Learning to Swim (6 page)

It was unconscious now. The way I walked to my pier in the early mornings. Once there, I would see boats pulling near ports in the distance, fishermen back from early morning rounds.

The swimmer would be there, his arms spinning like windmills, churning the calm water. The waves, still weak from the night’s calm would keep him bobbing ever so softly as he swam, almost like a duck, completely at home atop the waves. Some days the waves were stronger, from windy, stormy nights, and they would lap over the swimmer completely as his arms violently turned, his dark head always coming above the water eventually, shaking like a dog.

But one day I must have been a little late, because as I was approaching, the swimmer was pulling himself onto the wooden slats that sloped into the water at the end of the pier.

I stopped and walked awkwardly away. From a safe distance, I studied him, the first time I’d seen him out of the water. He was tan, with dark hair. He was solid, though not very tall, and seemed almost surreal to me. Maybe because of the way he swam, or maybe because he was soaking wet and the water made his skin gleam.

He was nothing short of gorgeous.
Hotter than a Brad Pitt knockoff
, indeed.

He breathed deeply, as though thoroughly exhausted, and sat on the edge of the pier with his legs still in the water.

When he went to stand up, I scurried away, only just realizing how awkward an interaction would be.

My dad flew home often to go to the office, so that left just my mother to deceive on the afternoons that I was “attending swimming lessons.” That’s when I found myself meandering back toward the old woman’s house. This time, on purpose.

She would usually be outside, slumped in her rocking chair, and would call out for me to join her. Sometimes she would call to Princess, and I’d follow awkwardly, waiting for her to address me. Which she would usually do with some far-fetched tale or question about my life.

One day she ignored me completely, having summoned Princess to her side and inquiring into the dog’s day. I sat down silently in my designated rocking chair and waited.

“They say a black dog is an omen of death,” the old woman said, whether to myself or Princess, I couldn’t be sure. “And dogs howling at the moon.”

“Good thing Princess has some white and brown, too,” I said, only thinly veiling my sarcasm.

“The dog days of summer are coming quite quickly,” the old woman went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It will be July before we know it, and then everything will be hot and terrible.”

“What are the dog days?” I asked.

“The dog days of summer,” she repeated. “It’s the hottest time of the year, when the dog-star is prominent. Did you know that the sea gets crazy? Everyone is miserable. They say dogs go mad. Do you? Do you all go mad?”

Princess was unaware of being addressed. She chased a fly with loud chomps of her mouth.

“I think it’s already too hot,” I said. “I don’t know how you stand it—being out here all day.”

The old woman tore her eyes from the sea and looked at me as if I’d just tried to explain astrophysics to her. She finally spoke. “Would you find my jacket, dear?”

“You—your jacket?” I stammered.

“Yes, my coat.”

She nodded seriously, so I got up, confused. I went obediently to the door and inside the dark house, wondering for the millionth time if maybe this woman wasn’t completely
there
, mentally speaking.

It had become something of a routine, her asking me to find her coat or her jacket or her sweater, my pretending to search for it, and then emerging back outside empty-handed. But just after expounding on the heat? The woman wasn’t all right. I went to a bookshelf to make shuffling noises, as I’d grown accustomed to doing. I ran my finger down the spines of a couple ancient-looking books (
Confessions of a Sea Maiden
and
Fairies
), waited a few moments for effect, and went back outside.

“I don’t see it,” I said.

“Yes, thank you for looking,” the old woman replied, just like every time before.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

As always, the old woman shook her head and implored me to sit back down.

“You have quite a collection of books,” I said, resuming my seat. “Have you read all those books?”

“Oh, I can’t read,” she said matter-of-factly.

“You—but your house is full of books!” I exclaimed. Floor-to-ceiling shelves of books!

“Yes …” the old woman mumbled.

“Were they your husband’s?” I prodded, wondering why a non-reader would have quite
so many
tomes.

“What?” she appeared confused. “The-the … yes. I don’t read.”

I was now equally as uncomfortable as the little old woman appeared to be.

“Do you know about the Merrow, dearie?” she said, as if to change the subject.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

She nodded and seemed to deliberate whether to go on. I knew she would. She always did. “The Irish told each other stories about a sea creature much like the mermaid. Only she’s called the Merrow.” She readjusted the scarf on her head as she nodded knowingly. “They’re sweet, sweet creatures. Capable of real love. Well, human love—if that can be said to be
real
love.”

“Do you believe in them?” I asked skeptically.

The old woman’s eyes remained fixed on a spot on the horizon. I followed her gaze. There was nothing but boats and seagulls, the normal fare of the ocean. She finally seemed to find herself and her eyes continued to rove.

“They say that love cannot overcome nature,” she finally said. “Supposedly the nature of the Merrow always overcomes whatever love they held for their human man. She will always go back to her people under the sea.”

Sounded to me like a cruel comment on female nature made by a bitter man.

“And the merman, oh, there are stories of mermen. Terrible stories. The mermen have cages at the bottom of the ocean in which they keep the souls of our drowned sailors and fishermen.”

A chill ran through me despite my unwillingness to become involved in the story. The pale, bloated body at the pier drifted to the forefront of my mind. Souls, chained to the bottom of the ocean, fighting uselessly, perpetually against their chains, appeared in my imagination. The soul had long been gone from that bloated body when I found it.

I only then became aware of the old woman looking at me. Her eyes were narrowed and she looked at me with an intensity that I had previously only seen her use on the ocean. I felt my cheeks redden.

“They play music, too,” she said. “Do you ever hear music under the water?”

I’ve never been under the water
. I shook my head.

The old woman sighed. “I suppose one must listen for it, then. I haven’t listened in a very long time. A very, very …
very
long time.”

As I walked home that day, I remembered the metal recorder tucked away in my bag. That morning, I had stashed the strange instrument among my things on the off-chance that the old woman could identify it. But her stories had engrossed more than I would have liked, and I had completely forgotten to bring it up.

As it happened Owen Carlton decided to fulfill my mom’s wildest dreams and invited me out with his friends one windy night. I had been sitting on my balcony, watching waves crash over my pier in the distance and recounting the Merrow story in my head (though I would never admit
that
to anyone). It was annoyingly windy, but it was the only vantage point at the Pink Palace from which I could see my pier. And then Owen had shown up at the back door. I could hear the voices below me but couldn’t ascertain who it was my mom was so thrilled to see.

When she shrieked for me to “gussy up and come downstairs,” I had a fairly good guess.

She nearly pushed me out the door when he invited me to join him and his friends for a bonfire on the beach.

Outside on the boardwalk, my mom probably watching from the window (but me too embarrassed to check), the twilight air was filled with awkwardness. I stumbled along next to him as he loped down the walkway. It was annoyingly close to a swagger.

I noticed with disdain that the collar to his polo shirt was popped again. It couldn’t be an accident. But it was hard not to notice the way his muscled arms nearly popped out of the sleeves, as well.

I felt like I was obliged to say something, but he seemed perfectly at ease, his hands in his pockets, occasionally throwing me a smile.

“Am I dressed okay?” I finally asked, just to break the silence. In my jeans and t-shirt, I could only imagine his tiny girl friends in bikinis and whatever apparel was the standard for beach bonfires.

He grinned at me. “Yeah, you look great.”

Despite my determination to despise this boy, I blushed profusely.
Damn cheeks!

As expected, the first girl I saw—who just so happened to be Blondie—was in a tiny jean skirt and a highlighter yellow bikini top. There were sunglasses on her head despite the fact that it was nearly dark. And she was bounding up to me like an eager Labrador puppy.

Well, that part was certainly unexpected.

“Oh my god, Cora, how are you? What’s up?”

“Hi,” I said stupidly.

“You remember Josie?” Owen said. “And Louisa?” The bimbo was right behind her.

I nodded and hoped to God he wouldn’t leave me alone with them.

He didn’t. Instead, he took my hand.
My hand!
He grabbed it like this was normal and led me deeper into the group, introducing me to more people, all the while clutching my hand in his. I didn’t hear a single name he said, because the throbbing sound of his hand clutching mine was drowning the entire world out. Or maybe that was my heart.

It was just the way I’d imagined Josh Watson would hold my hand. Only he never had. But I didn’t want this Owen to hold my hand.
Did I?

“I’m so glad you came out tonight,” Blondie was saying as she trailed behind us. “We’re really excited to have somebody new here.”

“Yeah, Cora, we’re going to go shopping tomorrow, do you wanna come?” the bimbo asked.

“Oh my god, yes!” Blondie exclaimed as if this was the most genius idea of the century.

“Cora, this is my buddy Sean,” Owen pulled gently on my hand to steer my attention away from the girls.

A boy behind the alleged Sean came forward, veering so sharply, I assumed he was drunk. “Well if it isn’t Cora Manchester!” In the light of the fire I recognized him as the formerly reticent Huston boy.

“You remember Benjamin?” Owen said.

“Miss Manchester, we met the other day.” He was slurring heavily, but leering in a way that produced in me a faint urge to punch him in the stomach.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said.

The Huston kid laughed. For some reason I despised his lime green popped collar more than Owen’s. “And why exactly, Miss Manchester, did you fail to mention previously that Fullington Factory is owned and operated by none other than a Mr. Frank Manchester?”

I rolled my eyes. Well that explained the bimbo and Blondie simpering at my feet.

“Fullington Factory? The rainbow shoelace place?” the boy named Sean said incredulously. “Your dad owns it?”

“Isn’t that, like, awesome?” the bimbo said.

Sean and the Huston boy guffawed.

“Why is it
Fullington
Factory? Who are the Fullingtons? Is it from your mother’s side of the family?” I may have imagined it, but in all the hubbub, Owen looked genuinely interested in a conversation. An actual conversation. But then something occurred to the bimbo.

“Oh-migod! Do you get, like, a new pair of shoes every day?”

“Yes,” I said (lied). “Yes, I do.”

Owen was smirking at me, challenging my lie. But he said nothing, instead finding amusement in the bimbo’s adoration. Perhaps I had underestimated Owen Carlton after all.

I later found myself sitting in a quiet nook of the gathering, next to Owen. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and said, “What about your father? Old or new?”

Owen laughed. “What?”

“Money,” I clarified.