The kid in the apron stands in disbelief, and you walk to him. It’s not your father he looks too much like, but yourself. In his hands you place the picture.
“Hold this for me,” you tell him. “It’s important.”
He angles the glass against the light off the lake to see. “Okay,” he says.
You slip off your shoes, and barefoot, hop up to balance atop a post. From here you can see no more of the lake, but the women below are clear as they stroke and stretch as if doing rehab exercises. There will always be a reason not to jump in a cold lake, thousands of them, and a certain sense emerges from this. It’s like the logic of getting a court order against a husband who spends his evenings watching TV in the basement. It’s the desire to control anything you can.
Mrs. Cassini floats on her back in the cold water, facing the sky. She looks at you, then closes her eyes, floating. “I’m twice as alive as you are,” she says softly, her voice so vital she almost sounds angry. Some women clap water in the air while others backstroke into deeper water, their arms lifting in graceful salute to a satellite that cannot see us, that for tonight at least, just passes on by.
You jump. One slow tumble in the air that unfolds into a sailor’s dive, and you enter with your arms at your sides, chin out, barreling toward the beer caps awaiting below. You hadn’t planned on hitting the bottom, but it’s somehow not a surprise. The muted rustling of tin, when you make contact, is the exact sound of the BlueLiner’s air brakes — the shh of compressed air releasing — and the flash of pain in your eyes is bright enough to fire your irises white.
Surfacing, you can feel the flap on your jaw and the warmth on your throat. You swim to Sue and kiss her, awkwardly, half on the nose.
“Easy there, bus driver,” she says and has to smile, just her slick face showing.
“You shouldn’t swim with a Hickman port,” you say. “You could get an infection and die.”
“And that kiss was any safer?”
“I suppose it wasn’t much of a kiss.”
“I think you gave me a fat lip.”
“I can do better.”
“Another one like that and I won’t need the zoo pass.”
“The fishing pole, then.”
“Maybe it was the satellite,” she says. “All that pressure to perform.”
“They’re watching us on the Weather Channel right now.”
Sue gets a conspiratorial look on her face. “I saw at least three satellites up there. How many did you count?”
You’re both treading water, breathing hard between phrases.
“They were fucking everywhere,” you tell her.
“That Mrs. Cassini. I think the satellite she’s talking about is halfway to Saturn.”
Sue’s treading water with you, and that’s a good sign. You know you’re going to kiss her again. You have a photo of your mother safe with a friend and a mild case of shock. You’re immersed in ice water, losing blood fast, and still you feel an erection coming on, the kind you’d get when you were sixteen, appearing out of nowhere, surprising you with its awkward insistence on the terrifying prospect of joy ahead.
TRAUMA PLATE
I
The Body Armor Emporium opened down the street a few months back, and I tell you, it’s killing mom-and-pop bulletproof vest rental shops like ours. We’ve tried all the gimmicks: twofor-one rentals, the VIP card, a night drop. But the end is near, and lately we have taken to bringing the VCR with us to the shop, where we sit around watching old movies.
Lakeview was supposed to expand our way, but receded toward the interstate, and here we are, in an abandoned strip mall, next to the closed-down Double Drive In where Jane and I spent our youth. After Kmart moved out, most of the stores followed, leaving only us, a Godfather’s Pizza, and a store, I swear, that sells nothing but purified water and ice. It is afternoon, near the time when Ruthie gets out of school, and behind the counter, Jane and I face forty acres of empty parking spaces while watching Blue Hawaii.
I am inspecting the vests — again — for wear and tear, a real time killer, and the way Jane sighs when Elvis scoops the orphan kid into the Jeep tells me this movie may make her cry. “When’s he going to dive off that cliff?” I ask.
“That’s Fun in Acapulco,” Jane says. “We used to have it on Beta.” She sets down her design pad. “God, remember Beta?”
“Jesus, we were kids,” I say, though I feel it, the failed rightness of Betamax smiling at us from the past.
“I loved Betamax,” she says.
I only rented one vest yesterday, and doubtful I’ll rent another today, await its safe return. There aren’t many customers like Mrs. Espers anymore. She’s a widow and only rents vests to attend a support group that meets near the airport. The airpark’s only a medium on threat potential, but I always send her out armed with my best: thirty-six-layer Kevlar, German made, with lace side panels and a removable titanium trauma plate that slides into a Velcro pocket over the heart the size of a love letter. The Kevlar will field a.45 hit, but it’s the trauma plate that will knock down a twelve-gauge slug and leave it sizzling in your pant cuff. I wear a lighter, two-panel model, while Jane goes for the Cadillac — a fourteen-hundred-dollar field vest with over-shoulders and a combat collar. It’s like a daylong bear hug, she says. It feels that safe. She hasn’t worn a bra in three years.
The State Fair is two weeks away, which is usually our busiest season, so Jane’s working on a new designer line we think may turn things around. Everyone’s heard the reports of trouble the State Fair has caused other places: clown killings in Omaha, that Midway shootout in Columbus, 4-H snipers in Fargo.
Her custom work started with the training vest she made for Ruthie, our fourteen-year-old. It was my idea, really, but Jane’s the artist. The frame’s actually a small men’s, with the bottom ring of Kevlar removed, so it’s like a bulletproof bolero, an extra set of ribs really. The whole lower GI tract is exposed, but fashion, comfort, anything to get the kids to wear their vests these days. Last week I had Jane line a backpack with Kevlar, which I think will rent because it not only saves important gear, but protects the upper spine in a quick exit. Next I want to toy with a Kevlar baby carrier, but the problem as I see it will be making a rig that’s stiff enough to support the kid, yet loose enough to move full-speed in. We’ll see.
Through the windows, there’s a Volvo crossing the huge lot, and I can tell by the way it ignores the lane markings that it’s not the kind of person who cares about the dangers of tainted water and stray bullets. The car veers toward Godfather’s Pizza, almost aiming for the potholes, and Jane sniffles as Elvis hulas with the wide-eyed orphan at the beach party. “Remember Ruthie at that age?” I ask.
“You bet,” Jane says.
“Let’s have another baby.”
“Sure,” she answers, but she’s only half listening. She really gets into these movies.
After Elvis is over, Jane makes iced teas while I drag two chairs out into the parking lot so we can enjoy some of the coming evening’s cool. We bring the cordless phone, lean back in the chairs, and point our feet toward sunset. This time of day brings a certain relief because even in September, a good vest is like an oven.
There is a freedom that comes with doom, and lately we use our large lot to play Frisbee in the evening or football in the near-dark, with Ruthie always outrunning one of us for the long bomb. Some nights the Filipinos who own the water store drift out under the awnings to watch us. They wipe their brows with apron ends and seem to wonder what kind of place this America is.