Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

Eddie swam. Length by length, lap by lap, he watched the bottom tiles slide by, and his mind shut down, as though its power source was being diverted elsewhere. He stopped thinking, stopped remembering, stopped counting laps, strokes, breaths. His body took over. It swam him back and forth in the old hometown pool. Time shrank to the vanishing point, at last and too late. If there’d been a pool at the prison everything would have been all right. Eddie lost himself in that cool blue rectangle, and stayed lost until someone swam by him in lane six.

The other swimmer’s body was unfamiliar: pale, thin-legged, with a roll of fat hanging over the drawstring of the swimsuit. But he knew that powerful, big-chested stroke, with its slightly too-strong counterbalancing kick. And now he could place the voice of the man who had been talking into a portable phone by the side of the pool when he’d come in.

Bobby Falardeau was waiting for him at the far end, treading water. Eddie pulled up, shaking droplets off his head. For a moment, Falardeau, studying his face, his shaved head, looked puzzled.

“Eddie?”

“Bobby.”

“Son of a bitch. I knew it. I was watching you and I said to myself there’s only one guy I know swims like that.” There was a buzzing sound. “Just a sec,” Bobby said, and climbed out of the pool. He picked up his phone, lying on a chair, and listened. “Dump it,” he said, clicking off.

Eddie climbed out too. “Christ,” said Bobby, “you’re in shape.” Pause. “That must be the silver lining they don’t tell you about.” He laughed.

“Silver lining to what?” Eddie knew the answer; he just didn’t think it was funny.

“To going to-you know.” Bobby leaned over the pool, blew out his nostrils. “But you’re out now, right?”

“Went over the wall day before yesterday.”

There was another pause; then Bobby laughed again. “That’s a good one.” His face grew solemn. “I got to tell you, Eddie, I feel really sorry-”

“Forget it.”

“Right. Put it behind you. Look to the future.” Bobby nodded to himself. “What’re your plans?”

“Steam bath,” said Eddie. “Take nothing with me. Quit smoking.”

Bobby blinked. “I mean for what you’re gonna do. That kind of thing.”

“I saw Vic.”

“Coach Vic?”

“What other Vic is there?”

“He’s a sad case, Eddie.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you saw him you know.”

“His drinking?”

“He’s a lush.”

“He says you laid him off.”

“Bullshit.”

“You mean he quit?”

“I haven’t got a clue what he did. We sold out in eighty-six. We had nothing to do with anything that happened after that.”

“You sold Falardeau Metal and Iron?”

“BCC bought us out. One of those junk-bond things. You know.”

“I don’t.”

Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Turned out they just wanted the railhead anyway. And the equity, of course. They sold off what they could, borrowed to the hilt, the usual.”

“The usual what?”

“Procedure.”

“But what happened to the plant? Vic’s job?”

“I just told you.” The phone buzzed again. Bobby answered it, listened, said, “and an eighth,” clicked off.

“What about your job?” Eddie asked.

Bobby shrugged again. “Gone with the rest. It’s business, Eddie.”

“But what are you doing now?”

“I’m retired.”

“Isn’t it a little soon?”

“I keep busy,” Bobby said. “We’ve got this investment company now. It’s no picnic.”

“You and your dad?”

“Me, actually. The old man’s not really involved anymore.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing. He’s in Boca Raton.”

Eddie nodded, but he wasn’t getting it. He glanced at the pool, saw that the waves he’d raised had subsided to ripples; the surface would soon be calm again. He’d always liked that calm surface, liked being the first one in. Now he understood why:

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

“You all right?” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“Had a funny look there.”

“I’m fine.” He was hungry, that was all. When had he last eaten? He remembered: in F-Block. Eddie walked to the other end of the pool to get his towel. Bobby followed.

“We had some times in this pool, didn’t we, Eddie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, toweling off.

“You were something. You had a scholarship offer, didn’t you? Clemson?”

“USC.”

Bobby shook his head. “Isn’t that something?” he said. “I ended up swimming for Dartmouth. Just about my speed.”

“That’s nice,” said Eddie, starting toward the locker-room door.

Bobby followed. “Best exercise there is,” he said. “I’m still in here three, four times a week. Nothing strenuous. Long slow distance, keep some of this fucking fat off. But you know something, Eddie, I had an idea, watching you. A crazy idea.”

Eddie stopped and turned.

“What’s that?”

“It’s kind of crazy, like I said.” He looked Eddie in the eye; Eddie didn’t remember Bobby having that look. “Thing is, I think I could beat you now.”

“Do you?”

“Just a hunch,” Bobby said. “You a gambling man, Eddie? I hear a lot of gambling goes on in… those places.”

“I knew a bridge player once,” Eddie said. “He liked to gamble.”

“There you go. What do you say?”

“To what?”

“A little action. One-hundred free. How does that sound?”

“For money?”

“Just to make it interesting.”

“How much?”

“You name it.”

“A hundred,” Eddie said.

“Dollars?”

“Dollar per yard,” Eddie said. “Just for the sake of fearful symmetry.”

Bobby stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “It’s great you didn’t lose your sense of humor,” he said, holding out his hand. Eddie had been wondering when they would shake hands. They shook; in greeting, or simply sealing the bet?

They walked around toward the starting end, Bobby stretching his arms above his head, Eddie trying to remember where he’d read about fearful symmetry. It must have been years ago, long before he’d discovered “The Mariner.”

Bobby took his place in lane six. “Do we need a starter?”

“No.”

“We’ll just use the clock, like in the old days.” A big clock with a red second hand hung on the wall at the other end. “Second hand touches twelve, we go.”

The water was still again, flat blue. The second hand rounded six, ticked up the other side. Eight, nine, ten. Bobby got into his crouch. Eddie had forgotten about that. He bent his knees, trying to find the right position. Eleven. One, two, three, fo-the red hand was a full click away when Bobby sprang off. Eddie followed, a hurried dive so steeply angled he almost touched bottom. By the time Eddie hit the surface, Bobby was half a length ahead. In seven or eight strokes, he stretched it to a full length.

Eddie had forgotten his racing dive. Now he forgot about sculling too, lost his feel for the water, fell into a crude imitation of Bobby’s powerful stroke. He thrashed on, falling farther behind, thinking: What the hell are you doing, jailbird?

Bobby hit the first turn, flipped it well, smoother than in his racing days. That observation threw off Eddie’s timing. He forgot to spread his feet, pushed off crooked, started his roll too soon, forcing himself to stroke too soon. Bobby gained another half length. Two days out of the pen, jailbird, and racing for all the money you’ve got.

Bobby gained another stroke or two by the second turn, flipped it nicely again. Eddie did better on his second turn, not perfect, but better. And in the calm of the glide, he realized he’d been thrashing. Like an animal: a freestyler needs finesse . Feel the water, feel how it gives against the palm, curls around the fingers. Feel it: an obvious psychological trick, but it worked on him. He began to scull, rising up in the water; not yet skimming, but moving faster. Bobby’s big white kicking feet came back to him a little at a time: the one or two strokes he’d lost on the second turn, maybe more. He was about a length and a half behind when Bobby hit the last turn.