Authors: Nick Lake
You put your hand on my shoulder. Nothing more. You didn’t say anything.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I said.
“Cass …”
“She’s dead, and we had ONE LEAD. And now …”
“The cops—”
“The cops know NOTHING. You said so yourself.”
“Oh, Cass.”
I turned away from you. Through my tears, the world on the other side of the truck window was blurred; running to the ground, melting down to nothing. I shut my eyes and closed it out.
“Cass. Cass.”
I opened my eyes. We were parked on one of the streets behind the boardwalk. We were right outside a fifties motel. The Flamingo. There was a giant pink plastic flamingo outside, holding a cocktail with an umbrella in it. Three floors of rooms rose up on the other side of a thin strip of grass, pink with white balconies, like a wedding cake.
“What are we doing here?” I said.
“I want to show you something,” you said.
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
You shrugged. You tapped the radio on your shoulder. “I
am
at work. When there are no deliveries, I’m supposed to sort stock, tidy up the piles. That kind of ****. But they won’t know.”
“And if you get a call for deliveries?”
“Then I’ll have to take it.”
“My dad—”
“Won’t be home for hours and you know it.”
“He sometimes comes back for lunch.”
“When was the last time?”
“About … Hmm. About two years ago.”
“Wow,” you said. “You two make me and my dad look functional.”
“We live to serve,” I said flatly.
You made an impatient gesture. “Anyway. I do want to show you something. Come on,” you said, and you got out of the truck and walked up to the motel.
“Fine,” I said, to nobody. And I followed you inside.
The lobby was arranged around a pond, a fake palm tree in the middle of it. A huddle of pink lawn flamingos gathered next to the palm tree, metal legs disappearing into the murky water. A mural of a lagoon in Florida surrounded us, lurid sunset turning the walls orange and red.
A young, bored-looking guy wearing glasses sat at the reception desk. You walked over, nodding to him.
“You got it?” he said.
“Yep.” You handed him a Jiffy envelope and he slid it away, out of sight under the desk.
“Cool if we go to the roof?” you said.
“Whenever, man,” said the guy behind the desk.
You nodded toward a door at the back of the lobby and then opened it for me. “Jesus,” I said. “Are you a drug dealer?” I was remembering your saying that you’d made a delivery to Bayview; that this was why you knew about the cross streets.
“Not
me
. My boss.”
“But …”
“Turns out, that’s why they wanted someone with a driving license. I don’t have to shell shrimp, but I do have to deliver stuff.”
“But if you were caught …”
“I won’t be. And I need the cash. It pays better than the shrimp.”
“You can’t need the money that badly.”
You stopped and looked at me. “No? My scholarship only pays tuition and room and board.”
“Your dad—”
“Lost his job like three years ago.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“So,” I said. “That’s what you wanted to show me? That you were dealing?”
“Actually, no.”
We were climbing the stairs; we’d arrived at the top of the building. We walked down a gloomy corridor, past a flickering green fire-exit sign, and stopped at a door that said,
POOL. OPEN 10–4 P.M., MAY TO OCT. NO NUDITY OR DIVING. NO UNACCOMPANIED CHILDREN.
You pushed open the door, and we stepped out onto the roof. Pink lounge chairs were lined up next to a surprisingly clean swimming pool, the water clear and blue under the bright sunny sky. We were three stories up; you could see over the buildings on the other side of the street to the boardwalk, and the beach beyond, the sand almost golden next to the dark navy of the ocean. A container ship crawled across the horizon.
“Weirdly beautiful, isn’t it?” you said.
“Yeah.”
The pool was long and oblong. To the right of it was a bar area, a tiki-style thing with a straw roof. I figured they would be big on cocktails with umbrellas in them. Next to this was a small bandstand with mike stands, amps, and instruments sitting there, as if a band had been playing them and had suddenly abandoned them for some urgent reason.
At the edges of the roof were low walls. I could see why there were
NO UNACCOMPANIED CHILDREN
. I could also see, by crouching, that when you were swimming you would barely see the walls—it would be as if you were swimming in the sea, nothing between you and the ocean.
You saw me crouching. “Cool, no?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When you’re in, it’s like an infinity of water.”
“Poetic.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I walked around the pool. “You come here often?”
“You picking me up?”
I raised my eyebrows. Didn’t answer.
“Sorry. Yeah, I do. To swim.”
“You swim here?”
You tapped your waist. “Always have swim shorts under my pants. I couldn’t be a lifeguard—not enough hours. But I have to swim.”
“Have to?”
“My scholarship.”
I looked at the pool. Then I looked at you. “So swim.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? I don’t have—”
“You just said you always do.”
“Me and my big mouth. I’ll swim if you swim.”
I shrugged. It’s like I was saying, grief takes away your inhibitions. “Okay,” I said. “But you get in first. Then close your eyes.”
You shook your head, but it was kind of a formality; you were taking off your shirt, your shoes. Soon you were standing there in your shorts. I couldn’t help noticing the smooth ridges of your stomach. Then my eyes slid up and I saw something weird—a necklace around your neck, hanging down between your … between your, um, quite impressive pecs—but back to the point, the point being, it was kind of a feminine necklace. A silver chain, with a blue gemstone pendant of some kind. I thought it was odd, because it was totally the kind of thing a woman would wear.
But I didn’t get to think about it for long because you smiled at me, then dived in, knifing into the water with almost no splash, coming up halfway across the pool.
“Hey, no diving,” I said.
“And no nudity,” you said. “So don’t even think about it.”
“Ha-ha. Close your eyes.”
I stripped down to my underwear—of course I had to be wearing a bra that didn’t match—and jumped in. The water was cold despite the warmth of the day. It sent a shiver through the core of me. I swam over to you. “Come on, then,” I said. “Show me what you got.”
“A race?”
“Two lengths. You and me.”
“Okay …”
“You think you’re going to destroy me? My dad was a SEAL, remember?”
“True.”
We half swam, half walked to the side of the pool facing the ocean. It was a shallow pool. Then we stood and looked at each other.
“One. Two. Three.”
We both threw ourselves forward. I swam as fast as I could, which was pretty fast because, well, Dad a SEAL and all that, doing the crawl, feeling the water rushing over me. When I breathed, I got a glimpse of the ocean, and you were right, it was like swimming in forever. Like there was no border between the pool and the ocean.
I also saw that, as fast as I was, you were
way
ahead. You got to the end of the pool and did one of those turns pro swimmers do, disappearing under the water and then reappearing alongside me but facing the other way, already breaking the surface with a stroke. A few seconds later I reached the end and turned to see you already back where we had started.
“Huh,” I said.
You gave a sheepish smile. “I meant to go easy on you but—”
“But you can’t help your brilliance?”
“I train a
lot
.”
You sounded not entirely happy about this. “You don’t like it?” I asked.
“It’s fine. It’s swimming. I don’t … It’s just something I do.”
“Right.”
You pulled yourself out of the pool; sat on the side and looked down at me.
“I’m staying in here,” I said. “I’m in my underwear, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“Ha-ha.”
You sat there for a while, and we just didn’t say anything, the sun on our skin, your legs in the water, me kind of floating there. I never knew what people meant about comfortable silences before then because silences between me and my dad were never comfortable.
A thought flashed:
Yeah, and Paris is still gone.
It punches you like that, when you least expect it.
You kept glancing over at something—I thought maybe the bar? I thought maybe you were going to suggest that we steal a drink, which I would have been totally on board with at that point; I’d have been on board with drinking and drinking until I didn’t even remember that I ever knew anyone called Paris. But eventually you levered yourself up on your hands and kind of popped into a standing position, then walked over to the bandstand.
I took a deep breath. Tried to put myself into the moment. To tell myself there was nothing I could do to find Paris right at that moment.
You came back with a ukulele and sat down again, your feet in the water. “They have, like, a Hawaiian band that plays in the evenings,” you said. “It makes no sense; I mean, the decor is all Florida. But what can you do?”
“Hmm,” I said. I was spaced out—the pool and the sun gleaming on it; I felt like I was dissolving. Into sparkle and blueness and the sound of lapping water, shushing and bubbling, tapping against the tiled sides.
You cradled the ukulele. I was watching you. I succeeded so totally at getting into the moment, I forgot then that there was a voice. That I had a dad. That Paris had disappeared. I was feeling the water on my skin and looking at you, at the look on your face.
The look was
love
.
I don’t mean romantic love. I mean … the love of someone who is holding the thing they are meant to be holding. Doing the thing they are meant to be doing. It was interesting because I had not seen that look when you dived into the pool, or when you were swimming. But I saw it now, now that you had that instrument in your hands.
You ran your fingers over the frets. Then you bent your head so I couldn’t see your face, and started to play. Just notes at first, then runs and arpeggios—I think that’s what they’re called? And scales, I guess. Then you flowed into something I recognized—the Beach Boys. “God Only Knows.” You hummed along.
And here’s the thing: you were amazing. Technically, of course. But also, the instrument, it was like it
breathed
with you. Like you made it live, made it want to pour out its own song. You were impressive at the pier, when you were playing what people called out, on the electric organ, but when you played that ukulele … it was like I was hearing your soul.
Okay, now I’m the one being poetic and sickly.
Anyway.
As you hummed, I don’t know, I guess it was that faulty inhibition thing again, but I began to sing. I knew all the words. I sang the first verse, and then the chorus. You looked up at me, and I stopped, embarrassed.
You put aside the ukulele. “Hey,” you said. “Don’t go all shy on me. Keep singing. I like hearing your voice.”
I don’t like hearing my voice
, I thought. I shut up.
“Oh, come on,” you said. “You have a beautiful voice.”
“No, I don’t. I’m barely in tune.”
A pause. “Yeah, okay, you don’t. But I still like to hear you sing.”
I made my eyes mock-wide. “Asshole! You don’t think I have a beautiful voice?”
“I—I just wanted to be honest with you; I didn’t want to give you some romantic bull**** and … ugh, I don’t think before I speak sometimes. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I was messing with you,” I said, elbowing you.
You smiled, relieved.
“Anyway,” I said, “
you’re
incredible. You really should be in a band. Or, I don’t know, uploading videos on YouTube.” You were looking at me skeptically. “I’m serious! You have talent.”
You shook your head. “Can’t.”
“Oh please. I saw the look on your face when you were playing. You love it.”
“I do.”
“So do it. Go to college or whatever, but do the music thing as well.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
You took a long breath. “My mom played. She was actually kind of a star in the seventies. I mean, not a big star. But she supported Simon & Garfunkel. Kind of a guitar, singing, folk kind of thing. She gave it up, the performing, when she met my dad. He was a mechanic in a small New Jersey town. It was like the most unlikely romance, you know? Anyway. She got me into it. When she died … I stopped playing. At home anyway.” Your hand went to your chest as you said all this, and I realized something, something about the necklace I had seen around your neck.
“That’s her necklace, right?”
You looked at me, surprised. “Right.”
You took your hand away, very self-consciously. Laid it on the white tiles by the pool.
“So, you stopped playing music at home because it was too painful?”
“No.”
I thought for a moment. “Oh. Your dad doesn’t like it? It reminds him of her, that kind of thing?”
“Uh-huh. He cleared out all the instruments. Gave them to Goodwill.”
“So you swim instead?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t love swimming. You don’t even like it that much.”
You sighed. “No, not really.”
“Come
on
,” I said. “You can’t let your dad take away something you love. And when he’s not there … I mean, you could still—”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It
is
. Tell him how you feel. Tell him you—”
You raised a hand—like,
This conversation is over
. Then you forced a smile. “But me and you, we can come here again, if you like? I’ll play, you sing. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said.
Then your radio crackled. “714, come in.”
“Time’s up,” you said. “I’ll close my eyes while you get out.”
I’m telling you all this, even though you were there, for two reasons.