Hydroplane: Fictions Read online

  And I went to school that night. The girl and I laughed. We talked of nothing significant. And I thought of friendship. I thought of me and the girl as friends. And she smoked and swallowed the smoke.

  And I thought of trees. How they grow out of nothing. Dirt. How they grow into nothing. Air. How somehow there's life. A spark. Until it gets crushed. That's life you know. Screaming oneself awake. Redfaced and bald. Closing the eyes. Bald again. Just stop me now. I knew nothing. I admit it. I know nothing.

  The girl. I tried to tell her. I had nothing to tell. But I tried. I pushed against her. I said, what on earth. I was starting up. She said, what's wrong with you, and walked away. I followed her into her space. I looked at her paintings. I would say sorry for laughing in class. Sorry for being so unfit. She looked so hurt. She said, stop. I thought, sorry for laughing. But her paintings were spread across her wall. And they were awful. Lifelike one could say. I felt I would laugh into fits. I knew she would hurt when I did. And I started to laugh. But I wasn't laughing. I felt it starting. I said, I don't feel well. Stop, she said.

  In the end I saw the girl through the tube. She looked scared. Or hurt. She looked far away. And light shot past like stars. I went outside. I went under a car. My pulse began to slow. At some point the sun rose and shone over top. It brightened the gutter. The leaves in the gutter were bright. This isn't symbolic. I didn't think of my boyfriend. I didn't think of my mother. I didn't cry into the leaves for goodness sake. I just breathed as we do.

  Souvenir

  It was him on my way to the market. There were things I needed. Milk. Bread. But he stood for the bus in a crowd. In rain. I stopped.

  It was him I knew in the narrow nose. In the filmy cheeks and hair. Even the sweater looked his. The diamond shapes. And the fisherman's cap. I knew it too well. Always kept with the others on the closet shelf. Over his ladyfriend's Russian furs.

  I swayed for a second. I wouldn't say reeled but I felt as my legs gave way.

  He was swaying too a bit it seemed. But no he wasn't. Just it was windy, turning more than a drizzle.

  Others stood with umbrellas. They wore raincoats. They looked to me, then to their shoes.

  His jacket was shoddy. Last year's outdated. It was strange to see his exhale. I wouldn't say painful. Just the last time I saw him he had been gasping.

  And when he turned to me now. Split second. Well, I clutched the bus stop signpost tight from the curb. The others knew not to look at me. They watched for the bus.

  I was a fool, I knew it. I felt like one. But I hadn't seen that posture in two plus years. I had near forgotten that diamond sweater. Those scuffed brown shoes. Thin clouds on the exhale.

  He looked again.

  And had he said word one to me. Even, what time do you have. Well, I was trying my damnedest not to flat-out faint. I just needed to get to the market. It would close soon. There were things I wanted. Bread.

  Plus the rain was falling harder. I should have driven. I turned to walk.

  But I had so much to say. A lot had gone on.

  For one small thing the bus fare. A whole new cost.

  For another my plants had grown to this long.

  And my car. Older but fine. Just one breakdown in the two plus years. A jump-start and it worked good as new. And the wipers sometimes shut off. Unexpected. Almost always during a big storm. Go figure.

  A good reason to walk or take the bus.

  He would have laughed at this.

  And my cat was still going. Twelve years and counting. He sleeps most days, I wanted to say.

  There was my job.

  Various places closed down in the city. Various opened.

  And the Orioles still were no good lousy. We could all agree. Those slobs.

  When he looked again I thought to speak. Or to grab hold of his sweater.

  His hair moved around his cap edge. He needed a shave. An umbrella. A raincoat. He needed the bus already. Where was it.

  It's funny. I never remembered him taking the bus. He owned a two-toned car the last year. Blue and light blue. Sporty, he said of it.

  But you can't take it with you is how it goes. The car was sold to a neighbor. A stranger. Mister so-and-so from two doors down. And the furniture too. And the other things I wanted. His paintings for instance. He was a painter. And the forks were sold off. All of the silver in fact. But the forks somehow stood out as significant. I wouldn't say sacred. Just all those dinners at his house.

  I tried to keep a fork but my father shook it from my hand.

  They're a set, he said. It clattered to the floor.

  I wanted the two-toned car but I had a car.

  For awhile we watched TV. Me and my father. It was something funny. Then it turned serious. He pulled the plug. He took the TV to the neighbor's.

  I sat in quiet.

  So much to say and the bus was coming.

  I was curious, had he seen anyone else from the family. Or anyone famous. And where had he been anyway all this time. I wasn't thinking foreign countries. I wasn't thinking heaven or hell. I wasn't like that. All that nonsense talk of clouds and fire. The rabbi's words. And why not in a closet, I wanted to ask. Hiding in his ladyfriend's battered furs. In a pocket with her scented lipsticks.

  Or more absurd.

  Like clinging to my father's earlobe. Whispering, you'll never amount. You bum.

  But he always said you die you rot.

  I never believed it.

  You evaporate.

  No. Not true.

  I knew it was him with that stubborn posture never swaying in the downpour. I knew his downward look. His bitterness. That scowl, I knew it well.

  It said, you never saved me, you fool.

  He wanted to live.

  Well, who doesn't. It's funny.

  Everyone knew the doctors made a mistake. They shouldn't have cut him open. He was getting old. Getting weak. But he wasn't so sick. So they said. He could've recovered with no procedure. They said this to my father.

  My father said, go for it.

  When he flat-lined his ladyfriend said, someone goofed. She cursed in Russian.

  It rained that day too. It always seems to when it should.

  My father planned a service quick. The following day he spoke. There were rows of flowers. Bowls of bitter Russian candies. The rabbi talking of clouds. Of doves. The desert and fire. My father didn't cry for his father. No one did.

  And two plus years later I sure wasn't crying. I was thinking of wearing his shoes in the rain. Strange as that was. I was thinking of feeling the hot leather insides. I used to wear them and clomp through his hallways. The brown ones looked more like girl shoes. But I could fit both feet inside one if I wanted.

  I sat in his chair in his shoes before dinner. I could fit my whole body in one corner of the chair. I slept in the corner and the shoes slipped off.

  Then we ate.

  When the line flattened the predictable tone followed. Like watching serious TV, said my father. And we'd seen so much TV we knew just how to act. Either courageous or sobbing.

  We were courageous. Even laughing.

  We even went to the gift shop to browse. We even went to the cafeteria. The game was on. My father managed a, go!

  Those slobs.

  Those fools, I said.

  I never saw it coming.

  Well, no one did. Those show-off doctors. Someone goofed.

  His ladyfriend cursed her head off in Russian. It was the damnedest time trying to shut her off.

  It's natural.

  He's still with us.

  Eat your pie.

  Good girl.

  No one knew what my father was saying. I said not one word but whistled instead. Maybe for the first time ever. My father said, stop that lousy whistling.

  But I couldn't stop at first. Then I laughed so hard I had to leave. I wandered the hallways and stood in the stairwell. I laughed in the lousy stairwell lighting. There were echoes.

  The Orioles would have won
that day. But the rain.

  I left without a word.

  I sat in the breakdown lane when my wipers shut off. And I didn't cry but it seemed I was. All those rainstreak shadows on my skin.

  I at least felt sad, I admit. Picture the cafeteria's light green walls. The souvenirs they sell in gift shops. My father's shoddy overcoat. Pie crumbs on a smear of lipstick.

  The gasping before the solid line.

  The filmy eyes saying, save me, you fool.

  But it wasn't my job.

  Funny how slow I drove when the wipers recovered. Thinking of nothing but gray and gray and gray.

  At home was quiet. Then a mouse darted through the hallway and back. Then the cat.

  I thought, go for it.

  I wasn't surprised by the chase. I almost expected the kill. It was a parallel.

  And the mouse too didn't die all the way. Not at first I mean. Picture it. And the cat was already sleeping. I left the mouse in the hallway and slept.

  In my dreams I was chased. Not surprising.

  I waked when my father called in the morning. He said, don't be late.

  Later he spoke. Nothing significant. And the rabbi said, one dies so one lives. I didn't believe him.

  Later I talked to my father. I told him of the cat. The parallel.

  I said, one dies so another dies.

  How the ladyfriend carried on. Her lipstick bleeding to her teeth. Russian candies puffing her face.

  She mumbled, what the hell is she talking about.

  My father scowled.

  I said nothing.

  It was odd staying where he had lived. I wouldn't say scary. Just all his things going into boxes. A funny procedure. It went on for days and days.

  At some point my father got the ashes. He dumped them in the damnedest place. He said, he deserved it.

  Then he laughed.

  Well, I couldn't tell this to the man at the bus stop. His stubborn posture would have bent. He would have screamed, that lousy bum! Your father's a bum!

  He would have told a story to the crowd.

  Here's how her father lost his job.

  Here's how her father wrecked his life.

  Here's how her father wrecked his kid.

  But the ashes blended right into the drive. All that gray. My father backed the two-toned car and drove it two doors down. He carried the furniture alone. The paintings.

  His father would have said, you lousy show-off. You'll wreck the paintings.

  And after all that time. All that work.

  I thought how he once showed me to paint. Outside. In fall. He wore a sweater that day too. A cap. I watched the exhale float from his face. And I wasn't thinking life that day. Just cold. Gray. We painted a tree. The plants around it. He said to use black for the trunk. Green for the leaves.

  I used green for the trunk. He scowled.

  My father waved from the window. He laughed at my tree.

  The ladyfriend brought us bitter candies.

  She always kept his furniture polished and more. His silver.

  He always said, she's a keeper.

  She said, I don't want his things. She packed up hers and went to her son's.

  My father boxed the forks. Insignificant after all. He made me stand. He carried the chair on his back to the neighbor's. It was black leather. It was his father's most-liked chair. The one where I slept before dinner. His shoes slipped off when I slept. I no longer fit in a corner. Not surprising.

  I took a spoon when my father wasn't looking. I put it in my pocket. A souvenir.

  So much to say as the rain fell harder. I had no umbrella.

  It was only an old man, you fool. A stranger.

  And I needed to get to the market.

  I noticed his shoes had come undone. I considered crouching. But he stood proud, letting the laces hover and flop.

  Stubborn. Just like him.

  His ladyfriend sure would have crouched and tied them. She would have said, you stubborn man.

  I wonder now why I stood in the downpour. It was cold out.

  I wonder too how he kept his cap. His things. You're not supposed to take it with you. Everyone knows.

  It wasn't him, you fool.

  I know.

  When we finished putting things in boxes I didn't look around. There was nothing but space besides. Boxes. I left his house for the last time ever. My car wouldn't start. It was night. Raining again. The neighbor jumped my car with the two-toned car. Good as new.

  Then in the breakdown lane I considered some things. Nothing significant now.

  At home I remembered the mouse. It had crawled to a corner and died. I scooped it up with the spoon. I threw it to the street. Spoon and all. It disappeared into the downpour.

  And now my hair was drenched.

  I had no money for the bus. Just enough for the market.

  My cat was old and slow.

  My job.

  And I was whistling again. He was withering there. I wouldn't say evaporating. But the word came to me.

  Then the bus.

  Caught

  Lord she was glorious in that dress. Fresh, I would venture, brilliant.

  And good to see the Chinese wilted flower pattern, perhaps outdated, of black and red on a night so wet. Fastened off-center, as it was, and short, I spied her knees despite my speed through the doorway, and suntanned they were, brilliant, golden.

  My mother would have piped in, Cheap, but this girl, she struck me, and I struck her as well, though, funny, with the door is how I did. And she didn't flinch when it smacked her, though I did flinch outright, feeling the smack, then seeing her brilliant, static poise.

  She was glorious in that light.

  But here's me talking of a girl, of a dress, when I had rushed in rain-soaked, gasping, lord, like a wet dog, as the old saying goes, into the ladies' room, my hair matted flat, my skirt dripping wet as if water sprung from leaks in the skirt itself.

  My mother would have said, Dry those clothes, had I shown to her house wet as that. Dry up, she would have said, pitching a towel. She would have said, A drowned rat is what she looks like, and I did look a sight, squeaking wet shoes across the tiles, squeezing water from my hair with paper.

  I knew I had to rush—there was no denying—time was flying past.

  There was dinner waiting and talk—we had hardly talked all year, I with my life, my mother with hers. There were neighbors waiting, and here I was late, the drive one more hour, at least, and what kind of daughter, yes, yes, I had heard it. I should have called more often, I should have driven quicker; I had heard it all. I would rush.

  But I was soaked to the bones, as they say, and drying, not thinking of the reason I had rushed in first, which was to use the room, so to speak. How odd to say, to use.

  And I was too soaked to use anything, really, my skirt matted smack to my legs, heavy with wet, and dark.

  And this girl stood poised under the heat light, bone-dry, glorious in Chinese flowers, not looking at me, at my burst through the door, but looking only at herself in the mirror.

  I would explain my lateness to my mother.

  I would tell her weather, Bad weather, I swear.

  She would say, She brings bad weather with her, She always has, Am I right.

  She would say, The rainclouds must follow her around, all the times she's rushed in soaked from rain.

  The neighbors would laugh behind their hands. They would give the looks that say, We shouldn't be laughing at the poor thing, should we.

  And I would explain my look. That weather was to blame. That I dried my rain-soaked hair with paper, I swear, in a tavern, in the ladies'.

  My mother would say, She could have stopped off, cleaned up, dried a bit more to be decent, for decency still counts, Am I right, And anything less than decent is not worth the drive.

  Tell me if I'm not right.

  I went into one stall, the girl into the other, both of us locking, unbuttoning, and sitting, though I never, in general, sat all
the way, but here, for some reason, I did and hard. The seat was hot from the heat light, I ventured, so hot I could have slept there and waked in hours, days, when someone happened to knock and wake me. I could have slept there, head to the door.

  And I started to drain, my mother's word, more decent, she thought, than piss or pee or whatever we said as kids.

  I spied the girl's black slipper under the divider, and I thought how small; my feet would never have fit in shoes so perfect and small, and how curious, too, her shoes, they were dry. In a blinding downpour. How odd.

  I thought, did she hear how my big, soaked shoes had squeaked across the tiles on my way to the stall like a bad hinge worn from use. I could have blushed, were I that type, and had she heard my shoes, cheap as they were, squeaking across, and she must have heard, her shoes being so curiously dry; they were slippers; who wouldn't have heard.

  Like buffalo, my mother once piped through a smirking mouth. Like a whole herd of buffalo coming through the house, and I laughed with the neighbors. You're funny, I said.

  Well, this girl must have been on her way out, and the rain must have rained during her dinner, for she was dry. And I was sure she had already eaten, for she did seem, somehow, already fed, satisfied, it seemed, in the way she took her time.

  I slowed my speed to hers.

  I thought of her hands, small, propping her up from the seat.

  I thought of her face, her gaze on the door of the stall.

  And I knew her date waited at the bar, a wiry one, chewing a toothpick, taking a mint for later.

  And I could tell they would leave, these two. He would take her somewhere, to a lot, to sit, to kiss; I knew this part, the rush.

  There was no denying the heat of hands on the back.

  My mother would have said, That animal, had he been mine looking so rough as that, looking him toe to face as he sucked his toothpick waiting for his girl.