Susan Steinberg - Hydroplane - Fictions

And I went to school that night. The girl and I laughed. We talked of nothing significant. And I thought of friendship. I thought of me and the girl as friends. And she smoked and swallowed the smoke.

And I thought of trees. How they grow out of nothing. Dirt. How they grow into nothing. Air. How somehow there's life. A spark. Until it gets crushed. That's life you know. Screaming oneself awake. Redfaced and bald. Closing the eyes. Bald again. Just stop me now. I knew nothing. I admit it. I know nothing.

The girl. I tried to tell her. I had nothing to tell. But I tried. I pushed against her. I said, what on earth. I was starting up. She said, what's wrong with you, and walked away. I followed her into her space. I looked at her paintings. I would say sorry for laughing in class. Sorry for being so unfit. She looked so hurt. She said, stop. I thought, sorry for laughing. But her paintings were spread across her wall. And they were awful. Lifelike one could say. I felt I would laugh into fits. I knew she would hurt when I did. And I started to laugh. But I wasn't laughing. I felt it starting. I said, I don't feel well. Stop, she said.

In the end I saw the girl through the tube. She looked scared. Or hurt. She looked far away. And light shot past like stars. I went outside. I went under a car. My pulse began to slow. At some point the sun rose and shone over top. It brightened the gutter. The leaves in the gutter were bright. This isn't symbolic. I didn't think of my boyfriend. I didn't think of my mother. I didn't cry into the leaves for goodness sake. I just breathed as we do.

It was him on my way to the market. There were things I needed. Milk. Bread. But he stood for the bus in a crowd. In rain. I stopped.

It was him I knew in the narrow nose. In the filmy cheeks and hair. Even the sweater looked his. The diamond shapes. And the fisherman's cap. I knew it too well. Always kept with the others on the closet shelf. Over his ladyfriend's Russian furs.

I swayed for a second. I wouldn't say reeled but I felt as my legs gave way.

He was swaying too a bit it seemed. But no he wasn't. Just it was windy, turning more than a drizzle.

Others stood with umbrellas. They wore raincoats. They looked to me, then to their shoes.

His jacket was shoddy. Last year's outdated. It was strange to see his exhale. I wouldn't say painful. Just the last time I saw him he had been gasping.

And when he turned to me now. Split second. Well, I clutched the bus stop signpost tight from the curb. The others knew not to look at me. They watched for the bus.

I was a fool, I knew it. I felt like one. But I hadn't seen that posture in two plus years. I had near forgotten that diamond sweater. Those scuffed brown shoes. Thin clouds on the exhale.

He looked again.

And had he said word one to me. Even, what time do you have. Well, I was trying my damnedest not to flat-out faint. I just needed to get to the market. It would close soon. There were things I wanted. Bread.

Plus the rain was falling harder. I should have driven. I turned to walk.

But I had so much to say. A lot had gone on.

For one small thing the bus fare. A whole new cost.

For another my plants had grown to this long.

And my car. Older but fine. Just one breakdown in the two plus years. A jump-start and it worked good as new. And the wipers sometimes shut off. Unexpected. Almost always during a big storm. Go figure.

A good reason to walk or take the bus.

He would have laughed at this.

And my cat was still going. Twelve years and counting. He sleeps most days, I wanted to say.

There was my job.

Various places closed down in the city. Various opened.

And the Orioles still were no good lousy. We could all agree. Those slobs.

When he looked again I thought to speak. Or to grab hold of his sweater.

His hair moved around his cap edge. He needed a shave. An umbrella. A raincoat. He needed the bus already. Where was it.

It's funny. I never remembered him taking the bus. He owned a two-toned car the last year. Blue and light blue. Sporty, he said of it.

But you can't take it with you is how it goes. The car was sold to a neighbor. A stranger. Mister so-and-so from two doors down. And the furniture too. And the other things I wanted. His paintings for instance. He was a painter. And the forks were sold off. All of the silver in fact. But the forks somehow stood out as significant. I wouldn't say sacred. Just all those dinners at his house.

I tried to keep a fork but my father shook it from my hand.

They're a set, he said. It clattered to the floor.

I wanted the two-toned car but I had a car.

For awhile we watched TV. Me and my father. It was something funny. Then it turned serious. He pulled the plug. He took the TV to the neighbor's.

I sat in quiet.

So much to say and the bus was coming.

I was curious, had he seen anyone else from the family. Or anyone famous. And where had he been anyway all this time. I wasn't thinking foreign countries. I wasn't thinking heaven or hell. I wasn't like that. All that nonsense talk of clouds and fire. The rabbi's words. And why not in a closet, I wanted to ask. Hiding in his ladyfriend's battered furs. In a pocket with her scented lipsticks.

Or more absurd.

Like clinging to my father's earlobe. Whispering, you'll never amount. You bum.

But he always said you die you rot.

I never believed it.

You evaporate.

No. Not true.

I knew it was him with that stubborn posture never swaying in the downpour. I knew his downward look. His bitterness. That scowl, I knew it well.

It said, you never saved me, you fool.

He wanted to live.

Well, who doesn't. It's funny.

Everyone knew the doctors made a mistake. They shouldn't have cut him open. He was getting old. Getting weak. But he wasn't so sick. So they said. He could've recovered with no procedure. They said this to my father.

My father said, go for it.

When he flat-lined his ladyfriend said, someone goofed. She cursed in Russian.

It rained that day too. It always seems to when it should.

My father planned a service quick. The following day he spoke. There were rows of flowers. Bowls of bitter Russian candies. The rabbi talking of clouds. Of doves. The desert and fire. My father didn't cry for his father. No one did.

And two plus years later I sure wasn't crying. I was thinking of wearing his shoes in the rain. Strange as that was. I was thinking of feeling the hot leather insides. I used to wear them and clomp through his hallways. The brown ones looked more like girl shoes. But I could fit both feet inside one if I wanted.

I sat in his chair in his shoes before dinner. I could fit my whole body in one corner of the chair. I slept in the corner and the shoes slipped off.

Then we ate.

When the line flattened the predictable tone followed. Like watching serious TV, said my father. And we'd seen so much TV we knew just how to act. Either courageous or sobbing.

We were courageous. Even laughing.

We even went to the gift shop to browse. We even went to the cafeteria. The game was on. My father managed a, go!

Those slobs.

Those fools, I said.

I never saw it coming.

Well, no one did. Those show-off doctors. Someone goofed.

His ladyfriend cursed her head off in Russian. It was the damnedest time trying to shut her off.

It's natural.

He's still with us.

Eat your pie.

Good girl.

No one knew what my father was saying. I said not one word but whistled instead. Maybe for the first time ever. My father said, stop that lousy whistling.

But I couldn't stop at first. Then I laughed so hard I had to leave. I wandered the hallways and stood in the stairwell. I laughed in the lousy stairwell lighting. There were echoes.