Surface Tension (16 page)

Maybe nothing changes. Maybe everything
seems
to change but actually never does. I turn off the Rage and say, “Mom, do you know where my bathing suit is?”

“It's in the black suitcase under the white T-shirts.”

I knew that, but I kind of wanted to hear her say it anyway.

I miss Jennifer already. I want to call her, but I don't want to talk to her in front of Mom and Dad. God, I miss everything about her.

I'm not sure why I'm even here. I mean, I'm not a kid anymore. I don't really like fishing or jumping off the docks. I just wish Jennifer could have come with us. I don't see what the big deal is. Her parents were fine with it. It's only Mom who thinks it would be inappropriate for Jennifer and me to sleep together.

I told her we would sleep in a tent in the front yard, but that didn't make a difference. I mean, what would be the problem?

This isn't the eighteenth century. People sleep together
before they get married. Mom and Dad slept together before they got married. So why can't Jennifer and I sleep together before we get married?

Anyway, I just wish she were here. We could go out in the canoe and make out. We could go skinny-dipping and sleep on the dock. We could buy our own food and cook it. We could take the car out and make out.

We walk down to the beach, past the woodpile and a giant pile of rocks, some as big as bowling balls. There's the beginnings of a stone wall along the Richardsons' property line. I guess Mr. Richardson has finally had enough of those dogs. Dad says, “A wall.” And leaves it at that.

I'm still wearing shoes. There's a layer of plastic between me and the earth. I don't like it. I strip off my shoes and socks and tiptoe across the rocks to the edge of the lake. The water is like a mirror, but it's reflecting all the wrong stuff.

Mom and Dad are standing behind me. It's our first night back and the only thing they're talking about is the minister and how they can't believe that he still has the Confederate flag up. I can hear the dogs barking inside his house.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost happy to see that the minister still has his flag up. It's just kind of funny to see how everybody reacts to it. My parents are so liberal and are all about free speech and the First Amendment, but only when it doesn't involve a Confederate flag.

The Richardsons are out on their dock, and Mom walks over to talk to them about it. She is really letting this whole thing get to her.

I walk over and say hi to the Richardsons too. They barely acknowledge me. All they want to talk about is the
minister. I guess the breaking news is that he has a woman who sleeps there sometimes and they're not married. Scandalous. And apparently, she has a little daughter from some other relationship. God, I wish Jennifer were here.

Live and let live, that's what Jennifer would say. One of the things I really love about Jennifer is that she always has a good perspective on life. A positive attitude. She always says if you go through life with a negative attitude, things are going to be so much harder than they would be if you just looked on the bright side.

I walk down to the beach and check my cell phone to see if there's any messages from her, but I'm getting almost no service up here. That fucking sucks. Now I wish I hadn't come up this year at all. I could have stayed at Steve's. This is going to be the worst two weeks of my life.

I'm going out on the Richardsons' dock to get some sun. They're letting us use it so we can get a little farther away from the minister and the dogs. The boards on the dock are hot, so I lay my towel over them and lie down on my stomach. I'm so glad to be away from everyone. I just want to lie in the sun and think about Jennifer.

Last winter, Jennifer and I were lying up in her bed together, not even doing anything sexual, just keeping each other warm, and she had this old Lava lamp that she'd gotten for Christmas, and she turned it on and we just lay there staring at it and holding each other.

We kept asking each other what we were thinking about, staring at the red globs floating in the yellow fluid, and Jennifer was always thinking about something different, either poetry or a book that she was reading. I told her I was
thinking about music or trying to define the word “art.” But I never told her what I was really thinking about.

I was thinking about those famous photographs of a baby in the womb and how the red globs in the Lava lamp looked just like that baby developing. And then I thought about how much I wanted to have a baby with Jennifer.

I know we're not old enough yet, but later, when we get married after college, we're going to have a baby together and raise it to be really open-minded and to have all sorts of passions for music and art and cinema.

Anyway, that's what I used to think about before we had the pregnancy scare in the spring and I stopped thinking about that.

She's at theater camp right now. I'm going to write her a letter, just so she knows I'm thinking about her. I get up off the dock and walk right through the Richardsons' yard. I walk into the cottage and tear a few pieces of paper off the pad next to the telephone.

I look up at the painting that's above the green couch. I don't know why, but I've never really looked at it before. It's an oil painting of waves breaking over rocks. Where did we get that? Has it been here the whole time?

Whatever, I'm just going to write what I feel.

That's awesome. That's an awesome letter. I know she's going to love it. I hope Mom has stamps. I'm going to put it in the mailbox.

Mike and Eliza are down for the weekend and their daughter, Emma, is wobbling around on the lawn like a spinning top. I try not to have too much to do with Mike and Eliza because they're kind of crazy. I remember that time I was hanging out over there and Eliza got all weird.

I'm not sure what to make of that, but I just remember it was kind of a weird situation. It reminds me of the Seamus
Heaney poem that Jennifer loves, about how he's a writer, and his dad and granddad were diggers, but he can't dig like they used to, so he just digs with his pen.

I like that poem, but I can't remember what it has to do with Mike and Eliza. Nothing probably. I just miss Jennifer.

Got a letter in the mail from Jennifer. I'm so excited. God, it even smells like her.

That's sweet. God, I miss her.

I look at the picture. The girls are all smiling for the camera in the cheesiest way possible and doing jazz hands in a dance studio. They all look like really nice girls and a lot of them are really hot.

In the background of the photo there's a big mirror and I can see the flash of the camera reflected in the mirror. I can also see the person who's taking the picture. It's a guy. He looks tall and he has messy brown hair.

I don't recognize him, but that doesn't mean anything, because there's no reason that I should recognize him. He's probably a teacher or maybe one of the other girls' boyfriends. I'll have to ask Jenn about him when I talk to her on Tuesday.

I've been watching Mr. Richardson work on his stone wall while I pretend to read my Stephen King book. Shirtless in the sun, his hair wet and matted to his chest and back— that's the way he likes it.

He brings the wheelbarrow over to the mountain of rocks and loads up about ten of the bowling balls. They're heavy obviously, because his old-man arms shake as he lifts them up and into the wheelbarrow. Then he brings them over to his work area and lays them all out on the grass. He
looks at them for a while like he's figuring out how to put a jigsaw puzzle together and then he stacks them into his wall. He's not using mortar or anything, so it's pretty amazing that the wall is holding up at all. I know it wouldn't if I were building it. I bet he thinks I'm lazy just sitting here and watching him work, but I'm not lazy. I actually don't feel like helping him.

I walk over, sort of in his direction and sort of in the direction of the water. I haven't decided if I'm going to say anything to him.

I get within ten feet and he says, “Cool Hand Luke,” just like he used to, but he doesn't look up.

I say, “Hey, Mr. Richardson, whatcha workin' on?”

“A wall.”

“Yeah, how's that going?” He's finished about ten feet, and he's got about another hundred and fifty to go.

“It's going.” I knew he was going to say that. I look over at the big rock pile, and I almost offer to help him wheel a few loads over, but I don't, because I hate that he's building this thing. I really hate it.

“Well, keep up the good work.” I'm not sure if he can tell that I don't mean it.

“Will do.”

I walk down to the lake and skip a stone. The feeling doesn't go away.

I got a postcard from Jennifer. She must have gotten my letter. It's on the back of one of those free postcards you can get from a restaurant. It has a picture of a bunch of daisies blooming and a few cows chomping on them in a field. There's a poem written on the back.

I love her sense of humor. It's brilliant. The cows eating the daisies and all that. It's just a little depressing to read that last line, “Our love becomes shit.” I'm going to call her tonight at eight.

It's seven-fifty. I check my cell phone. No service. I pick up the house phone to call Jennifer, but someone is on the fucking party line. I can't make a call until they hang up. This sucks.

I hang up the phone and sit down on the green couch and stare at the phone. I wonder who's on the phone. It's probably the minister.

I look out the window across the lawn. Yup, he's on the phone. Pacing back and forth, wrapping the cord around his hand like a twelve-year-old girl.

I pick up the phone lightly and listen without breathing.

“Hey, what are you watching?”

A thin voice on the other end of the line says,
“Matlock.”

“Oh yeah? You having fun?”

I can't tell if the voice is a really old woman or a little girl. The voice is strange. I think it might be a little girl, because I can hardly understand her, but it could be an old woman who had a stroke.

He says, “You can watch that when you get here. What did you have for dinner?”

“Hot dogs.”

“Were they good?”

“Yeah.”

“Ha-ha.”

Oh for fuck's sake. I can't believe he's talking about hot dogs. I say, “Excuse me, I need to use the phone.”

He pauses for a second and then says, “So what did you have on the hot dogs?”

“Mustard and relish.”

“Yeah? That sounds good.”

I try and say it with more force. “Excuse me, I need to use the phone.”

He doesn't even pause this time. He just continues his stupid conversation.

He's ignoring me. What a dickhead.

I walk out of the house and stare straight at him. He's not looking over here. I walk out into the middle of the lawn and stare at him. He is the biggest asshole in the world. I can't believe I ever thought he wasn't. He still won't look at me.

This is bullshit. All right, I'm not going to get caught up in this bullshit just like everybody else. I'm going to calm down. I walk down to the lake. I walk past him, but I don't look at him.

He says, “So did you have any ketchup?”

He's got to be talking to a little kid. I try and skip a stone. I get a couple, but nothing spectacular.

The summer light is fading and the moon is rising up over the lake, and it looks like an orange lollipop. I should write a poem about that for Jennifer.

Fuck it. It's almost eight o'clock and I need to use the

phone. I stomp back toward the minister's house. He's gone

inside, but he's still talking on the phone. I can hear him

through the sliding screen door. The dogs are growling, but

at least they're inside the house.

“Yeah, should I put mustard on mine?”