“Nah. Gonna’ stay out here a bit, maybe go for a walk.”
“Wherever it is that you always used to get mud on your shoes?” she asked and I started.
“What?”
She knelt down, “I never told mom or dad, obviously. That doesn’t mean I was never curious, though,” she brushed some dust off her pants, “There was always mud on your shoe the next day after you’d ‘stay out for a bit, maybe go for a walk’. I never asked, and—,” she said, “I guess I’m not asking now. Just—just be careful, okay?” Sarah said, and put her hand on my shoulder. It was warm and heavy and I felt better. Then it was gone. The front door opened.
“Okay,” she said, then paused, the door open. After a time, “Goodnight, Michael.”
“G’night,” I said. I heard the door close softly behind me.
THIRTEEN
The night grew quiet. The concrete was cold under me. The wind was moving my hair, and it made me think of Susan. I thought about how she’d play with it as we lay face to face, while she drifted off to sleep. I closed my eyes. In my head was a little movie I’d spliced together of all the nice moments we’d had: Her holding the light while I worked under the hood of her car, asking questions she didn’t care if I answered or not, her rubbing the back of my neck the first time she was around for one of my nosebleeds. That’s the one that I liked most. She didn’t get upset or start acting hysterical like my sister always did; she didn’t try to turn me into a child the way my mom always did. She just rubbed my neck and shoulders and spoke in this quiet voice that was like music. Randy got them, too.
I hadn’t been a swim instructor for very long. My first class consisted of two little girls from out on county road 13. They had a pool at home, but they had to stay at the Y until their dad could pick them up. They couldn’t afford two cars, so the girls were dropped off every day after school to wait. They’d decided to join swim and gymnastics. I liked them because they weren’t giggly like the other girls. They just smiled and did what you told them to do. They learned to swim very fast. About two weeks in, Mrs. Denkins came out of the office, and Randy was in front of her. He looked scared.
“Mike,” she said, pushing him a bit forward. I was in my swimsuit and the towel was wrapped around my shoulders. The girls had just left. “This is Randy McPherson. He’s brand new here, and he’s going to join your swimming class.”
He looked at the floor the entire time. I knelt down, like I’d seen the other instructors do, and held out my hand for him to shake. He did, but without looking at my face. “Hi,” I said. I stood up and put my hand just behind his shoulder and we walked away from Mrs. Denkins.
“Have you ever been in a pool before?” I asked. He shook his head. “That’s okay. I was a little older than you before I learned to swim,” I said. I’d heard one of the girls say it to a shy kid, once. He looked up at me, and his eyes seemed looking for something.
“Really?” he asked. I nodded. He smiled a little, just at the corner of his mouth. I came to recognize that as his full smile.
As we walked into the locker room, so I could show him where to change out, he stopped. His hand went to the bridge of his nose, and he tilted his head back at a crazy angle. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just a nosebleed,” he said. Something in the way he said it surprised me. Most kids I knew got panicky with a nosebleed, but he was just as calm dealing with it as he was when we were walking. I remember that, to this day. He just stood there, taking in big gusts of air through his nose. “It helps to make the blood clot up again,” he said when I asked about those huge inhales.
“I get those too,” I said and he nodded, looking down his up-turned face at me. I thought about that every time I got one. When the panic started to rise up, I let it go and thought about how calm he’d been that day. After about five minutes, he had let go of his nose and said, “Okay.” We’d continued right on like nothing had happened.
I remember when I was that young, I didn’t think about much. It seems like you only figure out how to think when you’re older. I did ponder a lot, though. That had been Mr. Roger’s word. He made it sound like there was a difference whenever he’d ask ‘You working, son, or pondering your toes?’ It always made me laugh, but he made pondering seem like some useless thing that way; something empty. Other times he’d say, ‘alright, now here’s what I need you to do, and think about what you’re doing, understand?’ So, thinking was useful and positive and pondering was empty, wasted.
Sitting on those steps, remembering Randy, seemed to me somehow in between. It seemed like something I needed to be doing, but wasn’t getting much out of. Back then, I thought about the boy; wondered what his parents were like, what they fed him for breakfast, how they dealt with his nosebleeds. Some people might think that’s some kind of crush or puppy love thing, but I think most people do a lot of wondering about the people they come into contact with every day. I was teaching him how to swim; I think that’s something that brings two kids very close together, no matter what their age.
I’d asked him, after a while, about the nosebleeds. I remember that I felt like I couldn’t stop myself. He came in early that day, and I’d been working. Mr. Roger had me emptying the garbage cans and putting in new bags. Randy came in and wandered all through the building with me. He didn’t seem to be waiting, was the thing. It wasn’t like he was just waiting for me to get done so he could go to the pool; he actually seemed to want to talk to me.
“How long have you been having them?” I asked, and felt stupid for asking. I hid it by working a little harder. At that time, we’d only been working together two weeks.
“My nose, you mean?” he asked. I’d nodded. “Gosh, I dunno; my whole life, I guess.” He was like that, the kind of kid who’d still say ‘gosh’ and ‘dang it’.
“Do your mom or dad get them?” I asked. I’d often wondered what his parents were like in those two weeks. He was so shy and so smart, and sometimes seemed almost afraid of his own voice. Now, though, I understand that it’s just something people do. When you meet an adult, you wonder who they date or who they’re married to; when you meet a kid, you wonder who their parents are.
“Mom says my dad does, but I guess he’s better at ’em, ‘cause I never see him get them anymore,” he said, and then a funny thing happened. The garbage sack I’d been tugging on was not going to come out of the container. He pulled the liner up so that it lay down flat, folded over itself in a way. He held on to that part and said “here, tip it.” I didn’t understand, but I started to tip the container over, and the bag slid free almost immediately. He’d kept the garbage from coming out by folding the lip of the sack over, so that when the container was on its side, the opening of the bag was still upright. He helped me pull the bag out. There was water at the bottom of the container.
“Thanks,” I said. He smiled.
“How much do they pay you to work here?” he asked.
“Not much,” I said. By that time, they were paying me. I think when the job began, Mr. Roger was thinking I’d wash out. After about a week, when he realized not only was I not going to leave, but that I did a good job, he started handing me cash at the end of a week. “An honest man gets an honest wage,” he’d say, “you remember that,” and I always did, only it was years later before I understood what that meant, and a few years after that when I figured out what he meant by it.
“Your parents make you do chores at home?” I’d asked.
“Yeah,” he’d said, and sniffled. His nose was always runny or bleeding. “They make me clean the bathroom. My favorite part is cleaning the mirror.”