Chris Crutcher - Whale Talk

I holler “Dad” a couple of times, but except for the TV, the house is quiet. The guys on Sports Center seem determined to make me care about hockey, so I flip them off and wolf down my food, thinking I’ll run up to my room for a short nap before I head back. I see the door closed to my parents’ room, which is as unusual when they’re not in it as the coat on the back of the couch, so I knock once and push it open.

The room is dark but for the flickering of the TV, where a group of humpback whales swim across the screen, emitting faint whale songs. A dark form fills the overstuffed chair in the corner by the dresser.

“Dad?”

No answer. I flip on the light. He sits, staring at the screen.

“Hey, man,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“Hey, T. J.”

“You sick or something?”

“Something,” he says. His beard is wet, eyes rimmed in red. “Turn the light off, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” I do. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just leave me alone, okay?”

I’ve never seen my dad like this. “Not okay. Come on, what’s going on?”

He sighs. “Thirty years ago it happened,” he says. “And sometimes it hits me like it was yesterday. Why didn’t I look under the truck? It would have taken three seconds. Hell, if I’d checked for a flat I would have seen him.”

I start toward him.

He says, “Don’t. I’ll be fine. You go on back to school.”

“Dad…”

“I’ll be fine. This happens every once in a while…you just haven’t seen it. It’ll pass.”

“You sure?”

He says, “Go.”

I’m not worth much in my afternoon classes; it’s hard to see someone as big and strong as my father reduced like that. It makes me feel helpless to know that still happens. The guy is always there for anyone who needs him. He deserves better.

I’m in the locker room after school, getting into my sweats to take the bus ride over to All Night, my mind back in Dad’s bedroom.

“Jonesey, Jonesey, Jonesey,” Barbour says. “Looks like your coach jumped ship on you.”

I snap into the present. “Oh, yeah?”

“We had the Athletic Council meeting.”

“That right?”

“That’s right. Wait till your Special Olympics squadron gets a load of your letter requirements.”

“Save me the suspense.”

Mott and Tay-Roy are headed for the door; they stop to listen.

“Simet went along with us; said it would be too easy for your boys to pick up points when there were no swimmers from the other team in some races. Got us to award the letter on ‘personal improvement.’”

“Hey, we’re improving. Why should that bother me?”

Barbour started to laugh. “Because it means you have to hit your best time every time you swim.”

“What? That’s not possible.”

“Probably it isn’t. None of you guys can swim one race slower than you did the time before. One bad race, no letter.”

I say, “You’re full of shit, Barbour. Simet would never do that.”

“You can get the details from him.” He points to Simet walking through the locker-room door.

I holler, “Coach!”

Barbour cackles. Coach looks up.

“Gotta ask you something.” I hustle over and whisper, “Way to go.”

The following meets are carbon copies of the first, except Icko keeps the bus on the road. I swim the fifty and hundred, or the hundred and two hundred, and win every time. The other guys swim whichever events will bring us the most points, establishing times in races they haven’t swum before and bettering their times in those they have. As long as no one falls asleep in the water, we’re all a good bet to get faster and faster. Improved stroke technique alone will keep everyone in the running, not to mention the monster conditioning.

What I like about the meets more than the swimming, though, is the bus ride. When Icko pulls the door shut and fires up the engine, it feels almost cocoonlike. We talk about things we’d probably never mention in any other arena: Simon’s mother drinks like a fish, Mott spent most of middle school in drug rehab, Tay-Roy lost a baby brother to SIDS, Dan Hole’s father has heart trouble, Chris’s aunt plays bingo, and Jackie Craig may or may not have a voice box. Simet and Icko let us talk, feeding questions once in a while to keep the conversation going, but never intruding.

It gets to be ritual; a half hour before we reach our destination, Simet begins going over each of our races, so between then and the end of the meet, we talk or think nothing but swimming. Then we stop at some local pizza place and, depending on how much time we have, eat there or take it on the bus with us.

Toward the end of the semester it becomes clear we may have problems with academic eligibility. “I’ve been doing the responsible thing,” Coach says, walking to the back of the bus to remove Mott’s headphones, “and it appears a couple of you are in danger of failing one or more classes. Mr. Mott is in danger of passing one. Hey, guys, this is serious business. You have to carry a two-oh average, and you have to be passing every class.”

Mott says, “I’m going light on the academic thing this year.”

Coach says, “You were until a minute ago. Now you’re going heavy.” He removes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, holds it to one side to catch the light from the dashboard, squinting to read. “Mr. Hole, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Coughlin, you’re all in great shape. Mr. DeLong, you are walking the edge in biology. Mr. Craig, you’re three percentage points under in speech. Mr. Kibble, you don’t seem able to remember your valences and the periodic table of elements in chem, and Mr. Mott, you are exactly one percentage point below passing in six classes.” He stares at the page. “Mott, how do you do that!”

“It isn’t easy, sir. I have to keep close track. Last week I got luckier than usual on an American history pop quiz and my grade slipped up over passing. Scared me.”

“Well, if that scared you, prepare to be terrified, because before this semester ends, you are going to bring every one of those grades at least to a C.” He turns to Jackie. “Mr. Craig, what is your problem in speech?”

Jackie shrugs.

“That might be it right there,” Simet says. “Mr. DeLong?”

Simon says, “Biology is right before first lunch. I start seeing the things we’re cutting up on my plate, and pretty soon I just have to get out of there.”

Coach walks to the middle of the bus and retrieves a huge duffel bag from the overhead rack, dumps it onto the seat. “Icko, can you give me light back here for a sec?”

The dome light goes on. Simet rustles through the educational debris on the seat. “I took the liberty of getting the specifics from your teachers.” He hands Jackie a copy of the periodic table, moving him to the seat across the aisle from Tay-Roy. “Enunciate each element loud and clear, Mr. Craig, as if you were delivering the Gettysburg Address. Mr. Kibble, when you hear the element, you will give Mr. Craig back the symbol and valences. When you have them down one hundred percent, you may stop.”

He hands Chris Coughlin a coloring book and a large box of crayons. “You said you like to color, right, Mr. Coughlin?” Chris’s face lights up; he obviously loves to color. “Mr. Coughlin, since you are passing all your classes, I’m going to have you tutor Mr. DeLong. Do you know what a tutor is?”

Chris says, “Does he color?”

Simet nods. “He colors. In this case he colors guts.” He hands Chris a biology coloring book; now where the hell do you suppose he got a biology coloring book? “Mr. DeLong will tell you which gut it is and what color to color it. If he tells you to color anything green, you yell to me.”