Hydroplane: Fictions

SUSAN STEINBERG

Copyright 2006 by Susan Steinberg
All rights reserved
First Edition
First Printing 2006

Published by FC2 with support provided by Florida State University, the Publications Unit of the Department of English at Illinois State University, and the Florida Arts Council of the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs. This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art.

Address all inquiries to: Fiction Collective Two, Florida State University, c/o English Department, Tallahassee, FL 32306-1580

ISBN-10: Paper, 1-57366-129-5
ISBN-13 Paper, 978-1-57366-129-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Steinberg, Susan.
   Hydroplane / by Susan Steinberg.— 1st ed.
        p. cm.
   Short stories.
   ISBN 1-57366-129-5 (pbk.)
   I. Title.
   PS3619.T4762H93 2006
   813′.6—dc22

2005036138

Cover Design: Lou Robinson
Book Design: Jane Carman and Tara Reeser

Produced and printed in the United States of America
Printed on recycled paper with soy ink

ISBN-13: 978-1-57366-851-4 (electronic)

Several stories from this collection were first accepted elsewhere in various forms:

“Lifelike,” “The Last Guest,” and “Hydroplane” in
Conjunctions
“Caught” in
Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art
“Souvenir” and “The Walk” in
Denver Quarterly
“Invitation” in
Alaska Quarterly Review
“To Sit, Unmoving” in
McSweeney's
“The Garage” in
Boulevard
“Court” in
American Short Fiction

I wish to thank John Edgar Wideman,
Noy Holland, Lynne Layton, Nicholas
Montemarano, K. R. Mogensen, Andrew
Altschul, Yaddo, The MacDowell Colony,
the University of Massachusetts Amherst,
Central Missouri State University, and the
University of San Francisco.

The start. There were fits. Then fitful thoughts. But first there were stars. They flashed past my face. And I watched them flash. And I felt my pulse. And the speed. I need not say.

I was at school. We were critiquing. We stood to look at the paintings. They were green and brown, I recall. Of course. They were trees and trees are green and brown. Whether or not the paintings were good. No matter. The teacher was saying words on them. The girl whose paintings they were said words. I can't recall what either said. Something of harmony. Or something of truth. Nothing significant. I should know. I too was a painter who painted trees. I painted faces. And I painted because I was good
at painting. I could make a tree look like a tree. A face look like a face. The teachers often looked over my shoulders. Often they said, nice tree. But what of a tree looking facelike in life. As often they did. We were driving when I caught the trees looking at me. My boyfriend drove. He said, you need help. But the trees had ancient faces. Like mine would become. Made of bark and lined. So help me, I said. Ha ha. He laughed too.

How the fits started I can't say. There was a trigger-point perhaps. Some trigger-point I can't recall. A spark. I can't recall. I listened close to the words of the girl. I listened too to the teacher's. I stood for a closer look at the paintings. The teacher said, a break. And as I took a step to the door I stopped. A piece of time must have passed. A beat. Then there were stars by my head. There were stars too inside. My head that is. And more time passed. And the room thinned quickly to a tube. I was looking through one end of the tube. And everyone else was stuck inside it. They were trying to crawl through its other side. There was light on that side. And inside light shot past like stars. My pulse was speeding with the light. I can't explain it better. I turned to the person nearest me. It was the teacher curved as a letter S. He would help, I knew. I said, I don't feel well. He shrugged or laughed or said, what can I do. I said, help me. I clutched his arm. He said, what's wrong. I said, I don't know, and he said, well, what's wrong. Well, my pulse was speeding. And light shot past like stars.

Everything of course shifted at that point as things shift. Meaning once it shifted it stayed as such. I saw everything through the narrow tube. This isn't symbolic, this weightless invisible tube. Through it were the trees, my hands, the clouds. And through it things near blurred from recognition. Things far loomed and shadowed. I really can't explain it better. How the fits swam under
my skin. I could feel them as the swimmer would. I felt them too as water.

I saw no good reason to leave the house. My boyfriend tried to make me laugh. I took pills when I had to leave. I only left to get the mail. I took pills too in the house. They made me feel like a rain-soaked shirt. And the tube went limp. Slack. It disintegrated into. You know. Nothing. The teachers called when I missed those weeks. My boyfriend answered the phone for me. He talked to the teachers in whispers. I heard my boyfriend laughing. I don't know what he told them. I think that I was sick. I talked into the sheets when he wasn't looking. Sometimes words of no significance. Like those. At some point I stopped taking the pills. They were making me hateful and I didn't want to hate. My boyfriend danced to make me laugh. My mother said to take the pills damn it. She said, get some sleep. My boyfriend took the pills away. He said, you need to eat. But the food on my plate had turned too lifelike. The green and brown were the same as life, all landing on the floor when I threw the plate.

The teacher said, what's wrong. Well, for one he was S-shaped. For two he was curved inside the tube. And my pulse. My God. He said, well, what's wrong. It must sound like nothing how I explain it. But trust me it was frantic. I clutched his shirt front. Then his arm. It was hotter than you'd think. I can't recall what he said or did then. But I know he didn't help. I ran from the classroom to the basement. In the basement I found nothing. Then a light. A phone. The tube thinned. I called my mother. She rushed to get me. I waited outside under a car. Imagine her face when I crawled out from under. She wore diamond rings. My face was smudged. She drove me to the doctor. She never liked my boyfriend. Inside her car was freezing. The doctor said, hold still. I was
hiding under the paper sheet shaking. My boyfriend couldn't be bothered that day. And my mother, how she carried on.

Needless to say, I had fitful thoughts. Nothing significant. Thoughts on truth as we have and we have them. How you strike a match and the fire goes out. But first the cigarette lights. Life, you think and you have this thought. One thing rubs against another. Something else gains a spark. Then the cigarette is crushed under a heel. Like that.

And there were thoughts on trees. They often looked too vegetal. Like overgrown broccoli stalks. I could see no difference between trees and broccoli. Except the size. And except their ancient faces, the trees. They often looked so animal.

I lied to you. It wasn't my mother who picked me up when I ran to the basement. It was my boyfriend. I called my mother first. She answered the phone. But she couldn't talk long that day, I recall. She had things in her life. Significant things. So my boyfriend came to get me. I waited under a car. He laughed when I crawled out from under. My face was smudged. He drove me to the doctor. He hated my mother. He said she was always pushing. I was sweating sitting in his car. The trees were looking at me funny. The clouds as well. And they never stay still, the clouds. Even when it seems they are. The trees were looking through ancient eyes. And mine would one day too turn ancient. Slits in folds of hardened fat. My boyfriend said, I can't drive any faster. I left my boyfriend in his car. He drove beside me. He told me, get in. I ran and my pulse went faster. I ran up an alley where he couldn't drive. I pressed my pulse to slow the speed. I sat near a pile of dirty leaves. My mother wanted things for me. Marriage. Money. Only the best. My boyfriend's car went past. It was rusted at the bottom. He didn't see
me in the gutter. The leaves made a sound. Like what. Like static. And the light changed. Meaning the sun set. It was pink at first, the light. Divine. The traffic thinned to nothing.

I recall late one night I left the house. I couldn't sleep so thought to paint at school. The girl from class was painting too. I hadn't been to class in weeks. She never asked me why. I should say there was a wall between us. This isn't symbolic. There was a literal wall. And from her wall side she talked and I talked back. And we were having a pretty good talk. We talked about painting and school and the teacher. Really nothing significant. But we got to laughing hard. Then she came to my space on my wall side. And this was friendship, I decided. Laughing hard over nothing and talking. And half a beat after I decided friendship was in fact a fixed thing. So for half a beat after my decision I felt fit. I wanted to squeeze this girl on my wall side. But then I recalled friendship wasn't fixed. How could it be when trees were far bigger and rooted in dirt and yet trees weren't fixed. And how when diamonds were hard and sharp enough to cut glass and yet not fixed. I knew about clouds. I knew they were over you one second and over someone else the next. I knew they too were often dark and swollen with rain. And I knew all our laughing and talking would be caught in the clouds and taken somewhere at cloud speed.

I rose from the gutter. I ran to the doctor. My boyfriend met me there. The doctor said, hold still. Boy did I shake under the sheet. My boyfriend was sweating. My mother couldn't be bothered that day. There was shopping of sorts. She had friends. Good ones. Driving home my boyfriend said, that cunt.

I said to my boyfriend, you can be with whomever. I said, it doesn't matter. I said, get out of my face. Please, I said. I said,
please just be with someone else. It didn't matter. He didn't get me. He was always smoking by my mailbox. And he drank at night. It was never enough to pass him out. He answered the phone when I told him not to. Then it was he and the teachers using words. He and my mother fighting. But no one knew what was best for me. And I didn't know. I knew we weren't to be fixed, he and I. He saw trees as trees and that was a laugh. There was nothing fixed besides. He was poor besides. My mother said I should look a bit harder. But trust me I was looking. I looked so hard I couldn't get near him. It wasn't his fault. He had turned too lifelike. Across the room he loomed and shadowed the room. Up near he pushed and blurred in my face like food. I said, get out of my face. He went soft. Slack. I thought, how sad. Like an old sleeping animal. An overcooked vegetable.

It occurred to me in my boyfriend's car that paintings do depict life. I thought, yes. I thought, paintings are unfixed as life. Of course. My mother's diamonds always flashed in the sunlight. The sun burned white in her black glasses. And in her hair. And I knew the sun would fade her hair. It would yellow her diamonds. Her face was turning lined and hard as bark. And I knew the sun would also fade. I knew the earth would turn cold. The air was ice in my mother's car. My boyfriend kept his windows down. For air, he said. I left his car. I ran to the doctor. The doctor said, take these.

We could have formed a friendship that night me and the girl. We were laughing so hard and talking. But I was thinking. And my laughing stopped. And her laughing stopped for a second. She was taking a break. Just one second. She held up one finger. Just two seconds. Just to get her cigarette lit. She struck the match. She took a long drag off her cigarette. And I saw no smoke float from
her after the drag. This isn't to say she wasn't breathing. She was. She was even talking again. But I watched as she dragged long and no smoke floated from her mouth. Nor from her nose. I thought there must be something wrong. I thought, she can't go on like this. I stood nearer. I watched the cigarette tip brighten and saw no smoke float from her face. I stood with my side pressed to her side. I whispered, what on earth. She said, what's wrong with you. The room was starting up. My pulse. I whispered, my God. She backed away. She walked back to her side. I followed her. She said, stop.

Earlier that day my mother had sent me flowers. This isn't symbolic. They were right by the mailbox. Then she called. She told my boyfriend, they'll brighten the room. They'll fix things, she said. The flowers were very bright. But the petals were already drying. Some had fallen to the floor. So there they were, scattered. There's nothing deeper to this.

My boyfriend called. He broke up with me. It wasn't his fault. He said, sorry. No matter. I threw my plate. I felt I was supposed to. All those broken bits. Those greens and browns. All that food was once life growing. In fields. And the sun shone over and brightened the fields. Then something crushed the animals. Then everything green was crushed as well. And there it was on my kitchen floor. What's that, you say. I say, your guess. I could have dropped to my knees. I admit I felt unfit.

It was wrong from the start. We met at a dinner. My mother looked at his shirt. Torn. He looked at her diamonds. She looked at my hair. I looked at her face. She looked at the paint on my clothes. There wasn't much to say except pass this pass that. I sensed the first flicker of stars. Off to the sides by my ears. Passed off as drunken, I'm guessing. I had been drinking. Some air, I said.
I left to sit on the curb. Cars went past. I pushed leaves in the gutter with my hands. What they said in my absence. Well, there was a fight. I saw my boyfriend huff to his rusted car. I saw my mother follow, smirking smugly. I left too.

I recall the critique. The paintings were awful. The colors. Awful dirty greens. The teacher was spitting out words that day. The girl was carrying on. She said something of truth and harmony. It was really quite funny and the teacher said, break. I looked at her paintings. I looked good and hard at the mess. Her truth. I laughed good and hard. The teacher looked up. The girl looked hurt. What was that. The trigger. That shallow cunt. I hated her paintings. Her poor hurt face. I said, help.

The first fit hit me like a fist in the mouth. My mother's, that is. Diamonds square in the face. The next fits were softer. Expected. Like her smirking and handing a hairbrush saying, brush it. Or a white dress saying, try it. Or a bar of soap saying, paint on your hands. Your clothes. Your face. Or a diamond smirking, one day it's yours. Your father gave it to me that son of a bitch. And when I flinch she hands a twenty. A hundred. To take off the edge.

My mother couldn't get me from school. She had shopping or some such. She had very good friends. I was shaking hard. She knew I was shaking. I was having thoughts. The tube as a tunnel. The light at the end. You've heard it before. The teacher came down looking for me. The girl came down with the teacher. My things were up in the classroom. The girl and the teacher were calling my name. Their voices pushed like spreading roots that tore up the basement floor. And before they could reach me I was running outside. I was crawling under a car. I was hiding from the mess. I was looking for my mother. But my boyfriend's car went past.

When the flowers lost their petals. Well, I thought, now this is fixed. Not the shell shapes. Not the dry veins I could see with light. But that they would disintegrate as they do. That they would turn to nothing. That was fixed. I know you've thought this. Who hasn't thought it. But I hadn't yet. And this is mine.

The way she handed a brush to fix my hair. I said, stop it. She dragged it through my hair. It made a sound I can't explain. You're thinking, sparks. Something sparking. Yes. She said, your look. She shook her head. Her fist made contact with her palm. Never my face. But she meant it. To strike it. I saw lights in her diamonds. Her car was ice. She gripped the wheel. You just need two things, she always said. Marriage and money. My mother got both. But both were unfixed. Her glasses had the blackest lenses. I couldn't tell you of her eyes. I must admit. Only my father's diamond was real. The rest were glass. My boyfriend smoked down to the fingers. When I say I loved him. Well, what do you think. He pointed to trees and clouds. He said, looks good to me. I know what you're thinking. But was there a spark.