Surface Tension Read online

  Oh well, that was kind of exciting. When Mom finally makes her way back to us, we give her a hug and tell her, “Good job.” She seems disappointed that she didn't win, but that's not the point. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen, watching my mom compete against an eight-year-old in the Dizzy Bat competition.

  We're having drinks on the Richardsons' porch, and the minister is piling seaweed into a small mountain on the beach.

  Mr. Richardson takes a sip of his whiskey on the rocks and I can hear the ice cubes rattle inside the glass. He says, “The day he lights that seaweed …” He doesn't finish the sentence, but he pours himself another.

  Dad says, “It was just a lump last week—now it's as big as your pile.”

  Mr. Richardson is just staring out through the screen. The women get up and go into the kitchen to get everyone some snacks. I sip my ginger ale and wiggle in the rocking chair. I'm waiting for someone to say something, but nobody does.

  I got Mike and Eliza's phone number from Mrs. Richardson. I just want to give them a call and see if they're coming down in the boat anytime soon. I just think it would be cool to see them again and hang out like we did that one time.

  I dial the number on the party line phone and wait for it to ring. I get nervous sometimes when I call people on the phone, especially girls, but I usually practice what I'm going to say before I call. This time I didn't do that, but I wish I had. I guess I'm just going to say hi and ask if Eliza is there. Hopefully, it'll be Eliza and I won't even have to ask.

  “Hello.” Shit, it's Mike.

  “Hello, is Eliza there?”

  There's a pause on the other end. I think it's maybe too long of a pause. He might be handing her the phone, or he might be waiting for me to say something else. Should I have said something else?

  “Who the hell is this?”

  Wow, he's really angry. I should have probably said who it was. I try and get it out, but I wasn't expecting him to be so angry. I start to say my name, but he's screaming into the phone so loud I have to hold it away from my ear. “Who the fuck is calling my house? Answer me!”

  I didn't know he was going to be like that. I wouldn't have called if I'd known that.

  I should hang up, but I'm afraid he'll just call me back. I say my name, but he doesn't hear me. He says, “What?”

  I say, “Luke.”

  He pauses a long time and says, “Sorry, Luke, she's not here.”

  I try to say, “Okay, can you tell her I called?” but he's already hung up the phone. Did he find out about the Playboy or something? I hope not. I hope Eliza didn't tell him.

  We all got up early so we could hike up to the waterfall. Mom's got her backpack filled with snacks. Dad has his camera.

  I think we all just want to get away from the minister and the Richardsons and all of that shit. The old car is still there, except this year it looks like someone tried to set it on fire.

  But it still feels magical here, even though there's hardly any water in the creek this year. I just want to feel the way I did when I was little. When I was in awe of everything.

  I still love the feeling of getting closer to the waterfall. The walls of the gorge rising up as we walk. The sound of the water. It starts like a hum in the distance, and then it keeps getting louder until it's roaring right in our faces. But there's just not that much water in the creek this year, so all the rocks are bleached white and covered in dried seaweed and we can't hear the water yet. We wind around the final turns. We're almost there and I'm excited.

  We turn the last corner, and I see the waterfall, but I also see Sophie standing underneath the water, letting it rain over her shoulders.

  I've never been here when there was anyone else here. It's weird having someone else here. It's like she knows our secret.

  We walk over to the other side of the waterfall so we don't bother her. I could swim in the little pool, but it's probably cold. I could get near her, but I've never talked to her before, so it would be strange to start now.

  She sees us and smiles. I think she's smiling at me, but she could be smiling at my parents. I nod back, but I don't know if she is paying attention. Dad calls out, “Hello!” Why does he have to be so loud?

  She's got this long black hair that looks so pretty when it's wet. It comes all the way down her back. And her eyes, she's got these huge eyes. They look like cats' eyes. I wish I could think of something to say to her.

  I throw a stone at the shale wall, so it comes down in a mini avalanche. This feels so awkward. I don't know what we're doing here. There's nothing to do if we can't stand under the water.

  Dad says, “Climb up there. I'll take your picture.” I know what he means. He wants to take a picture just like the one from last year that's on our fridge.

  I take a step up onto a small ledge on the side of the waterfall, but the shale doesn't hold under my weight like it used to. My feet slip and I have to grab a plant by the roots to keep from falling back. I stand up straight and say, “Here?”

  “No, a little higher.”

  I turn around and climb a little higher. This seemed so easy when I was smaller. I get high enough so that he can't complain that I'm not high enough.

  “Okay, now put your arms up like you did before.”

  I do what he says and he takes the picture. I can see Sophie looking at me. I know it's not going to be as good as the first picture. Nothing is as good as it used to be.

  There's a little bit of rushing water toward the top of the waterfall. I could keep climbing up there and put my head under the water. The cliff isn't that steep—it's just wet and slippery. I can climb it.

  I put my hand on a piece of rock and work my way up onto the first wide ledge. I slide across to my left, up the slippery stone. I've got a good hold on the rock, so I can keep myself from falling down.

  My feet want to slip, but I'm holding myself up with my arms. I'm strong enough to hold myself up with just my arms. I reach up to the next ledge and I pull myself up. I'm getting pretty high up here. I'm not sure how I'm going to make it down without slipping.

  Mom says, “Are you sure it's safe?” She sounds worried.

  “I'm sure.”

  I glance down at the rocks below. If I fall, it's going to really hurt. My parents are watching. Sophie is watching. I climb higher. I'm up to the next ledge.

  There's a spot where the water has carved a natural bathtub in the stone. This is so cool. It's like a little hot tub, except the water is cold, but it shoots in from above and spills out below. This is the coolest thing I've ever seen.

  I step into the bathtub and put my feet over the edge. My parents can't see me anymore. I'm alone up here. Dad calls out, “Son! Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Are you coming down?”

  “I guess.” I could sit up here forever, but I won't. I should go down. I'm going to go down the opposite way I came up. There are all these little ledges I can climb down, even though they look slippery.

  I have to hold on to the shale to make my way down the side of the waterfall. I don't know if I should face the wall or just put my butt down and try and sort of slide down. That'll look stupid. I can't see if Sophie is still down there.

  The water is making it hard to get a good grip on the wall. Plus the shale is pretty crumbly. I'm trying to hold on. This is like man against nature. I just have to hold on. I think I can hold on, but my grip is slipping.

  My hands are wet and the shale is starting to pull out of the waterfall, but I can't let go, because I'll slide right down. I don't want to fall down the waterfall. Oh shit, my hands are slipping. I don't want to do this. I don't want this.

  Shit. I'm slipping. I'm falling. I can hear my mother screaming. Oh shit, I'm falling. I hit the rock hard with my back and put my arms down to try and slow myself. I'm still sliding, and my arms are getting all cut up. I flip myself onto my stomach and try to stop myself with my knees and fingernails.

  I hit the water. Mom and Dad ar
e running over to me, but I call out, “I'm okay. I'm okay.”

  I think I cut myself. I think I cut myself on some of the stone.

  Oh God, I've got a big cut on my knee from where it scraped across the stone. Mom is bending over me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank God.”

  I look around for Sophie, but she's gone. I wonder if she saw me fall. Maybe she'll want to help.

  Dad helps me stand up, but the cut on my knee is bleeding all the way down my shin. It hurts to walk on. I can't walk.

  Dad puts himself under one arm. That makes it a lot easier to walk. I can hop on my good leg and keep the other one up.

  Dad says, “That was pretty stupid.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  My back is really hurting too. I think I scraped it pretty good. My butt too. My whole body is hurting now. I ripped a hole in the back of my bathing suit. That's embarrassing.

  I hop along as far as I can, but my body is aching so much. Mom puts herself under the other arm, and even though she's a lot shorter than me, they carry me home.

  The doctor at the emergency room gives me a bunch of shots, pulls the little pieces of shale out of my cuts, and stitches me up.

  Mom and Dad went to the hospital gift shop and bought me a bunch of magazines and some puzzle books to look at while I'm recovering.

  They take me home and set me up on the green couch. My leg is still throbbing, and I'm just plain tired.

  Mom and Dad leave me alone for a while and go down to the lake, and I close my eyes.

  I wonder where Sophie went. Her eyes look like an Egyptian queen's eyes. They're huge and brown, and I don't know why, but I want to stare into them for as long as I can.

  Mom wakes me up. She's holding a peach. Mom says, “I think this is for you.”

  “What?”

  “Someone left it outside the front door while you were sleeping.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know who left it?”

  “No.”

  “You didn't see anyone?”

  “No. I was asleep.”

  “Hmm. That's a mystery. You would think they would leave a note.”

  “Yeah, I guess they just wanted me to have a peach.”

  The Richardsons brought over the newspaper so I would have something new to read.

  I'd like to read a story about someone bringing a peach to someone who fell down a waterfall.

  The whole Richardson clan is down for the weekend and I'm missing it. Mike and Eliza, Joe and Danielle, even Mary, and they're all out on the lawn playing soccer. I want to go out and play so bad. They look like they're having the best time. The minister's van is gone and my parents and the Richardsons are having drinks on the porch.

  I limp out onto the lawn and stand next to the field. Joe and Mary are on one team, and Mike, Eliza, and Danielle are on the other. It's not really fair because Mary and Joe are both really good. They can pass and dribble and do everything. They've got two orange cones set up on either side of the lawn for the goals, but they don't have a goalie.

  “Can I be goalie?” I say it loud enough so everyone can hear it, but they ignore me. I say it again and this time they all stop and think about it. I hope Mike doesn't say anything about that weird phone call or the Playboy.

  Mike says, “Sure, if you feel up to it.”

  Eliza smiles at me. “Watch out, you guys. This kid's dangerous.” I wish she hadn't called me “kid.”

  I go out to the middle of the goal that Mike and the ladies are going to shoot on. This way it's three on three and it's more fair, and besides, I want to be on the winning team.

  Joe passes the ball to Mary and she makes a nice little move to go right around Eliza. I don't think Eliza has ever played soccer before. Danielle tries to get in front of Mary, but Mary goes right by her too. Danielle stuck her foot out and Mary had to kick the ball a little farther away than she wanted to. Mike comes running in and steals the ball from her.

  Mike is better than I thought he was. He makes a sweet crossover move and goes right past Joe. Okay, here he comes. He's going to shoot. Which way? He kicks it really hard. Which way? Left? No, right. Shit.

  Fuck, I fell on my knee. Fuck that hurts. Ow. Fuck, I think I hurt my knee again. That was so fucking stupid.

  Ah shit. It's bleeding. It's bleeding a lot. Fuck. It looks like we're heading back to the emergency room.

  It's the same doctor as the last time I was here. And last time he was really nice. He was making jokes about boys doing stupid stuff while he was pulling the little pieces of stone out of my knee, but this time he's in a really bad mood. He says I popped open almost all of my stitches when I fell down on my knee.

  I notice that he didn't give me any painkillers this time. He's probably pissed off because he has to do this all over again. It really hurts every time he puts a stitch in. It really does. Like a needle being pulled in and out of my knee. I don't get why he's so mad. He's probably going to make more money off of me. I wonder if they get paid per stitch or if they get paid by the amount of time they take with each patient or what.

  I don't know, but if he gets paid by the hour, he should really slow down, because he's not being very careful this time.

  The first time he did this, I think he took about twice as much time. Finally, he finishes with his stitches and then takes Mom outside the room to talk.

  I'm practicing my rock skipping on the beach because it's about the only thing I can do without hurting my knee again. The Richardsons are working on their gardening, and the minister is adding to his seaweed pile.

  The minister goes back to the shed on the other side of his house. He brings back a gallon of gas in one of the red plastic containers like we have. Not like the nice metal ones Mr. Richardson has.

  He pours a little of it over the seaweed and lights it on fire. There's not a lot of flame, but there is a lot of dark gray smoke. And the smoke is blowing right off the beach into Mr. and Mrs. Richardson's bedroom window. I don't know how well that's going to go over. Probably not too well.

  Seaweed doesn't smell good when it's burned. It's got this really nasty, ashy smell and the smoke hurts my eyes. It almost smells like burning hair, but not as bad.

  Mr. Richardson is gardening on the other side of the house, so it takes a while for the smoke to get over to him.

  He doesn't waste a second. He walks right over to the minister and starts talking. I can't hear what he's saying, but I don't have to. I can see exactly what he's saying.

  Mr. Richardson stops talking and the minister starts. I can't hear what he's saying either, but he's speaking without moving any other part of his body. Mr. Richardson shoves his hands way down into his pockets and keeps them there.

  He doesn't listen for too long. He turns around and walks back to his yard. In a way, the whole thing is kind of funny, watching two old guys argue with each other.

  I call out, “Hey, Mr. Richardson, what did you say to him?”

  Mr. Richardson just ignores me and keeps on walking. That's not a good sign.

  The wind shifts after dinner. A north wind, blowing right up the beach and toward the minister's cottage. Mr. Richardson doesn't waste any time. He goes right to the garage and gets his antique gas can, douses his stick pile, and lights it up. It's our last night. I'm glad I got to see this.

  The flames rise up into the fading light, and the smoke drifts across the lawn toward the minister's house. If this were a James Bond movie, he'd say something like “Looks like the wind has shifted,” putting the emphasis on “wind” and making it seem like that actually meant something else.

  From the picnic table, I just watch the smoke cross the yard and go right into the minister's windows. There are lights on in there, but I'm not sure anyone is home.

  The minister drives a big white van with a cross painted on the side in red. Not like the Red Cross, but a Jesus cross painted red. The van is still in the driveway, but I don't see him.

  The Richa
rdsons invite us over to have marshmallows around their bonfire, and we carry our folding chairs onto their beach and sit down.

  Mr. Richardson hands me a stick and two marshmallows and I get to work. I like to toast my marshmallows slowly on the edges of the flames, constantly spinning the stick so they cook evenly. I watch them, so if one of the marshmallows catches on fire, I'm ready for it and can blow out the flame before it gets too charred. It takes a while to cook them this way, but finally they're done and I take them out of the fire.

  I look around the fire at everyone's faces: Mom and Dad, Mr. and Mrs. Richardson, Mike, Joe, Mary, Danielle, and Eliza. They stare at the flames like they're hypnotized. Their faces are orange and flickering. A rock pops inside the fire and everybody snaps out of it. I want to say something to liven things up and get everyone to stop thinking so much, so I start singing a song from a CD we used to have in the car when I was little.

  Down by the bay, where the watermelons grow,

  Back to my home, I dare not go,

  For if I do, my mother will say …

  And then you make up two rhyming things, like:

  Did you ever see a bear combing

  his hair Down by the bay?

  It takes a second for everyone to pick up on my song, but halfway through the third verse, Mr. Richardson still hasn't chimed in. He's just staring into the flames.

  … my mother will say …

  I say, “Mr. Richardson, take it.”

  He looks up. “What?” He wasn't listening. I wonder what he was thinking about.

  I take it:

  Did you ever see a bee with a sunburned knee

  Down by the bay?

  We keep singing for a while, until we run out of marsh-mallows and the fire dies in the stones. We walk back to our cottage, through the Richardsons' yard. The minister's van isn't there anymore.

  We leave today, but we're taking our time. We're going to have one last breakfast at the picnic table. Dad made pancakes and used up as much of the groceries as he could. Whatever we don't eat we can give to the Richardsons.