He tried not to spoil the moment and smiled and marveled.
Tori grinned back. “Emma, let’s take these off before we get something on them.”
“Thank you for the present, Mommy.”
The two disappeared to change. Front-of-the-room threads, he thought.
At bedtime, after reading to Emma, he lay down and tried to relax while Tori brushed her teeth.
“Have you given any more thought to the school service hours at St. Cyprian’s?” she called out from the bathroom.
“Not really.” Although he knew they were subject to a fee if parental involvement hours weren’t fulfilled.
“The Pot of Gold in April sounds good,” she said.
“The ol’ Pot of Gold.”
Repeating her words rather than saying something he might regret was a technique he had often used in production meetings to tread water. He’d seen Pot of Gold marked on the kitchen calendar. At first he thought it might be a new restaurant she wanted to try. It fell on a Saturday in April, which coincided with a job he was hoping to get crewed on.
“I was planning to talk with Lita’s mom at the luau about us getting involved with the event.” She began to undress. “I hear the cool parents work it and she’s the chair.” Down to her underwear she added, “I’d rather do that than the Lenten fish fries.”
Perhaps he should tell her now about the luau. She slid out of her bra and panties.
“Sounds good to me,” was all he could manage.
“How ’bout this?” She struck a pose. “This sound good too?”
He tried to manufacture enthusiasm to match his wife’s, but the more she tried, the worse it went for him. She was kind enough to give it a rest without asking, Is anything wrong? Perhaps it was because he’d been considerate during her sullenness after her birthday, when part of their agreement was to “go easy on each other for a while.”
He kissed her forehead, relieved she didn’t press him further, but he was ashamed by his lack of performance. He padded lightly to the spare bedroom-slash-office. After a while he moved to the couch in the living room, trying to shake spasms of worry. Worry about the freelancing and the added burden of private school. Worry that he didn’t think he could hack it in the classroom. Worry that in three days he would blindside two people he loved with the embarrassment that they were sitting in the back of the parish hall at the luau.
The image of Cody paid an unwelcome visit as he tossed and turned. Abel fixated on that golf tee dangling from his ear.
At five in the morning he called the sub-finder system. What he didn’t need was another floater assignment like yesterday’s, one that left a something’s-gone-terribly-wrong-in-your-life feeling. Unfortunately, everything offered seemed worse. Today, Tori was working a shift at the cell phone kiosk in the mall and he had to pick up Emma by three. But he also knew it would be a bad idea to be in the house when Tori and Emma got up. He wasn’t up to answering, What are you doing here?
By eight they’d both be gone. He left quickly, quietly, and waited for the nearest Starbucks to open.
When Abel returned home, he found that Emma had left him a hand-drawn card on the dining room table. It had beautiful shapes of orchid-like blooms, pineapples, and a picture of an angry-looking island god with an evil smile on his face. She signed her name and added, Our class made a picture that looks like this.
He thought, No dad wants to tell his little girl no, but this has gone far enough. He would tell them today instead of springing it on them at the last minute. This, he had to get right. Maybe not subbing and running the risk of wearing defeat from another lousy day was a good idea. So too was getting his blood pumping by catching some waves. A little exercise couldn’t hurt, could it?
He grabbed his wet suit, fins, boogie board, plus a water-sport hood and gloves for the chilly conditions. He also grabbed Emma’s card before tossing everything into his truck.
The lot at 12th Avenue was full of cars sporting surf-brand decals as well as Gulf Beaches High parking stickers. He was lucky to find a spot. Beneath the shadow of a high-rise condo, he suited up in the bed of his pickup. Embarrassed of his middle-aged paunch, he thought of women putting on shape-wear as he stepped into his wet suit.
Wind rustled palm fronds overhead. He removed the truck’s door key and stashed the clip with the ignition and house keys in the glove box along with his phone. A strong gust of wind blew Emma’s card out. He retrieved it and stuffed it in his backpack.
Near the sea oats, he kicked off his flip-flops and set his stuff down. He was heartened to find that the waves had enough shape to propel a middle-aged boogie boarder forward, and pulled on his fins at water’s edge and wrist-leashed his board. The break was better off to his right but he wanted to stay clear of the traffic, a small pod of surfers, no doubt skipping school.
Taking in a breath of tangy air, he watched youths glide across shoulders of waves. He waded out. A burst of cold water seeped into his wet suit as he ducked under a shore-pounder. He found a sandbar about seventy-five yards from shore where his feet could touch bottom and he could catch the inside break. A wave three feet higher than his shoulders approached. He hoped he was good enough not to waste this gift. A honed sense told him when it was time to take off, and there was no changing his mind after deciding to go. The wave began its bend. He lunged forward and angled down the face. The swell’s force lifted his legs then dropped him, leaving it to him to maintain balance or taste defeat. Teeth clenched, he landed with a light bounce and got a face full of water. He rode the wave all the way in and beached it like a kid. The bottom of his board scraped the shore, his arms extended forward, feet in the air, as if he’d just slid home headfirst with a game-winning run.
The bigger sets were about 150 yards from shore near the boat buoys. He paddled out and waited. A dolphin’s dorsal fin rolled above the surface and disappeared in almost the same instant. In the next, the unforgiving energy of the gulf was on him. He panicked. Unsure if he had the time to dive under. The bending crest collected him up to the lip and dislodged him. He rolled over twice before he could regain his balance. He kicked up to the surface and discovered that his board was still attached, but it strained the leash, waving on top of the water, as if motioning for him to go in.
Yet he was just getting started. He continued to kick into the wind swells. His habit was to count the number of good rides versus wipeouts. Usually he had to be in double digits before calling it a day.
At about wave number five, a surfer encroached from the north. The hooded figure had his head down. Abel figured the guy would drift past, but he stopped and paddled into the wave Abel had been setting up on. He pounced on his board and aimed the nose at Abel’s temple. Abel dove under and steeled himself for the skeg to rake his back. He held his breath until he sensed it was clear to pop up. The surfer rolled away above the froth, not kicking out, dismounting instead and jogging to shore with his board under his arm. Abel gave chase, but the clumsy wide ends of his fins dug into the gulf bottom. The rubber buckled and he tripped. One arm tangled with the leash as he dragged his boogie board forward. Abel got within a few feet.
The surfer reached behind his neck and grabbed the frill of his hood. “Sub dude,” he said, as tentacles of blond dreads sprouted. Cody tossed his board down. “I thought that was you falling over on your face. Figured I’d come over and say hello.” He snapped his hair back, directing the spray toward Abel. “I wanted to say thanks for writing me up yesterday.”