Lights Out (13 page)

Bobby took his place in lane six. “Do we need a starter?”

“No.”

“We’ll just use the clock, like in the old days.” A big clock with a red second hand hung on the wall at the other end. “Second hand touches twelve, we go.”

The water was still again, flat blue. The second hand rounded six, ticked up the other side. Eight, nine, ten. Bobby got into his crouch. Eddie had forgotten about that. He bent his knees, trying to find the right position. Eleven. One, two, three, fo—the red hand was a full click away when Bobby sprang off. Eddie followed, a hurried dive so steeply angled he almost touched bottom. By the time Eddie hit the surface, Bobby was half a length ahead. In seven or eight strokes, he stretched it to a full length.

Eddie had forgotten his racing dive. Now he forgot about sculling too, lost his feel for the water, fell into a crude imitation of Bobby’s powerful stroke. He thrashed on, falling farther behind, thinking: What the hell are you doing, jailbird?

Bobby hit the first turn, flipped it well, smoother than in his racing days. That observation threw off Eddie’s timing. He
forgot to spread his feet, pushed off crooked, started his roll too soon, forcing himself to stroke too soon. Bobby gained another half length. Two days out of the pen, jailbird, and racing for all the money you’ve got.

Bobby gained another stroke or two by the second turn, flipped it nicely again. Eddie did better on his second turn, not perfect, but better. And in the calm of the glide, he realized he’d been thrashing. Like an animal:
a freestyler needs finesse
. Feel the water, feel how it gives against the palm, curls around the fingers. Feel it: an obvious psychological trick, but it worked on him. He began to scull, rising up in the water; not yet skimming, but moving faster. Bobby’s big white kicking feet came back to him a little at a time: the one or two strokes he’d lost on the second turn, maybe more. He was about a length and a half behind when Bobby hit the last turn.

Eddie didn’t see how Bobby handled it. No time. He came to the wall, piked, flipped, rolled, glided, stroked twice, breathed. Perfect. He glanced at Bobby. Half a length now, and closing. Stroke stroke stroke stroke breathe. Stroke stroke stroke stroke breathe. Eddie closed a little more, almost skimming now. Bobby glanced back; his eyes widened. Stroke stroke stroke stroke stroke—and then, in mid-pull, his body failed him, all at once, as though someone had switched him off.

How long had he been swimming before Bobby challenged him? He didn’t know. It could have been twenty minutes, it could have been two hours. Enough so that now he was done, just like that. He almost stopped right there in the middle of the pool.

But he knew—there was no time to think, he just knew—that if he stopped it was over for him. So he kept making the motions of swimming; and at the same time a voice in his head, his own voice said: Go, Nails. Not yelling, not screaming, simply saying go, and calling him by that name.

My real name, Eddie thought: me. A surge of something—energy, adrenaline, endorphins, something—pulsed through him, lifted him. And then, at last, he was skimming. He didn’t feel exhaustion, pain, fear, despair. He felt nothing but the cool blue, pushing him forward, helping.

Go, Nails. Go, Nails. The voice didn’t stop until his hand smacked the wall, hard: he hadn’t even seen it coming. He got his head up in time to see Bobby touch.

Bobby couldn’t say anything at first. He just hung onto the edge of the pool, gasping. After a while he got his breath back. He said: “Fuck.”

Eddie climbed out of the pool. His muscles ached, but he made sure he got out in one smooth motion.

“Very cute,” said Bobby, still in the pool. He was smiling, but too broadly, and his voice was too loud. “The way I paid for you to get into that kind of shape.”

Eddie turned. “How’s that?”

There was a pause while Bobby made an effort to hold the words inside. They tumbled out. “You’ve been sucking at the public tit for the past fifteen years or whatever the hell it is, that’s how, and I’m a taxpayer like you wouldn’t believe.”

Eddie came back to the edge, looked down at Bobby. Bobby’s hair was plastered down on his forehead, his face was red. “If you win, say little,” Eddie said. “If you lose, say less.”

Bobby went redder, but kept his mouth shut.

Eddie walked away, into the locker room, showered, changed. He wrang out the Speedo, dried it under the blower, stuck it in his pocket. Another possession, added to the $1.55 left from the gate money, the $100 bill from El Rojo, and Prof’s cardboard tube, which didn’t belong to him. He went out into the lobby and sat in a chair. It was a wooden chair, hard and uncomfortable, but Eddie was almost asleep when Bobby appeared.

Bobby looked good. His hair, still damp, was slicked back; he wore a dark suit, glossy black shoes with little holes in them—Eddie knew they had a name but didn’t know what it was—and had a glossy black fur coat over one shoulder. He walked over to Eddie. Eddie rose; it took a lot of effort, but he didn’t want Bobby standing over him, not with all that wardrobe.

Bobby had recovered his self-confidence, or at least his composure. He took in Eddie’s wrinkled trousers, the bright green short-sleeved shirt, the dirty prison sneakers. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out his roll. It was a thick
one, jammed into a gold money clip. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, one of many, and handed it over. Eddie found himself staring at it, like a bumpkin.

Bobby laughed. “You and Jack couldn’t be more different, you know that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bobby stopped laughing, stepped back. “Nothing. He’s at home with money, that’s all. Big money.”

“He is?”

“Sure. Who do you think sicced BCC on us?”

“Jack did that to you?”

“Hell, yes. It was brilliant. We’re set for life.”

“Who’s we?”

“Dad and me. Who else is there?”

“Vic, for one,” Eddie said. And the whole fucking town. Bobby shrugged himself into his fur coat. “He didn’t have any shares, Eddie. This is America.”

They didn’t shake hands again. Bobby went out. Eddie had a drink from the fountain and left soon after. He was almost at the bus station when he realized he’d forgotten his steam bath.

11

T
he stubble-faced man had patterned the bus-station floor in dirty whorls and laid the mop aside. Now he sat behind the ticket counter, studying a magazine called
HOT! HOT! HOT!
He looked up as Eddie approached, spreading his hands over a picture of people having sex while watching a big-screen TV where people were having sex.

“When’s the next bus to New York?” Eddie asked.

“Seven twenty-two, A.M.”

“You mean tomorrow?”

“A.M.,”
the stubble-faced man repeated, his fingers stirring impatiently on the magazine.

“Where can I get something to eat?”

“Search me.”

“But you live here.”

The stubble-faced man snorted.

Eddie didn’t like that. He leaned on the counter. The stubble-faced man drew away, dragging
HOT! HOT! HOT!
with him. Eddie laid his hand on the magazine; a page tore through a fat thigh. “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “Where do you go when you’re hungry?”

The bus-station door opened and a cop came in, stamping snow off his boots; the same cop who had stopped Eddie on the bridge. The stubble-faced man smiled. “I go home, asshole,” he said to Eddie.

“Everything okay, Murray?” asked the cop, looking hard at Eddie.

Eddie backed away from the counter.

“Best day of my life,” said the stubble-faced man. “I just love this job.”

The cop went over to the coffee machine, fed it change, pressed the button. Nothing happened. He slapped the machine with his palm.

“This thing on the fritz, Murray?”

“Guess so.”

“I want my money back.”

“Got no key,” said Murray. “There’s a number to call on the back.”

The cop slapped the machine once more, then turned and walked out the door. Eddie and Murray stared at each other. Murray’s lips twitched, as though he was fighting back a grin. Eddie didn’t like that either. He grabbed
HOT! HOT! HOT!
and ripped it in half before leaving.

“Asshole,” said Murray, but not too aggressively.

Outside it was colder, windier, snowier. Eddie walked up Main Street to the end, passing two diners on the way, both closed, and stopped where the state highway began. A car approached. Eddie stuck out his thumb. It kept going.

So did others. Time passed. Eddie didn’t know how much time because he’d given his watch to Prof: part of his plan to take nothing with him. He got more tired, more hungry, colder. He wanted a cigarette, to fill his lungs with warmth, to hold a little fire in his hand. No cigarette: that was prong two of his three-pronged plan. But it was better than being inside.

“I’m free,” he said to nobody.

There wasn’t much traffic. After a while Eddie realized he was just watching it go by, without bothering to stick out his thumb. He stuck it out. A white car, pocked with rust, pulled over. Eddie opened the passenger door.

“Destination?” said the driver.

The driver was dressed in white: white trousers and a white tunic that came almost to his knees. Eddie noticed this in passing; his immediate attention was drawn to the man’s head, shaved bald like his.

“New York,” Eddie said.

“You’ve got good karma.”

Eddie paused, his hand on the door, wondering if the man in white was gay and this was a come-on. His mind flashed images of Louie, the Ozark boys; and the man in white, lying
by the side of the road while Eddie drove off in the pockmarked car.

The man spoke. “I mean you’re in luck—that’s where I’m going.”

Eddie got in.

The man held out his hand. “Ram Pontoppidan.”

“Nai—Ed Nye.”

Ram checked the rearview mirror—a laminated photograph of an old Indian at a spinning wheel hung from it—and pulled onto the road. “Mind fastening your seat belt, Ed? It’s the law.”

Music played on the sound system, tinkling music full of rests. “Cold out there,” said Ram. “Waiting long?”

“No.”

“Nice and warm in here.”

“Yeah.”

Nice and warm; and smelling of food. The food smell came from an open plastic bag lying in the storage box between the seats. “Holesome Trail Mix,” read the label: “Shiva & Co., Burlington, Vt.”

“Try some,” said Ram.

“No, thanks.”

“Really. I’d like your opinion.”

“About what?”

“The product. I’m the New York–New England distributor.”

Eddie hadn’t heard of trail mix, and was sure wholesome was spelled with a w, but he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before his release, and now the swim had left him ravenous. He dipped into the bag: nuts, and dried fruit in various colors. He tried it.

“Well?”

“Not bad.”

In truth, better than not bad, much better. Eddie hadn’t tasted anything so good since … when? In his case, he could fix the date: the night of spiny lobsters and champagne at Galleon Beach.

“Have some more,” said Ram.

Eddie had another handful—“Don’t be shy”—and another.

“That’s what makes it all so gratifying,” said Ram, handing him the bag: “customer satisfaction.”

Eddie sat there with the bag on his lap.

“It’s a sample,” said Ram. “Enjoy and be blessed.”

Eddie finished the bag.

After that he felt sleepy; his body came down from the swimming high. Outside it was bleak and raw, inside warm, the music soothing sound, with no rhythm or melody that Eddie could hear. He glanced at Ram. His eyes were on the road. Eddie let himself relax a little. He kept his eyes open but began to drift off, drawing out that time between wakefulness and sleep in a way he hadn’t in fifteen years. In his cell, he’d always rushed to unconsciousness at night.

Ram spoke softly: “Have you tried spirituality, Ed?”

Eddie sat up. Ram was watching him from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

“Love, to put it simply.” Again Eddie’s mind flashed images of Louie, the Ozarks, Ram by the side of the road. “The love that impels and compels the universe. The love that stands behind the food you just ate.”

“It wasn’t that good.”

Ram smiled. “I’m talking about the spiritual power of Krishna consciousness, Ed. The path to inner peace and calm. Can you honestly say you are full of inner peace and calm?”

Eddie remembered his state of mind in the pool. “Sometimes.”

The answer surprised Ram. “Then you’ve studied meditation?”

“I tried the F-Block system for a while.”

Ram frowned. He had clear, unwrinkled skin, but suddenly appeared older. “I don’t know that one. I’ve heard of beta blockers, of course.”

“No drugs allowed on F-Block.”

“Good,” said Ram. “Although anything that leads to inner peace can’t be rejected out of hand. It’s so … hard, Ed. I know. I fooled myself into thinking I was at peace for many years. I had a wife, kids, tenure at SUNY, house, car, et cetera. All a sham. I simply wasn’t very evolved at the time.”

“You were a teacher?”

“Tenured professor of English literature. It wasn’t the way.”

Ram talked on, describing his spiritual crisis, how he’d left wife, kids, job, house, car, et cetera and found Shiva & Co. and inner peace.

Eddie waited till he finished and said: “What poems did you teach?”

“At SUNY?”

“Yeah.”

“You name it.”

“ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’?”

Ram wrinkled his brow, looked older; surprised again. “ ‘The Mariner’? Never taught it, per se—wanting to avoid the straitjacket of the dead white male thing—but I know it, naturally. Are you taking an English course?”

“No.”

A mile or two of windblown white scenery went by. Eddie took a chance. “And now there came both mist and snow / And it grew wondrous cold.” He spoke aloud, but quiet, and to his ears dull and insipid too. Maybe it was a lousy poem after all.

“I’m impressed,” said Ram. “You’re not a poet yourself, by any chance?”

“No.”

“What do you do, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”