Surface

He let me choo= se the canvas for our pontoon boat and didn’t get too mad when I chose the heart shaped plastic windows and candy stripe fabric as long as it wasn’t in pink. So the boat’s all painted up red and white like a valentine, and Joe put an American flag in the corner, for a manly feel. He christened it ‘Sea Heart’ with a bottle of champagne and we’ve had it docked at = Lake McCullen for almost five years now. I remember that well because that’s the year Brian graduated high sch= ool and had the broken leg.

Mary Ann was already settled in = St. Louis with = her three kids and Joe convinced me Brian could take care of himself. There are two bedrooms but no ba= sement so we got rid of lots of junk. It seemed like such a scary thing but now I can’t imagine it any different. When Brian comes= home he sleeps in the extra bedroom where we put his old bed and hung as many = of his paintings as would fit, and when Mary Ann comes home the whole crew s= tays at her husband Steve’s parents’ house.

Joe likes to fish o= ff the back but I like it up front; cast my line right over the ‘Sea Heart= ’ name. Joe always enters the= bass tournament at the lake on Father’s Day. It’s long days the week be= fore, fishing from sun up to sun down and sometimes later, eating ham and cheese sandwiches from the blue cooler for lunch and sometimes supper, too. If a storm comes up we try to wa= it it out on the boat, but sometimes the lightning and winds are so strong there’s no other choice but to dock.

I’ve been around it long en= ough to understand what he means but that’s not what’s on my mind = when I’m out on that water, casting my line in and keeping a check on my bobber. Of course pulling i= n a nice size fish is great fun and eating fresh catch is better. You would think I would have dro= pped a couple of pounds since we moved out here, eating all that fish, but the t= ruth is I’ve gained twenty-five pounds, last time I checked. Of course the potatoes baked in = hot fire coals every night might have something to do with it. They’re best with lots of = butter and sour cream. I even plan= ted a patch of chives by the front door of the cabin so I can use them fresh. Joe eats those heavenly potatoes= , too, but never gains a pound; I know exactly how he’ll look in his coffin because it’s how he’s looked for thirty-two years, his size 34 pants baggy in the seat and a T-shirt floating over his chest. Now I know he’ll be tan, t= oo, with him out on the lake all day, with the sun and the water and the bree= ze.

I never was too sk= inny but now I feel like I’m over the edge. I love when Mary Ann makes camp = around mid-April; they only live permanent three full weeks out of the year but = sometimes she stays when Tom goes back home. He’ll be retiring in four years and then they’ll do the same thing we did; sell their house to live up here. We joke about Mary Ann being my = long lost daughter, having the same name.&nbs= p; At that 4^th of July picnic two years ago the four of us were like a matched set.

I mention Brian staying at the c= abin for a couple of weeks in July and August but Joe is quiet. Not that this is odd. We usually don’t talk much – we know everything there is to say, why rehash it? But I want to see how he feels a= bout it, even though I haven’t talked Brian into it yet, even though I k= now I’m on dangerous ground with Joe.&= nbsp; After thirty-two years you take chances.

Not t= hat Joe liked the idea of pulling out that shiny red tie of his. He just feels that Brian didn= 217;t take school seriously enough. Brian insisted graduation was all pompous bull. Joe would take this much more ea= sily if it weren’t a year later with Brian still sleeping on his buddy Larry’s couch, spending his days creating twisted metal sculptures = that Joe says look like nothing but a mistake. All without any clear plans for = the future.

Joe has a snag in his line and f= ingers at the knot. “He need= s to step away. You know what the cabin has done for us.”

Mark was one of the four roommates in Brian’s apartment at school and drank himself to death. Vodka and ibuprophen in the vomit at the foot of the steps. Brian asleep in his bedroom three stories up. We had some sav= ings from selling the house and now we have less. Legal fees; nothing came of it b= ut we had to be prepared.

&nb= sp; Of course every morning is just remembering the heartache. Sometimes it consumes my mind. But I don’t like it. Keeps me from thinking straight.=

I didn’t bring up Brian= 217;s problems until the 4^th of July that year when we were watching= the fireworks over the lake and laughing about her being my daughter Mary Ann= .

I was afraid of this. The newspaper had printed the roommates’ names, before they were cleared of wrongdoing.

“There was a party…” We were sitting on a big log at the edge of the water. The backs of my legs were itchin= g from the rough tree bark.

I wanted to ca= ll you but I chickened out. I̵= 7;m sorry.”

All that time I felt as if I had done something bad to one of her kids, one of her daughters who were both still in high school.

Somehow it mad= e me feel better about Brian, too.

Joe a= nd Tom are friends but Tom can drink a lot and Joe is what Tom calls a nurser. Tom had more than his usual six-= pack that night and Joe didn’t seem too interested in the fireworks. So Mary Ann takes me up to her c= abin and pulls out a glossy little box from the cupboard in her bathroom. There’s a picture of a bea= utiful woman with long golden hair wrapped around the side of the box and I just= say “Okay.” I’= ;ve been blonde ever since. Alm= ost two years later and it still doesn’t quite seem like me and sometim= es that feels okay. Imagine, blonde. Mary Ann says a fir= ework fell on my head and sparked new color into my life.

Sure = there are things going on in my head, and inside I’m arguing or crying or laughing or feeling low on love, but in the middle of all that thinking I’m looking at the water. Not like Joe does, thinking about what’s going on below. Not me. I’m watching the surface, = and how it changes, and in a million years I couldn’t consider thinking= any deeper.

So I just stare and stare at that water to see what I can come up with.&nb= sp; I have different visions of the water. There’s slinking eels and = floating golden rings, lacey curtains and checkerboard. I’m never sure how long I’m actually transfixed by the water but it doesn’t seem to t= ake long before it will totally change, and I can never quite catch it in the act. Metamorphosis, you mig= ht call it. It’s not tha= t the water looks like these different things; in my mind I know it becomes more than what it was. I stand leaning against the rail= ing of the boat, rocking gently, and it changes.

T= hey were out on the water for me to grab hold of and I stayed there thinking = how wonderful it would be when I gathered them up. Strings and strings of glittering diamonds. I’ve had ot= her visions, too. Sometimes I s= tare and, well, I know what Jesus done. I understand. Wasn&#= 8217;t much to it at all. I know f= or sure I could do it, too, because the water’s as solid as one of the rocks on the shore, and I know the truth of it, and it’s really no = big deal.

No fish and only two = days until the tournament. It= 217;s the storms. They come and go every day and it makes for lousy fishing.

I wait while Joe trolls around n= ear the shore, sensing vibrations like a robin staking out a worm.=

I used = to bait my own hook but I lost my hardness one day. Can barely release the fish from= the hook now.

We’re heading out towards = the camp grounds. Lots of kids = in wet shorts are scooting around on the docks.

The rod jerks in my hand. He looks at my blonde hair like he hates it. He stares at my red striped bath= ing suit like all he sees are those extra twenty-five pounds. He looks like he wants to wish a= way all thirty-two years.

He reaches = for the hook, steadies it as he digs through the dirt in the cup for a worm, = but it’s like he can’t look at me right.

I’m not sure why. I think I should be doing this m= yself because I can, no problem, putting that squirmy thing on that little gold hook. I could do it easy no= w.

But there aren’t too many boats out today with the cold winds and droopy gray clouds. So = when that motor hums and then kind of glubs and gurgles I notice it, even thou= gh I don’t realize what it means. I turn to look, casually, and not until I hear the wails do I real= ize it’s more than just kids’ games, and then I see the shaking h= ands against that thin woman’s face from way out here. I look toward the gurgling and a little green motor boat looks like the back of a turtle. Then from the wailing and scream= s, real words. “He can&#= 8217;t swim, oh God, he can’t…”

He drops my rod and grabs the st= eering wheel. We need to get to the overturned boat as fast as we can but we have to be careful of the wake, = so we just keep moving slow.

The man’s voice is calm and controlled. “He’= ;s okay. It’s all right.= He’s okay.”

She seems to hear bu= t it must not sink in because she stops, then starts screaming again. Finally everyone gathers around = her on the dock. “He’s okay,” the man in the water says.&= nbsp; I can see the two heads closer now and the man says something quie= t to the boy.

The winds shift everything so quickly. “Drop anchor,” he sa= ys, and I pull the weight from the bottom of the boat and lower it into the water, afraid of a tiny stir.

&= nbsp; “We’re okay,” he says to me as we near, Joe at t= he wheel trying to guide us in close.

The boy’s eyes are wide, s= trips of hair stamping his forehead, but the man’s eyes are wider. A Styrofoam bucket taps off the = green shell of the boat, and I think about his wallet and ID sinking to the bot= tom of the lake. The man’= s head is bald and pale.

“We’ll get you up here,” I say.

I= 217;m on my knees on the skinny outer ledge of the boat but I can’t keep = my balance when I lean. The man struggles, but isn’t strong enough to lift the boy and his vest out from the gray water. The tw= o of them look like bodiless heads floating across the surface.

He starts to stand up but then his forehead gets deep wrinkles and he sits b= ack down and grabs the wheel. I= turn to see the ballasts of the Sea Heart drifting awfully close to the boy. There’s not much time.

A mother knows tears= . Somehow this gives me the idea t= o go behind the rail of the pontoon, even though it’s farther away from = the water.

“He’s okay.”

“Lift him,” I tell t= he man. My stomach is digging = into the metal railing, my boobs hanging over it, and my flabby arms stretch o= ut to the boy. Blonde wisps sh= ift into my eyes. The man lifts= the boy as high as he can but I can see the man is shaking. I’ve got the boy under his= arms and it’s like he’s stuck.&nb= sp; There’s only half a boy here, I’m convinced; the rest = is molded in cement. “What’s your name?” I ask. I don’t know why I ask it.=

“Okay,” I say, “okay.” I think= the name, “Tim,” and he rises, comes up from the water all cold a= nd dripping, shining and dangling over the lapping water. I feel like I’ve given bir= th.

&nb= sp; He’s behind me, arms around my waist and not exactly pulling= but giving me support. They sta= y there while I guide Tim through the gate and sit him down. I pull the orange vest up over t= he boy’s head, which spikes up his hair. Joe lets go of my waist and head= s for the bald man still in the water. I grab a towel and wrap it around the boy.

His lips are purple and blue.

It’s really not that far.<= o:p>

I snap at it with my rod until it’s on board.

“You did fine,” he s= ays to the man in the water.

&= nbsp; His words seem to echo off the water.

He walks back to his skipper’s chair, patting Timmy’s wet head on the way.

&nbs= p; His voice is calm but I can hear a hint of tears.

&= nbsp;