s driving us to practice or we podcast it in the garage,” John-Paul said.
“Hey folks! Question for ya. Who gets the last laughter?” asked Juan-Diego.
“Schlaffler!” said his other nephews.
A moment later, the man on stage asked the same question and the crowd called out the same answer.
“Guys, we’re going to miss the trailers if we don’t go up to the theater now,” said Prin.
He didn’t like the crowd, which was, for the most part, beefy men in beards and Green Bay Packer caps taking pictures of Schlaffler with phones fitted out in thick rubber cases. The few women in attendance had, in general, no facial hair, and their cases were pink rather than jet black or black and dump-truck yellow; otherwise, they looked and weighed about the same. Prin could say he wanted to leave because he knew his sisters-in-law wouldn’t approve, but he knew his nephews would counter that their dads would have let them stay for the rally before launching into a Come on, Uncle Prin. Their adolescent American voices, golden, pure, and cracking like the Liberty Bell, would have tolled hard in his ears, his professorial, sonless, brotherless, ethnic Toronto ears. Come on, Prin, be a normal guy for once.
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