moms.
Chapter Eleven
W hen he’s eight years old, the nameless boy’s father tells him he’s an excellent swimmer. It’s a nice compliment, but the boy already knows it. He can swim for two straight hours, doing six there-and-back laps to the center of the River, his arms and legs in perfect coordination, strong and powerful. Although he’s grown out of watching Zoran, he thinks he might be as good a swimmer as his old hero. They have to get up earlier and earlier to give him the time he needs to practice.
His father forbids him from swimming any further than halfway toward the lights in the distance.
Although the boy has sworn off asking questions that only bring him pain, his father surprises him by sharing things sometimes. Interesting things. Things he’s always wondered about.
“Those lights are the city,” he says today, when the boy muscles himself out of the water after another two hour swim. His father has already turned off his portable holo-screen, a habit he’s maintained since the last time the boy saw him cry.
The boy suspected as much, but he doesn’t say that, just gazes at the lights, which are growing harder and harder to see as the sky races toward morning. Soon they’ll blink out, useless until the sun finishes its arc across the sky.
“It’s called Saint Louis,” his father continues. And the river is the Mississippi—try saying that five times fast.”
The boy doesn’t try, as he doesn’t think his father really means him to. A question buzzes on his tongue—is that where you work?—but he holds it back easily, barely even thinking about it.
“The river is two miles wide here. It used to be a sixth of that width, many, many years ago.” What happened? the boy’s brain says. His mouth says nothing. He has the sudden urge to get back in the water, to swim another lap.
His father hands him a towel and the boy wraps it around himself, even though he’s now so used to the cold water that he barely notices how it raises bumps on his skin. They make eye contact and his father grips his shoulder. “Son, I’ve made so many mistakes. So many they’re uncountable.” This is not what he expected his father to say. The boy feels as if he should hold his breath, but his lungs are demanding air, so he continues taking deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. “All I wanted was to keep you safe, but I won’t be able to forever. I have enemies. You have enemies, even if you don’t know them and they don’t know you.”
The boy wants to scream. He can’t ask questions, and when his father tells him things they only make him more confused. Nothing in his world makes sense. Nothing except the rush of the water over his skin and the powerful feeling of conquering the forces trying to drag him to the bottom of the river. The Mississippi.
“I’m sorry, Son,” his father says, and the boy realizes he’s frowning so much it’s giving him a headache. “I couldn’t tell you everything before. Still can’t.”
“For my own protection,” the boy says.
His father misses the sarcasm in his voice, and says, “Exactly. One day maybe you’ll understand why I’ve made the choices I’ve made. One day maybe I’ll understand them, too.”
Despite the heat rushing through his veins, the boy can’t stay angry, not when the man before him looks so vulnerable, so much less than what he used to be. Broken. Old. It’s like the last few years have aged him by decades.
“Maybe,” the boy says.
“When I’m not around, I pray you won’t hate me for what I’ve done,” his father says, the conversation taking yet another surprising turn.
The boy’s eyes dart to his father’s. “I don’t hate you, Father.”
His father grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I love you, Son. Don’t you ever forget that. Janice and I both love you, and we always will. No matter what happens.”
As usual, the boy senses that there are so many more words behind what his father says, but
Chapter Eleven
W hen he’s eight years old, the nameless boy’s father tells him he’s an excellent swimmer. It’s a nice compliment, but the boy already knows it. He can swim for two straight hours, doing six there-and-back laps to the center of the River, his arms and legs in perfect coordination, strong and powerful. Although he’s grown out of watching Zoran, he thinks he might be as good a swimmer as his old hero. They have to get up earlier and earlier to give him the time he needs to practice.
His father forbids him from swimming any further than halfway toward the lights in the distance.
Although the boy has sworn off asking questions that only bring him pain, his father surprises him by sharing things sometimes. Interesting things. Things he’s always wondered about.
“Those lights are the city,” he says today, when the boy muscles himself out of the water after another two hour swim. His father has already turned off his portable holo-screen, a habit he’s maintained since the last time the boy saw him cry.
The boy suspected as much, but he doesn’t say that, just gazes at the lights, which are growing harder and harder to see as the sky races toward morning. Soon they’ll blink out, useless until the sun finishes its arc across the sky.
“It’s called Saint Louis,” his father continues. And the river is the Mississippi—try saying that five times fast.”
The boy doesn’t try, as he doesn’t think his father really means him to. A question buzzes on his tongue—is that where you work?—but he holds it back easily, barely even thinking about it.
“The river is two miles wide here. It used to be a sixth of that width, many, many years ago.” What happened? the boy’s brain says. His mouth says nothing. He has the sudden urge to get back in the water, to swim another lap.
His father hands him a towel and the boy wraps it around himself, even though he’s now so used to the cold water that he barely notices how it raises bumps on his skin. They make eye contact and his father grips his shoulder. “Son, I’ve made so many mistakes. So many they’re uncountable.” This is not what he expected his father to say. The boy feels as if he should hold his breath, but his lungs are demanding air, so he continues taking deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. “All I wanted was to keep you safe, but I won’t be able to forever. I have enemies. You have enemies, even if you don’t know them and they don’t know you.”
The boy wants to scream. He can’t ask questions, and when his father tells him things they only make him more confused. Nothing in his world makes sense. Nothing except the rush of the water over his skin and the powerful feeling of conquering the forces trying to drag him to the bottom of the river. The Mississippi.
“I’m sorry, Son,” his father says, and the boy realizes he’s frowning so much it’s giving him a headache. “I couldn’t tell you everything before. Still can’t.”
“For my own protection,” the boy says.
His father misses the sarcasm in his voice, and says, “Exactly. One day maybe you’ll understand why I’ve made the choices I’ve made. One day maybe I’ll understand them, too.”
Despite the heat rushing through his veins, the boy can’t stay angry, not when the man before him looks so vulnerable, so much less than what he used to be. Broken. Old. It’s like the last few years have aged him by decades.
“Maybe,” the boy says.
“When I’m not around, I pray you won’t hate me for what I’ve done,” his father says, the conversation taking yet another surprising turn.
The boy’s eyes dart to his father’s. “I don’t hate you, Father.”
His father grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I love you, Son. Don’t you ever forget that. Janice and I both love you, and we always will. No matter what happens.”
As usual, the boy senses that there are so many more words behind what his father says, but
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