Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

We need five hours and nine minutes , keeps ringing in Bob’s mind.

“Dad, are you okay?” Margot says.

“What happened?”

“You almost drowned.”

“What?”

“He had to pull you out.”

“Who?”

“Gotthorm.”

“Huh?”

“He gave you mouth-to-mouth.”

“Oh, no.”

“You were dead, I think, for a minute or so,” she says.

“Did you watch Gotthorm give me mouth-to-mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Brent, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus, kill me.”

“G-Ma watched with us.”

“Of course she did.”

“Mom couldn’t watch because she was finishing up.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“Talking to those reporters. I filmed it for you.”

“She really made it?” Bob sits up on the pool deck, still in his soaked clothes, and peers over at Jane talking with two reporters.

“Yeah. She finished.”

Gotthorm walks over to Coffen and Margot. “You needed to tread water for five hours and eleven minutes,” he says. “You made it about five hours and two minutes.”

“Thanks for saving my life.”

“I had no choice; your kids were here.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“You made it much longer than I thought you would. You have fight in you.”

“I tried.”

“You succeeded,” Gotthorm says. “She did it. That’s what you were trying to do.”

“I guess.”

“There was some human still inside her. You were right, Bob. Do you want me to call an ambulance? You seem fine to me. I’ve almost drowned about fifty times playing water polo over the years.”

“I guess I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine. She wouldn’t have broken it without your help,” Gotthorm says.

“Yeah, good job, Dad,” says Margot. “Can I film you?”

“Doing what?”

“Basking in your glory,” she says.

Bob nods and says, “Go ahead.”

“Ro’s going to flip when she sees all this footage. Okay, action!”

Coffen smiles as his daughter shoots him sitting there. He’ll never say it to her because it would ruin everything, but he can tell: She’s proud of him. No doubt about it.

“Do you have any words for your fans?” Margot asks, beaming.

“Treading water is harder than it looks.”

The two reporters — one columnist, one photographer — take pictures, nab their quotes. Both Jane and Gotthorm are interviewed. Bob sits with his mother-in-law, daughter, and son on some metal bleachers, waiting for Jane to finish up the festivities.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Brent says.

“Me too.”

“Next time, I want to go swimming.”

“Go swimming right now if you want,” Coffen says.

“I don’t have my suit.”

“Are you wearing underwear?”

The boy nods.

“Strip down and go in those. We need to get my shoes off the pool floor anyway. I took them off when I was treading. And your mom’s swim cap is down there, as well. Do you want to go in, too, Margot?”

“Not a chance,” she says.

“Can I really?” Brent asks.

“Strip, jump,” Bob says.

The boy does just that, losing his clothes and leaping in, feet first. He swims down and gets Jane’s cap, then Bob’s shoes. He sets them on the side of the pool and gets to playing, swimming in little circles, holding his breath and diving down.

By the time Brent climbs out, Jane and Gotthorm are done chatting with the press. They slowly walk over to the Coffens.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a shovel,” Jane says. “I want to eat a pizza and sleep for the rest of the week.”

“Let’s order a pizza,” Brent says.

“You’ve earned it,” Erma says to Jane. “A world champion in our family. Who would have thought that could ever happen? We’re not a bad clan, but there’s never been anything special about us.”

“Now you have a daughter who lives on both land and sea,” Gotthorm says.

“What’s he talking about?” asks Erma.

“Never mind,” Bob says. “Gotthorm, it’s been interesting. You should come over to the house sometime. Do me a favor and wear pants.”

“What about a wet suit?”

“Anything with more surface area.”

“Are we really getting pizza so late at night?” Brent says.

“No restaurants are open,” Jane says.

“We’ll raid the frozen food section of the store,” Bob says.

“I like those mozzarella melts,” Margot says.

“Jalapeño poppers,” Brent says.

“Fish sticks with extra tartar sauce,” says Gotthorm.

“Let’s buy everything we can,” Jane says.

“We can stay up and watch movies,” Brent says.

“I could eat some serious frozen pizza,” Bob says.

“Are we finally ready to go home?” Jane asks.

They are. They do.

Six days later and Bob Coffen can’t believe his eyes. Björn has lived up to his promise to dazzle their suburb with a rainbow. Normally, Bob would try to dismiss this as a coincidence — it’s just a rainbow, after all. He’d typically liken it to a hack palm reader saying vague things to desperate customers, allowing them to plug the info into their own lives. You say the letter M is important in my future? I have a close friend who moved to Massachusetts last year and I miss her terribly.

But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill rainbow.

This is beyond any rational explanation.

First off, it’s snowing cats and dogs outside and never in the history of this parochial town has a single flake fluttered from the atmosphere.

Second alarming, inexplicable fact is that the rainbow is happening at nighttime. It’s been in the sky for the last half hour. Coffen’s no kind of weather shaman, but he is a decently educated person, which means he knows that rainbows need the sun to shine light through moisture in the sky, triggering some kind of crazy refracting business between the raindrops and the light. This all somehow creates an arc of colors, a daytime sky hosting a rainbow. One at night in a snowstorm, however, is impossible.

A meteorologist might call the conditions cataclysmic .

The snow and night rainbow has prompted panic in the average citizen. The power is out, which means no cable TV, no Wi-Fi. Bob has retrieved their earthquake kit and is glued to the archaic AM radio to see what people are saying about the unexpected storm. Jane attempts to distract the kids with a project. Luckily, their oven is gas and so they prepare to bake chocolate chip cookies. Unluckily, the task is not sidetracking the kids: Margot is climbing the walls, trying to get a wireless signal on her iPad. Brent had been playing a video game on his phone, but the batteries died about ten minutes ago, no way to charge it, and the boy looks confused, a bit scared.

There’s a startling, petrified chatter on the talk shows as Coffen cruises the band, the populous fearing the worst:

“Is it time to use the word ‘Apocalypse’?” a man asks a disc jockey. “Can we safely assume that this is Judgment Day?”

The DJ stays on the bright side: “Why should we assume the worst? So it’s never snowed like this in the history of our beautiful suburb, so what? Maybe this is simply an unexpected respite from our normal weather patterns. I’m not ready to preach doomsday. It’s too early for that. Our next caller is Dwight. Welcome, sir. What do you think of our weather: angry god or anomaly?”

Bob thinks, Please say anomaly, Dwight .

Jane says to the kids, “Don’t eat all the dough. We have to bake some.”