July

My father drowned off the coast of South Bay last Tuesday.

The giant wave that pulled him under served as a mirror to his white, pallid face, and all three of us watched from the shore his green eyes, melting into that discerning, icy depth. A limp hand surfaced briefly, grasping cream coloured bubbles and foam, but the negativity of gravity would not allow his body to surface.

Daddy couldn’t swim. Told us he’d “never been taught”. He had always sat on the little wooden bench at the side of the pool; waiting, clapping eagerly as me and Lara peddled our lithe bodies through the calm, oversized bathtub of aquamarine. But there was always an ice cream on passing the fuel station towards the end of the return journey, so neither of us ever dared complain. That car drive home; Delta blues on the radio, damp hair, wet backs sticking to the leather of the car seats – always an adventure. The battered red Ford cluttered on noisily, exhaust juddering like the sound of a thousand bricks dropping onto an elevator. We would stare so vacantly into the blistering sun, giggling through the wound-down window at builders struggling clumsily with bricks and cement shovels, cigarettes dangling precariously between lips. We were often rewarded with a wave, a returned smile which rapidly sent us into childish hysterical fits on the back seat.

One time, on the way back from the pool, the old Ford had let out a God-awful sound and halted quite suddenly in the middle of the road. My father had got out. Lara and I crawled over the seats and inspected the damage through the rear windscreen.

The exhaust had completely removed itself and now lay on the hot tarmac. He had kicked wildly at it, sending the piece of metal flying down the road, cursing and rubbing his moustache between oily fingers.

On hot days especially, and these were numerous up in Michigan beside the lake, swimming was highly important for Lara and I. To surround oneself with water was the obvious solution; it was soothing, and the peaceful echo beneath the surface reverberated in our eardrums. Swimming and being read to were the two things we loved the most.

Before our weekend vacation to South Bay, and his death, my father had always come home late from work, and much to mother’s disapproval, snuck noiselessly into our room to wake us for our kisses “g’night”. We sat up late then, watching his bony figure perching at the foot of the bed, absorbing us in stories from his boyhood; Grandma Jeannie, his first bicycle, school friends from Cement City between Jackson and Lenawee counties, the tiny village in the South where he grew up. Subsequently, he would smile, half apparent in the darkness, and leave.

We would hear mother and him kissing; her stern words unsuccessfully escaping now and again through the embrace, his hushed chuckle and the heels of her sailor boots clicking across the floorboards as they danced. There would follow a silence - the kiss drawing to an end - and my father would walk across the room to turn up Howlin’ Wolf on the old Philips. Lara would be lost in slumber by now but I could force one eye to stay open, and observe the crack of light between the door and the frame. If I craned an ear far enough I would just about make out my father’s muffled crooning; “watch out strange kind people, cause little red rooster’s on the proooowl...” and he would grab mother’s hips and swing her around him. She would squeal like a five year old on a swing, followed by her quickly silencing herself and my father; “Jim! Stop it; you’ll wake them up again… Jim!”

But he would just keep on dancing, howling like the Wolf himself; his giant awkward feet slapping the floorboards and the glee in his voice escalating as he continued his Chicago blues ecstasy… “if you see my little red rooster, pleeease drag him home”, dragging out the long notes and clapping his hands in on the off-beat.

I often wish I could have plucked up the courage to leave our bed and sit by the crack by the door to observe these blissful late night scenes. I had the nerve when it came to running races at school; my friends and I would fly across the grass like electrified greyhounds, whooping and screaming as the winner reached the chestnut tree and collapsed in an exhausted heap of sweat and denim. Nelly can go first, they would chant when there was a mission at hand or a new rye field to explore, but in my own home I favoured sitting in the sidelines and watching the action with wide eyes, rather than playing the intruder. Looking back upon it now, I am glad I never interrupted the perfect harmony which my parents shared; I simply wish I was able to find the same for myself.

Stolen

“Smile!” he screamed, as the camera flashed in an awful sense of intrusion against my tired eyelids. On the other side of the gate our scarlet picnic blanket, loaded with an untouched lunch was but a tiny blemish against the yellow of the field. The sun shone down on our little bodies, and made the rapeseed glitter, as though a plane containing sequins had exploded above us.

He danced about the meadow like a child, his tartan shorts and brown jumper bringing a sense of rustic contentment to the already joyful scene. We lay down alongside each other on the parched soil, eyes wide open, hot sun on cold skin, locking our hands tightly together. I leant forward, using my elbow for support, and gazed at him with a fondness I did not think I had encountered since first glimpsing Jackson, a Labrador puppy given to me by my parents on a childhood birthday.

Having been in Brittany since March - on business or suchlike -, it was a relief to see Oscar lying back in the grass, a lukewarm summer breeze pouring over his pale face. I nuzzled his cheek with my nose and watched the corners of his mouth travel up towards his ears. To watch such a smile was elating, and a sense of weightlessness momentarily occupied my body.

Giggling immaturely, I manoeuvred myself until I was on top of him, stifling a shriek as he ran his warm fingers down the length of my thighs. Oscar rolled the seam of my summer dress up towards my navel, exposing my legs further, and leaning in, tickled me with his wet tongue, privately evoking in my mind the image of a kitten lapping energetically at a bowl of milk. I seized both of his ears and ran my fingers through his coiled locks of hair, molesting the deep brown roots with the tips, massaging the scalp with my palms.

Swiftly abandoning the idea of investigating my new underwear, Oscar wrapped his arms around me in a giant bear hug and rolled me from his torso onto the grass, grinning wildly as he crawled over my body. As his full body weight rested on mine, I gasped sharply and smoothed his back with my hands, feeling his body contract tautly as my fingers came into contact with the tender lump at the base of his spine. He exhaled noisily, and I quickly removed my hands, returning to stroke his hair.

Reaching my navel, he burrowed under my dress – less hungry rodent, more tender badger – and reaching my breasts, began to kiss me, exceptionally gently; his embrace was soft enough for me to barely be able to feel his lips against mine. I responded with a tongue, carefully at first, not wanting to detract from our affectionate reunion, and explored cautiously the cave that was Oscar’s mouth, running the tip over his molars, embracing saliva. I could feel him shaking with laughter again, his lips closing in an attempt to force away a smirk. He stroked my tiny cheeks, and I felt love, nothing but love; the sweat from our bodies glued us together and we were one; hot breath, tears, ecstasy.

We laughed together, almost silently in the bright afternoon sun; less concern I had never felt, for everything at this moment seemed so still, and so beautiful. Our laughter erupted and Oscar hoisted himself onto his elbows, staring foolishly down at me, inspecting my features individually with keen olive eyes. His gaze momentarily held mine.

My stomach lurched.

I rolled over, the early signs of nausea entering my already compressed stomach. Coughing harshly, I lay face down in the meadow, the soil rubbing against my pores in the darkness.

It was the intensity of his stare that had pierced me on the train two years ago; his pale hands clasping the bottom of his seat and the speed at which his eyelids served as shutters to let in the light were astonishing. I stared back. The silence was terrifying but emotion was there. We were flying; crashing into the black hole of the tunnel at an incomprehensible speed, brakes set alight, wind rushing uncontrollably; the scream of a baby in the rear carriage.

Then calm. Forcing my eyes to open and return me to the meadow, I turned my head, letting the sun bathe my face in a pleasant light. I sat upright, running my hands down my damp cheeks. Oscar sat a foot away on the grass, hands resting solemnly on his white knees. “You think about it all the time, don’t you? …sweetheart…?” His face looked a picture of sorrow. “It’s alright, we’re…”

Touching his hand reduced him to silence. He moved in closer, and held my arm, caressing delicately the fallen strap of my dress and returning the light cotton to its place atop my shoulder.

I looked toward my left and kissed his hand. I nodded. “…I know, I know.”

Oscar moved his hand delicately over my cheek, soaking up the moisture with the sleeve of his jumper, and took to his feet, clumsily, but somehow wonderfully. Arms reached down and lifted me from the grass into an embrace, less forceful this time, sweat and wool touching cotton, tears.
“It was so long ago, sweetheart, and still you can’t look me in the eye without thinking about that stupid train?”

I put a finger to his lips, whispered that I was sorry, and stroked tentatively the scar which ran from his hairline and progressed down towards the right eyelid; an almost perfect arc. Kissing gently the dulled yellow lump at the base of his eyebrow, he showed his teeth; two white brick walls; perfect symmetry, and we bowed our heads to touch noses.

“Come on sweetheart” he sighed.

He gripped my hand in his, and we turned and walked silently back towards the fence, stopping to pick up the camera, and my embroidered belt which earlier had held my dress in place.