“
You might do all right against those seventh and eighth graders
” Ross had said condescendingly. “
Most of them are about your size
.”
Well, even though the conversation had taken place weeks ago, those words had been etched into his mind. A lot of nights he
had gone to bed thinking about them.
What can I do to make that wise guy eat his words? Joey had asked himself several times since then. He’ll have graduated from
high school by the time I’ve really become a good swimmer. But even
good
won’t mean that I’d be fast enough to beat him. Ross’s long arms and legs are to his advantage. There must be something else
that I can learn to do well and beat him at.
Just last night it had come to him what that could be.
“How about tomorrow morning, Joey?” his father asked him at the supper table Friday evening. “You want to wake up at six o’clock
and go fishing with me? Maybe we can give each other luck.”
His father had gone fishing every evening for an hour or so since Monday, and all he had caught were eight perch, three smallmouth
bass,
and one lake trout. Two of the perch were too small to bother with, and one of the bass was under legal size, so he had thrown
them back into the water, leaving him with a total of nine fish. All were cleaned and put in the freezer, left for more to
accumulate to make a fish cookout for the family of six worthwhile.
“Okay,” said Joey. “We’re not going to be gone all day, are we?”
“Noon at the latest,” assured his father.
He had planned on spending most of Saturday in the water. But it was the first time his father had invited him to go fishing
with him, and he had thought about trying his luck at it sometime, anyway.
They finished supper, one of Joey’s favorite meals —
majorannás tokány
— beef stew with marjoram. For dessert there was still
almásrétes
— apple strudel —left from yesterday. His mother always called the foods she prepared by their Hungarian name, and probably
would for the rest of her life.
Half an hour after suppertime, he and his brother and sisters went swimming until sundown. The next morning his father awakened
him at six. What a short night, he thought. But, uncomplaining, he dressed, had a breakfast of
two scrambled eggs, toast, and milk, and went fishing with his father. They trolled a few miles northward on the east side
of the lake, and Joey’s father caught two smallmouth bass. Then they crossed the lake and went in the opposite direction for
a few miles. This time Joey landed a sixteen-inch northern pike, which, while he was reeling it in, fought hard and bitterly
trying to throw the hook that had nabbed it.
“Good boy!” exclaimed his father proudly. “I said you would bring us luck!”
They caught a few small perch, which they threw back, and then returned home. It was close to eleven o’clock, and the sun,
almost over their heads now, was getting unbearably hot.
They showed their prize catches to the family — Joey proudly describing the struggle he had pulling in his while they all
listened with awe. Then his father cleaned the fish at the dock, tossing the fins, innards, and heads back into the water
for scavengers to devour.
“Tonight, my dear Margaret,” he said to his wife who stood by watching with the children, “we will have fish.”
She smiled. “
Tejfeles suit ponty
” she said, the words rolling with a smooth, musical sound from her lips.
“Yes,” he said. “Baked in cream. Ah, yes! I told you Joey would bring us luck, didn’t I?”
“Maybe he is a natural fisherman,” said his wife.
“Don’t count on it,” said Joey, amused.
She made them an assortment of sandwiches for lunch. After lunch and what seemed a reasonable lapse of “digesting” time, Joey
put on his trunks and went swimming. The water was shallow next to shore. And in checking the depth of it, he found he could
walk out almost a hundred feet before it reached his chin. The water was cold, but no matter, as long as he could stand it.
He turned and retraced his steps toward shore until the water was up to his chest, then dove in, and swam the rest of the
way. He was still only able to swim about twenty feet before he was tired and out of breath. But after standing for a minute
or two, he pushed himself back into the water and continued to swim until he was tired and out of breath again.
He could see that the girls and Gabor had progressed in their swimming, too, although not as much as he. But, then, he was
sure that none of them had the determination that he had. None had the purpose to learn to be as good as possible as he. One
of these days soon, he would
tell them his secret ambition. For a while, though, he would keep it to himself.
They had been in the water only about half an hour when Joey heard one of the girls cry out a name. He looked toward shore
and saw Paula Kantella coming down the steps. He felt his heart jump. She was wearing white shorts and a halter. Her hair
was loose around her shoulders, being teased by the breeze that was blowing from across the lake.
Another girl was with her. Cindy somebody. Joey had seen her in a couple of his classes but couldn’t remember her last name.
What he could remember about her was that she talked a lot. She was of slight build, had black hair, wore green shorts, and
had skinny legs.
Garfield. That’s who she was. Cindy Garfield.
Yolanda and Mary left the water to greet the girls, leaving Gabor behind. He hardly noticed because he was in his glory splashing
in the shallow water some ten feet off shore, his flotation vest buckled on him.
Joey went on swimming, taking long overhand strokes while a small part of his mind hoped that Paula would watch him and notice
how much he had progressed in the short time since she had last seen him. He still wasn’t able to
swim far, however, and had to stop, stand up, and catch his breath.
“Joey! Come here a minute!”
He looked toward shore and saw Yolanda motioning to him.
“Be right there!” he called back.
He swam part of the way in, then waded the remaining twenty feet or so. “Hi, Paula. Hi, Cindy,” he greeted the girls.
“Hi,” they said.
“There’s a swim meet at Merton High that starts at two o’clock,” Paula went on. “Would you like to see it?”
He thought a moment. “I don’t know. What time is it now?”
She looked at her wristwatch. “One forty-five. You still have time. Anyway, even if we’re late, there are quite a few races
we’d see.”
“If you’ve never seen a swim meet you’ll love it,” said Cindy, squinting one eye and looking at him through the narrowed lid
of the other as the sun beat down on her face. “And if you’re not a good swimmer you’ll learn a lot, too, just by watching.”
So Paula’s told you I’m a poor swimmer, he wanted to say to her. Can’t be you were looking a minute ago while I was out there,
Cindy kid.
“Maybe I would,” he said.
“You’ve improved a lot,” Paula said to him. “I saw you out there.”
He shrugged.
“Well, I —”
“He’s been out there every day this week,” Yolanda broke in. “He’s crazy, I tell you. You’d think that’s all he has to do.”
Paula smiled.
“Well, will you come? We can either ride our bikes, hitchhike, or my mother can drive us there.”
“I don’t have a bike,” Joey said.
“I’ll have my mother drive us,” Paula decided. “Why don’t you and Mary come, too, Yolanda?” she invited politely. “I’m sure
you’ll enjoy it.”
“No, thanks, Paula. I’d rather stay here and swim.”
“Me, too,” said Mary. “And we’ve got to keep an eye on Gabe.”
Paula shrugged. “Okay. See you all later.”
Joey hurried to the house to change. He had two reasons for going. One was that he did want to see the meets, and the other,
well, he kind of liked being with Paula.
The swimming pool inside Merton High was a glimmering rectangle of blue. Black lines were
spaced out at an even parallel on the white bottom to accommodate eight swimmers at a time.
They missed the first event but were in time to see the second, which was already in progress.
“They’re in the breaststroke event,” observed Cindy as they hurried to find a seat in the already well-packed hall. A couple
of kids shouted greetings at them, other kids from Gatewood Central. They waved back and said, “Hi!”
They found three seats halfway up the east side of the pool. Joey sat next to Paula, hoping that Cindy would sit next to her.
But Cindy sat beside him, leaving him in between them.
The crowd was a mixture of parents and students, with the students outnumbering the parents by about eight to one. The huge
room was a bedlam of chattering voices and yells. It was hard to tell whom anyone was rooting for, unless the student was
wearing a shirt with the name of his or her school on it.
The only swimmer Joey thought he would know competing in the breaststroke event was Ross Cato. Even while he looked over the
swimmers to identify Ross, Paula’s voice broke in beside him. “That’s Ross — in the yellow trunks. See where he is, don’t
you?”
“Yeah,” said Joey. “In front.”
“By two lengths, at least,” added Cindy, sit
ting on the edge of her seat and clasping white-knuckled hands against her chest. “C’mon, Ross! C’mon, Ross! Isn’t he fantastic!”
Joey’s attention switched from one swimmer to another, but most of the time it was focused on the leader, Ross. Ross swam
with no periods of rest, his elbows pulling down to his sides, hands cupped to pull himself through the water, then extending
forward again for the next stroke. Power and strength surged with each forward thrust.
The guy could swim. No doubt about it.
Joey watched closely as Ross, and then the others, made the turn. Both hands touching the wall at the same time, then touching
the gutter with both hands. Grab it with one, let go with the other. Pull up close to the wall, tuck knees up, twist, take
a breath, throw the arms over, push off, glide, pull through the water with one arm, kick to get back on the surface. Swim
again.
Ross won the event, almost two and a half lengths ahead of the second-place finisher. And he probably could’ve done better
if he wanted to, thought Joey.
They watched the butterfly event — which Ross did not compete in — and the backstroke in which he did, and won.
But it was the crawl — the overhand stroke —
that Joey was particularly interested in and that he watched with close scrutiny.
He had not paid much attention to his own swimming style; all he’d been interested in was staying close to the surface of
the water and pulling himself forward in it. But now he paid strict attention to the swimmers’ actions and movements, particularly
to the angle at which their elbows, arms, and legs moved. From the speed that the swimmers were attaining, he realized how
vitally important those details were. Bring elbow high out of the water, reach out above the surface of it for the next stroke
while taking a short vigorous stroke with the other hand. Repeat the same moves on the other side.
But maybe this style was best for sprints. Long-distance swimming might demand a different style. Joey had to check it out.
Ross won this race too.
JOEY thought the
tejfeles sült ponty
was extra-delicious. Along with the fish, his mother had cooked potatoes and
zeller saláta
, celery-root boiled in salted water and served as a salad seasoned with salt, pepper, and mayonnaise. Joey loved that, too.
She had also made up a bowl of sliced cucumbers dipped in vinegar and, for dessert, a Hungarian walnut roll she called
diós tekercs
.
When the meal was over, everything was gone except some of the walnut roll, not because it wasn’t enjoyed, but because Joey’s
mother always made more than enough so there would be leftovers for an evening snack or for the next day.
After dinner Joey’s father went fishing in his boat, and the kids went swimming. Joey tried to swim the crawl as he had remembered
Ross and the other swimmers do it, feeling awkward at first, but gradually believing that he was getting the hang of it. He
tried the breaststroke, too, and then the back crawl, neither of which appealed to him as much as the regular freestyle, overhand
swimming stroke.
On Monday he brought home three books from the school library, all devoted to swimming. Along with the books he also took
out a brochure about the lakes of New York State. That night, after dark, he read up on Oshawna Lake and made a copy of the
map of the lake in pencil on an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper. He indicated the direction it lay by drawing an
arrow that pointed north, wrote its length (twenty-one miles), its width at its widest part (two and a quarter miles), and
its depth at its deepest part near its center (six hundred and ninety-three feet).
He held the drawing up and looked again at the shape of the lake. About halfway up, about ten miles from the south end, the
lake curved slightly to the right. It looked to be the narrowest at that juncture. It was perhaps a mile wide there, or a
mile and a half.
Joey didn’t have any doubt that at least one person had swum the width of the lake, perhaps even at its widest part. But had
anyone ever swum the length of it? The whole twenty-one miles?
Had a kid ever swum it? A kid, say, his age — fourteen.
It would be something if a kid had. Maybe he could find out.
A soft rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes?” he said.
“Joey, it’s me. You okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
It was Yolanda. “May I come in?”
Why not? He couldn’t keep his dream a secret forever.
“Sure,” he said.
She came in, closed the door softly behind her, and looked at the paper he was holding.
“You’ve been in here for almost an hour,” she said. “Quiet as a mouse.”
“I know.”
“You drew that? What is it?”
He held it up so she could see it. “Oh. It’s Oshawna Lake,” she said, recognizing it. “What are those figures for?”