“We’re at seventy-two hours.”
“She’s really struggling, it looks like.”
“She’s exhausted.”
“Will she make it?”
“I worry she’ll cramp soon.”
“And that’s it?”
“Fish swim until they die,” says Gotthorm.
“Before you said that fish swim forever.”
“Nobody can wiggle a mackerel’s tail but that very fish.”
“Is there any way to help her?”
“You are in your own competition, like Jane and me,” Gotthorm says. “You’ve been here as many hours as us. You’ve been competing. I’m impressed. You are stronger than you look.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“She needs more strength. She’s used up all her dedication to me, used up all her personal willpower. She’s drawn all the fuel she can from having your children present. Now it’s up to Jane to keep her humanness shut off. She has to stay aquatic or she’ll give in to fatigue.”
“Maybe her fish-ness has gotten her this far, but she needs her humanness to cross the finish line,” says Bob.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gotthorm says. “Only the ocean can baptize her. Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.”
It’s certainly not the intention of Gotthorm to plant any seeds in the head of a certain Bob Coffen. That’s the last thing the coach is trying to do. What is he trying to do anyway? Why does he keep coming outside acting chummy with Bob? All Coffen can figure is that he’s impressed Gotthorm with this round-the-clock peeping and has miraculously weaseled into his good graces.
The seed that has been planted in Bob now drills down into his cranium and an idea grows. Time lapse. The seed is buried and the sprout shoves up out of the soil in one fell swoop. The seed itself is in these previous words from Gotthorm: “Those of us trapped on land, we are powerless to help.” And the idea growing inside Bob’s head is this: If the coach’s fish philosophy seems as if it’s failing, really failing — Jane’s head going underwater, Jane seeming as if she’s going to come up short of the world record — if this happens, then Bob Coffen has a plan to help her with some good old-fashioned humanness.
“I need to get back to her,” Gotthorm says, starting his Speedoed strut back toward the indoor pool. “The sea can flick a catamaran like it’s a cigarette butt. The ocean can hack up a submarine like a wad of gristle from a fat man’s throat after the Heimlich maneuver.”
“I still say she has some human in there,” says Bob.
“I pray not,” Gotthorm says.
The club closes at 7:00 PM, which happens to be the eighty-one hour mark. At midnight — when the plock strikes its only time — she’ll have broken the record.
Once the outside deck clears of other club members, Coffen climbs back up on the lifeguard perch to get the best view. Jane’s once lovely rhythm is shot. Her puckered breathing seems more like someone waking from a nightmare. Stunned. Scared. She is pale. Her eyes are wide open, blinking lots.
Erma, Margot, and Brent are no longer there. Gotthorm sits on the side of the pool and says things to Jane — words Bob so badly wants to hear. He so badly wants to help. On one hand, sure, he wants to respect her wishes to stay away, yet also he wants to disassemble those wishes. Obviously, they’re not the right ones. He hasn’t been near the pool and it’s clear to anybody’s eyeballs that she’s about to go under. She’s about to lose. And Bob Coffen isn’t about to let that happen, not without a fight, not without trying to help her.
Jane is not an urchin.
Jane is no manatee.
She’s not an anemone or a dolphin or a cuttlefish.
Jane’s no shark.
She is a human, a woman, his wife. This is real life, and she needs to hear real encouragement, needs to know her family believes in her. Whether Jane knows it or not, she needs her husband to be there.
Coffen throws the binoculars down, hops off the lifeguard chair. He runs toward the door to the men’s locker room. It’s locked. Of course. They’ve shut down for the evening. He knocks on it. Nobody answers. Duh. He slams his shoulder into it. Twice. Four times. Six.
Why is breaking down doors so easy on television? That’s going to bruise.
He kicks it. He moves and tries the door to the women’s locker room, too. No luck. No shoulder slams. No kicks. Think. Coffen has little time. She looked so pale. No choice but to try and lure Gotthorm to invite Bob inside. So he runs to the huge window. So he knocks on it. So he waves at Gotthorm. The judge looks over. Gotthorm only shakes his head. Gotthorm only keeps talking to Jane. Coffen only keeps knocking. What can he do? What options are there? He’s trying to bring Jane her humanness. He has to help her. Jane pulls her swim cap off. It drifts in the water like a small octopus. Reminds Coffen of their first date. Their first online date. In the chat room. In the Italian restaurant. Jane said a two-ton squid escaped the zoo. It lived under her bed. She fed it a steady diet of saltwater taffy. Bob fell in love with her right then. Wanted to kiss her imagination right on the mouth. Imaginations should have mouths. Imaginations should have great big puckering lips. Imaginations should sit on people’s shoulders like mousy Schumann had been sitting on Bob’s. Coffen needs to get inside. Needs to tell Jane she’s not a fish. Needs to tell Jane that she’s a gorgeous woman. He should mention he quit his job. But not until later. Not until she’s broken the record. After that the job thing won’t be so bad, maybe. The doors are locked. He’s knocking on the window and Gotthorm and the judge don’t move to let him in. Her swim cap starts to sink. Bob can’t see Jane’s face and he knocks harder. She said that every squid who ever escaped the zoo after that first one always came to her house. Word travels fast with squid. Everybody knows that. Nobody’s going to help Bob get in there. This is going to be a Bob-only enterprise if entering the indoor poolroom is his chief pursuit. Coffen runs back to the outdoor deck. Coffen is getting good at throwing things. Ask that flowerpot. He is no longer afraid of consequences born from the sound of shattering.
Coffen says, “Bob is me.”
He doesn’t throw the chaise lounge at the window so much as he uses it as a kind of battering ram and it works. The window explodes. The judge’s face is sort of scared. He clutches the clipboard to his chest like it’s a crying baby. Gotthorm’s face is not scared so much but wearing a wondrous What the hell? Bob can no longer see the sinking swim cap. Bob climbs through the busted window. Bob is still fully clothed. Bob is still wearing shoes. There are problems with his plan. He is saying to the judge, “Will she be disqualified if I enter the water but I don’t touch her or interfere in any way?” and the judge is saying, “Who are you?” and Gotthorm is saying, “That is her husband,” and the judge is saying, “What’s wrong with using the door?” and Gotthorm is saying, “What are you doing?” and Coffen is saying to the judge, “Can I get in the pool so long as I don’t physically aid her?” and the judge nods, Sure, do it, go ahead, you window-shatterer.
So:
Fully clothed Bob Coffen leaps into the water. About twenty feet away from his wife. Jane is really struggling. Bob swims over, not getting too close. Judges probably love to issue disqualifications and Coffen won’t give the smug prick the satisfaction. Her swim cap is flat on the bottom of the pool. Bob is treading water maybe ten feet away from her now.
He says, “Jane, it’s me, Bob. You’re almost there. You almost have the record. You can do it. I know you can do it. Don’t give up now.”
Jane doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head above the surface. But barely. Her strokes are arrhythmic, all over the place.
Bob says, “You’re only about four hours away from the record.”