by Darren Groth
tip of the stylus over the glass, allowing lines and shad-ings and flourishes to emerge more or less on their own.
He saw the piece taking shape, but he wasn’t focused. He was adrift. Later he wondered if he knew this day—this
art—would be different, if he somehow understood
things would never be the same. In the moment, though,
his actions were borne of impulse.
Just stay with it, Ash, he thought . Stay cool. Clear your mind and let the timing take over. One day that
perfect swim is going to happen. I know it.
28
I N F I N I T E B L U E
Even without watching, Clayton knew well the sounds
of a race playing out. Loud cheers. Warm applause.
Restrained, almost begrudging acknowledgment—the
sort reserved for sure things like Ash Drummond. Today
the sounds fell outside the norm. Urgency underlined
the crowd commotion. High-pitched squeals pierced the
general hum; seat banging and foot stomping paced the
action. Clayton felt a trapdoor open in the floor of his stomach. Excitement like this could mean only one thing.
She’s getting beaten.
The din broke its banks. Clayton fumbled the stylus.
It bounced around his feet. He wiped his mouth with
his sleeve, bracing himself for the worst. Finally he
looked up. A sea of standing bodies surrounded him,
blocking views of the pool, the scoreboard and anything
else that would confirm Ash’s fall. A Nike-clad family
in the neighboring row of seats danced and twittered,
their wide eyes and waving hands clear evidence of an
upset. Shaz, pinkie fingers planted in the corners of her mouth, released a whistle that sailed through the noise
like a harpoon in flight.
Clayton laid his tablet down and stood. He hoped
he could catch sight of Ash, make her feel better for a
few seconds with a small wave or a pulled face. But once above the crowd, the sand clogging Clayton’s heart was
swept away. Ash sat on the lane rope, hands clapping
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
above her head. Her easy, generous smile filled the
stadium. She was alone. The rest of the field continued
to race. Their leader, in lane six, remained half a pool length from the finishing wall. On the giant scoreboard, the phrase WORLD RECORD sat conspicuously beside Ash’s name and time.
“Is that real?” he whispered to himself. “What does
that mean?”
It took another minute and forty-nine seconds for
the final competitor to touch home. Ash climbed out
of the pool and planted her feet on the deck. Bypassing
an entourage of officials and media, she headed toward
the roiling crowd, specifically “Team Drum” in the front row of the eastern stand. From the opposite side, Clayton studied each interaction as it took place. Coach Dwyer
shaking hands for a good twenty seconds. Len looking to
the heavens before hugging his only child, tears streaming.
And Blythe.
She might have been the only person in the arena
remaining seated. Ash knelt on one knee before her. The
foreheads of mother and daughter touched. They traded a
few words. When Ash returned to standing, her diamond
smile had dulled, the expression that replaced it some-
where between What did you expect? and What’s next?
Clayton grabbed his tablet, wriggled past the rest of
the still-celebrating spectators and ran down the concrete 30
I N F I N I T E B L U E
stairs to the front of the stand. He leaned out over the rail as Ash slowly circled the pool deck, the eye of a well-wishing, camera-flashing storm.
Clayton waved and yelled her name.
She couldn’t hear.
He shouted again.
Nothing.
The storm drew level, then passed. Clayton stepped
back, craning his head left and right to catch a glimpse of her through the throng. But as the circus passed with no acknowledgment, his shoulders slumped. Somewhere in
the crush, he’d lost sight of her altogether.
She’s out of the water, he thought. She’s not supposed
to disappear.
Q
“Hey, Clay!”
She stood below him, skin glistening, hands planted
on her hips, smirk scuttling about the corners of her
mouth. She’d pushed through the wall of media to seek
him out.
“Come down.”
Clayton climbed over the railing and scrambled down
the side of the stands to the deck surface to meet her
face-to-face. Ash enveloped him in a warm, wet embrace.
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
“You were incredible,” he said.
“Yeah, it felt good in there. I—” She paused and
pointed at the tablet. “What are you working on?”
“Seriously? You’ve just broken a fricking world record!”
“I’m having a good day. I want to know how yours
is going.”
“Not nearly as good as yours.”
“Let me see.”
“I’ll show you later.”
“Come on, Clay.”
Clayton looked around at the waiting media throng.
They wanted to see too. He woke the screen and flipped
it around to show Ash. Just Ash.
“I was mucking around.”
She stared. For a brief second Clayton thought she
might slap the tablet out of his hands. Ash’s eyes widened and her lips parted, releasing a tiny gasp. But then the shock—if that’s what it was—faded out.
“Whoa! Are you kidding? That’s amazing.”
Clayton shrugged, trying to disguise his soaring joy.
She’s back, he thought. Fully present. She leaned toward him, and they shared a kiss and a second hug.
“You think you’re pretty shit-hot, don’t you?” he
whispered.
“Too hot for you to handle, boy.” She laughed.
“I’ve got to go. My public needs me.”
32
I N F I N I T E B L U E
Q
It was the moment they had all been waiting for. It had
been foretold by a good many. Coach Dwyer had bet
his house on it and lost his wife in the process. Len had always believed, trusting the Good Lord favored those
who constantly gave thanks and praised His name.
And, of course, Blythe had dreamed it, visualized it.
Willed it. Clayton dwelled on this for a minute, feeling an uncomfortable itch settle in the small of his back.
Blythe Drummond had been vindicated. Her daughter’s
entrance upon the world stage was so much more than
earned or achieved—it was a square-up. Redemption
and revenge all rolled into a neat package.
Q
Clayton retreated back to the stands, wondering how long he would have to wait for the medals and conferences
and glad-handing to wind down. He checked his social-
media feeds and mentions. He “liked” a few posts from
friends and followers. Absently he flicked to the picture he’d put together during Ash’s race, the image that had
been more whim than choice.
Most of the canvas was taken up with rich watercolor
textures of deep blues and greens, the hues of a hostile 33
D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
wave of surf caught at its peak, a tsun
ami set to swamp
anything in its path.
In the center was Ash.
Her back was turned to the viewer, and she faced
directly into the colossal wave. She wore her racing swimsuit, cut low on her back so she could have more of her
body in contact with the water. Arms extended. Feet
apart and planted. Her hair was down, a tangle of thin
black tentacles mingling with the blue.
Clayton stared, unblinking, for a full minute. He
recalled Ash’s initial stunned reaction—no wonder, he
thought. He closed the canvas and saw that the image
had acquired a title, a name automatically assigned by
the app: Source01.
This wasn’t a comic strip. This wasn’t a caricature.
Nothing he had drawn prior resembled this piece, not in
form or theme or execution. So what was it? He couldn’t say. The only thing he could pinpoint was the unease the work provoked, the small sloshy churn it stirred up in
the pit of his stomach.
He thought seriously about hitting the Trash icon.
Without Ash’s ultimate admiration for the pic, he
would’ve done so in an instant. Instead he put the device to sleep and tried to cast the image from his mind.
34
Five
After the meet Clayton steered the car out into traffic.
Months of badgering had led to Len’s allowing Ash to
borrow his restored Corvette on a semipermanent basis
(not agreed to was his daughter’s regularly palming off
driving duties to her boyfriend, but Len was none the
wiser). As the grumbling engine settled into cruising
speed, Clayton stole a glance at Ash in the passenger seat.
She was looking at the ring on her thumb, admiring the
light reflected off it. The suburban streets, freshly cleansed from a recent downpour, rolled away beneath them.
“That was a busy day, wasn’t it?” she said. On cue,
her phone, dumped in one of the cupholders, came to life with the sound of a cartoon explosion. It was the four-teenth text she had received since the start of the drive home. She opened the message.
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
“Okay, so this is some rep named Joe Gauthier, from
what I assume is a very large sports management agency.”
“Sounds like a fake name,” said Clayton.
“Joe wants to express his ‘sincere congratulations on
establishing a new world mark.’ Thanks, Joe. He is also
interested in ‘setting up a meeting to talk about what we can do for you.’”
“Sure. For you.”
Ash would not reply to Joe Gauthier—there was
no need. Blythe would respond to him and all the other
“drones” who were suddenly desperate for Ash’s attention and time.
“Joe says I have a nickname now. ‘Wake.’”
Clayton scoffed. “Did he make that up?”
“I heard a reporter say it when I was walking through
the carpark.”
“Ha!” Clayton shook his head. “Whatever.” He eased
the car into the passing lane and overtook a city bus.
“What were you going to tell me, by the way?”
“When?”
“After the swim. You started to say something about
feeling good in the pool.”
“Oh.” She sat up straighter in her seat. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not Joe Gauthier. You can tell me.”
36
I N F I N I T E B L U E
“It’s nothing. Literally nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Clayton frowned. “You know you’re being super
weird right now.”
Ash shrugged and started flipping through her
social-media feed, scrunching her face as she scrolled.
On the windshield drops of rain gathered, blurring the
road ahead before vanishing under the swipe of the
wiper blades.
“Your dad sure was emotional,” said Clayton,
changing conversational tack.
“You know it. Mum was choked too.”
“Yeah right.”
“What?”
Clayton raised an eyebrow. “Choked?”
“Yes, choked.”
“Did she cry? You know, like, actual tears?”
Ash rolled her eyes and suppressed a smile. “Sick
burn, bro.”
Blythe’s disdain of crying was common know-
ledge in the Drummond household. She viewed it as
indulgent, a waste of energy. Are your issues resolved by bawling like a baby? Does it find you a new job? Put money in your bank account? Bring back someone who’s dead?
Clayton once suggested to Ash that it was all an elaborate ruse to cover for the tragic loss of her tear ducts in a bungled surgery.
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
Len more than made up the difference. He was prone
to welling up over tv ads, Bible passages and everything in between. Blythe wouldn’t chastise her husband in
these moments of weakness. She would simply stare at
him, unblinking, one eyebrow arced on her forehead, her
gaze like a concrete dam set down at the mouth of a river.
Clayton often wondered how these two people had
ever gotten together and made something as perfect
as Ashley Ray Drummond. There was no joy in their
two-decades-long union as far as he could see. No warmth or tenderness. Nothing that resembled the depth of devo-tion he shared with their daughter. To Clayton, it was
extraordinary that Len and Blythe could even share the
same house.
Ash rolled the window down and stuck her hand out.
It dipped and darted in the onrushing wind and rain.
“That drawing you did today,” she said. “It was
different. What inspired you to do it?”
“I don’t know.” Clayton shifted in his seat as he
turned a corner.
“Did you, like, have a vision or something during the
race?”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not. I’m being totally serious.”
“I was just fooling around. I’m going to delete it.”
“Don’t do that. Keep it.”
38
I N F I N I T E B L U E
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Please. For now. For me.”
A long pause.
“Okay, fiiiine,” he said.
Ash nodded and squeezed Clayton’s knee.
“So what happens now?” he asked.
“Keep heading on Expressway toward Coro Drive,
then hang a right at the overpass onto Hale Street.”
“That’s not what I meant, smartarse.”
“I’m not being a smartarse. We keep doing what
we do. We head home. We call each other tonight. We
go to the movies tomorrow afternoon. Sit in the back
row and make out like we always do. I’m not going to
change, Clay. I’m not going to become someone you
don’t recognize.”
Ash wound the window back up and leaned her head
against it. She twisted the ring on her thumb.
“This is a big deal,” said Clayton. “You can’t promise
that everything is going to stay the same.” He waved at
the phone, now back in the cup holder. “The agents and
the press and the media managers—it’s all nuts.”
“You want me to stop it?”
“Of course not! This is once-in-a-lifetime stuff.”
“So are we,” said Ash.
39
D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
The heavens opened fully as Clayton cruised into
the driveway of his townhouse complex, pulling in close
to the front door before cutting the engine. The two of
them threw open their doors, leaped out into the down-
pour and dashed for the small dry refuge beneath the
front-door overhang. Ash flicked the water from her
face and brow and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt
over her head.
“Thanks for driving,” she said, raising her voice above
the clamor. “Might need to trade the car for a dinghy to get home though.”
She offered Clayton a cheesy grin. She stood with
her back to the door, brass knocker above her head like
mistletoe. A saturated cord of hair clung to her cheek.
Clayton gently cleared it away from her face and back
over her ear.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat. “We’re going to be
okay.” He took her hand and scrutinized it. “Here, look.
It says so in your palm. We’re going to be with each
other forever. We’re going to get married, have some
kids, live in a fancy house. Oh, look—it’s got a pool!”
Ash jerked her hand out of his grasp before the
inevitable spit. “Too slow, jerk.”
They wrapped their arms around each other and
kissed. In the middle of the driveway the storm drain
overflowed, sending rivulets scurrying to all points
40
I N F I N I T E B L U E
of the compass. One arrived at the overhang and created
a thin puddle around their feet.
When Ash drove away—the muffled cartoon explo-
sions of new messages accompanying her departure—
Clayton removed the tablet screen from his satchel and
opened Source01. Tiny flecks of water hit the glass surface, distorting the pixels underneath. He wiped them off with his finger, not realizing the app was set to the smudge
tool. The image now contained large blue splotches,
as though he’d attacked it with a sponge. The dappled
sunlight on the waves was blurred into a blue-green
morass. The delicate tendrils of Ash’s hair were teased
into thick black streaks.
His finger hovered over the button for a second
before tapping hard enough to make a hollow knock
against the glass. Source01 disappeared. Ash may have wanted him to keep it, but she’d get over it.
