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.