Water Balloon Page 2

  Rig's nails click into the room and Dad kneels down and starts to rub his ears. Then he looks up and sees me, and there's all this love in his eyes. Oh, my dad.

  I'm such a mess. A kind look from someone—from my dad—and I'm ready to burst into tears. It's just everything, too much change at once. I can't even figure out—like, at all—why my parents aren't together. Watching a relationship go bad might be like watching something grow. If you're there all the time, you can't see it happening. Rig weighed only eight pounds when we got him. I could hold him in my hands. Now he's this big black mess of a dog. It was slow, bit by bit. With my parents, there must have been changes over time. They were just invisible to me. It was hard to notice because they didn't yell a lot. In the end, they didn't talk a lot, either. There was a lot of silence those last months, but it wasn't the peaceful kind. It had weight, an angry silence.

  "Morning," I say. I walk over to the counter and start to move things to the table. Odd plates. Weird juice cups. Napkins.

  I sit at the table and watch him butter his toast with painterly precision, up to but not including the crust. Behind him on the wall there's a clock shaped like a coffee cup. It is so weird to me that Dad lives in this place. I keep glancing back from the plates to the cups. Oh, and those forks. Where did they all come from? Were they always in this house? Did he buy them? I picture him with this empty shopping cart, setting out to buy all the things he'll need to live by himself. I see him looking at different cups and plates and putting them in his cart and then, maybe thinking of Mom and me, putting them back on the shelf, and then back in the cart again. I picture him walking slowly down a wide aisle, pushingth at new-at-living-alone-dadc art.

  He places his toast, perfectly centered on a plate, on the table and goes to the fridge. "Since we're both free today," he says, his face actually in the refrigerator, "I thought we could do something fun. Something together."

  I nod until he pulls his face back out and can see me. "Leah and Jane are coming over this afternoon. After Curtain Call."

  "We'll be back. Did you bring a bathing suit?" He puts two unopened jars of jam on the table—strawberry and grape.

  "Why?"

  "I thought we'd take Rig to the lake. Maybe get a rowboat and fish for a while. Maybe you could swim, too. It should be warm enough later."

  Really? Because you said something fun.

  I never used to complain about fishing days back when we lived our old life, our Perfectly Good Life. Because a fishing day never had anything to do with fishing for Mom and me. We'd send Dad off with his pole and he'd fish while we did normal things. We'd talk, swim, eat. I always had a good time.

  But his won't be anything like that.

  This—this!—seems like a whole new world with a set of rules that no one remembered to share with me. If we were in our Perfectly Good Life, it would be a day that just happened, natural. I chew the toast, disgusted by how dry it is in my mouth.

  "I'll get ready now," I say. Like a line in a play. On this strange set with these weird prop plates and little prop glasses filled with pulpy orange juice.

  ***

  We pack a cooler with drinks and snacks and a container of water for Rig, then drive for a very long time, out to a lake I've never seen before.

  It looks like a postcard of perfect summer. There's a dock, an area for swimming, some boats, and picnic tables painted bright white. It must be too early for normal people, because it's deserted. But then, normal people are home in bed. Or hanging out with their friends.

  Okay. I just have to survive fishing. Then Leah and Jane will come over and start to make this summer bearable. I can almost see Leah, sprawled on my new bed with a magazine quiz open in front of her. Jane will have a notebook open to a page divided into three columns, our names in neat letters at the top of each, to record our answers. Okay. Who can't survive one fishing trip?

  Dad loads himself up with stuff from the car—fishing poles crossed over his shoulder, container of bait in one hand, the cooler pulling down the other. I run ahead with Rig while Dad pays a guy in a little shack. We all slog through the mud to the water's edge, and I watch as Dad loads everything onto a rowboat. Rig looks around, as though he's trying to figure out what's expected of him here. Dad snaps his fingers and points at the boat and Rig splashes into the water and clambers aboard. The boat tips back wildly and Rig gets this crazy look in his eyes, this How could you ever put me in this situation? look, this I'M IN DANGER, PEOPLE look, and hoo boy, do I ever get how he feels. I grab the splintery oar, then the side of the boat itself, to still the rocking. I climb in and put a steadying hand on his neck. He thumps his tail once and sits at my feet, his chin on my left knee.

  Dad fiddles with the oars and starts rowing out. There's the shplush sound of the oars hitting the water, then a thluup as they come out. Dad's looking back toward the dock we just left. I'm looking at Dad's old Yankees baseball cap, scratching Rig's ears until his left rear paw is thump, thump, thumping. Every time I rub his ears just right, his left rear paw just does that—it's some kind of reflex that signals dog bliss. Shplush ... thluup. Shplush ... thluup. Thump thump thump.

  I'm waiting for the right moment. I figure maybe out here, in Dadland, I can get him to see how unfair he's being about this stupid babysitting thing. Even he has to be able to see that normal people do not surprise their children with unwanted jobs.

  When he gets us to some place that must seem right to him (it looks like the rest of the lake to me), he stops rowing. Rig lies down in the bottom of the boat, his head readjusted to rest on my right foot. Dad digs a worm out of the container. Ew.

  So this is what I've been missing when I hang out with Mom on fishing days. I watch my dad impale one creature to catch another.

  He throws the line back over his shoulder and swings it into the lake. Splish! Then he hands me the rod to hold.

  "Did you bring a radio to listen to the game?" Sports radio chatter and baseball games have been the background music of all my summers. Dad shakes his head. I don't exactly like listening to all that baseball talk, but it gives me a lot to discuss with my dad: this one's hitting streak, that one's trouble with the inside fastball.

  "How's the gardening stuff going?" I ask. "Is it fun or anything?" From Dad's summer job it's just one more conversational step to the babysitting thing. I can do this. I'm almost there.

  "We can't talk, Marley." He points down. Huh? Is there some new way Dad and I are supposed to communicate now that he doesn't live with Mom and me? He sucks in his lips and crosses his eyes. Is he dying? Has he lost his mind? He points out at our lines, just sitting in the water. I still don't get it. Finally, exasperated, he says, "The fish."

  Oh. Duh. The fish. But ... but, but, but! Dad! Are you at all sorry about making me do a job I don't want? Have you missed me? Do you wonder if maybe someday things might get back to our Perfectly Good Life? Do you ever think about Mom?

  I look out at my line, unmoving in the still waters. So this is it? Fishing is about silently holding something? Wow.

  I wonder when the Curtain Call orientation will end, how much longer until I'm finally hanging with my friends again. I wonder if Leah will like it. Jane's been going since she was six, but Leah always used to spend a ton of time visiting her grandmother on Cape Cod, so she never signed up for Curtain Call before.

  I bet she'll love it.

  Leah and Jane spent almost all of seventh grade in drama club together. They were so into it at the end of the year, with all the extra rehearsals and performances and cast parties, that I hardly ever saw them. Acting might not be my thing, but it's clearly theirs.

  Much to my guidance counselor's obvious disappointment, the things I like to do, other than just hang with my friends, are kind of solitary things, like reading and writing and doodling. I was the poetry editor of the school's literary magazine (creatively named the LitMag) with this amazing writer, Callie, who was fiction editor. The issue we put out at the end of the year was kind of incredi
ble and intense, but really, I'd rather not be part of the LitMag at all. I think I'm just not an organized activities kind of girl. There's this unspoken rule, though, that you have to do something.

  There must have been a bunch of kids in our school who didn't, but when I try to think of them, the only one I can picture is Elsie Jenkins, this über-pale girl who wears a tan windbreaker year-round. It's an outer garment in the spring and fall and an extra layer indoors during the winter. Elsie, as Jane once pointed out, is monochromatic. Her hair and her face are all this washed out, unnameable color, a hue that blends right into the windbreaker. I don't think she has ever had a friend. As far as I know, she has never joined a club. I've only heard her speak once, when she asked me something about submitting a poem for the literary magazine. She never did, though. She's quiet and kind of painful.

  Why am I thinking about Elsie Jenkins, tan-windbreaker loner girl? Could it be because I'm sitting on a boat, participating in the silent holding of a fishing rod with my dad, my who-cares-what-Marley-wants-to-do dad, with no friends in sight for what feels like fourteen hours?

  There has never, in the history of modern civilization, been a morning with more time in it.

  I don't catch anything.

  By the time we're done, Dad catches two fish. He throws them back.

  Yeah, that was worthwhile.

  I think about an endless span of days, of living with Dad and the monotony of watching some little kid. A whole summer of days as long and boring as this one. I want to jump into the lake and swim away, swim into a perfect summer.

  Shouldn't I Be Licensed for This Kind of Work?

  When we get back to Dad's, I let him unload everything from the truck into his garage and I run into the house. I feel all fishy and I want to shower before Leah and Jane get here.

  I'm about to call Jane to find out what time they're coming, but there's a message from Leah. "Marley? Listen, I'm really sorry, but I don't think we're going to be able to come over today. OH! My God. We got all this prep work we have to do before the first class. I didn't know there'd be, like, homework. Anyway, we're working in groups, and Jane and me—listen, I'll just call you later and explain, okay? I hope you're having fun."

  Oh, yes. I'm having a great time. Woo. Hoo.

  I call Mom's cell phone. She has to fix this. I don't care if she's on a mini-vacation, visiting with friends or whatever. She has to make this better. I leave a message, ask her to call me as soon as she can.

  Dad calls in from the garage, "A little help?" I go in the bathroom, pretend I didn't hear him. Wasn't fishing his idea? Let him put away all his own stuff in his own stupid way. There's never been a more this-goes-here-and-that-goes-there kind of person than Robert Baird.

  After my shower, I can't find a place for myself. At home, I have my spots—the throw rug on my bedroom floor, my chair at the kitchen table, the love seat in the den. I take my book and try the living room couch. It's kind of hard, not inviting. I sit on a stool at the kitchen counter and open my book, but after two pages, I'm up and looking for a new spot, feeling a little Goldilocks-y.

  "Hey, Marley," my dad calls from his room. "I need to go through some of these boxes. Would you give me a hand?"

  I walk out the kitchen door into the backyard. I head through the weedy grass and sit under a big tree toward the back with my book until it gets too dark to read. I'm not entirely proud of myself.

  ***

  The next morning I'm up very early, and I have that same confused feeling of wondering where I am, and then there's Rig, with his big head just resting on my bed. My bed at Dad's.

  Why didn't Mom call back last night? Now I'm stuck for today. I have to babysit.

  And Leah never called back.

  Jane didn't call.

  Yay.

  Rig leads me to the door. At home, there's a back door that I think of as Rig's door. When he has to go out, he sits there, patiently. When we're not in the room, he stands there, and he has this very soft, I-don't-mean-to-be-rude-or-interrupt "Ruh" he uses to get our attention. His language is all Ruh all the time, but it's always been clear to me what he's trying to say. I am fluent in Rigspeak. Poor Rig! We haven't even taken the time to show him what to do here. He doesn't know where to "Ruh."

  "Hang on a sec," I whisper to him. He looks at me, then sits.

  On top of my little duffle bag, Dad left me a new shirt last night, a present. A Yankees shirt. I recognize this—it's a gesture. It's how my family speaks. Dad is telling me something. It means something like I know I do things that drive you crazy, but I'm glad you're here. I'm about to dig out something more normal when Rig whimpers, reminding me that he's waiting, that a doggy bladder cannot just pass the time while a frivolous girl seeks out suitably cool clothes. I reach into the big duffle and pull out shorts and pull them on along with the navy blue shirt with the white entwined NY.

  I lead Rig through the kitchen and out the back door. He's the kind of dog that would never take off, even if a gang of gorgeous golden retrievers was strolling down the street with trays of bacon strapped on their backs. So I let him explore, and I look around. The grass is still dewy this early, but what is really amazing are the clumps of dandelions. Usually there aren't so many this time of year. For whatever reason, there are dandelions at all different stages of life—yellow flowers, puffy white globes, some closed tight, others looking ready to spread their seed at the first wind—in small clusters all over the lawn.

  When people describe flowers, they use lovely adjectives—delicate, fragrant, elegant. A dandelion is its own thing: bright and resilient. I start to gather the yellow ones, collecting a bouquet. I try to pull them out the way Dad taught me to, reaching down deep for the roots, but they break at the stem.

  Sometimes I imagine a different world where people love dandelions and jump up and down, slapping high-fives with their neighbors each time one shows up. They'd be reeling from the wonder of it all—this cheerful yellow bud that just appears without even having to plant it. (What? It's a fantasy. Are all your fantasies totally normal?)

  Rig, on the other side of the bushes, lets out a single "Ruh." It sounds like his Hi, friend bark, louder than his I have to pee bark, somehow friendlier. I wonder if he's found a new squirrel friend. He's quiet after the one "Ruh," so I turn my attention back to the lawn.

  I walk all over and find some long grasses and goldenrod and a few little white clover flowers. I line the dandelions in a neat row and trim the bottoms with my fingernails so they're even. I tuck goldenrod and clover between the stems, wrap the grass around the bundle three times, then tie a perfect knot in the middle.

  I'm starting a second one when I hear a guy's voice. "Hello? Does this dog have a person?" I follow the voice around to the other side of the hedge, and I see the guy—around my age. He's playing with Rig exactly the way Dad does, pretending to slap the side of Rig's mouth. Rig's doing his chimpanzee imitation. Are all males programmed to play with dogs a certain way?

  I always have a hard time talking to new people. It's especially lame being me because my dad is always looking to introduce himself to strangers everyplace he goes. If you could think of a quality in a parent most likely to embarrass a child, I'm pretty sure this is it. Walking down a beach—on vacation!—he's all, Hey, how you doing? Gorgeous day! Love your umbrella. Great boogie board! I have been known to pray for quicksand.

  "Hi," I say now, aware of how unnatural I sound. Rig, as though he's been busted (Oh no! Marley caught me playing with a stranger!), drops into a perfect obedience school sit.

  "Oh, hey," the guy says. When he looks up I can see below his baseball cap that he has smart eyes, a strange light blue. "I'm Jack. I live here." He motions with his chin to the small brown house diagonally across from my dad's. The corners of the two backyards touch. "This dog's yours?"

  "Yeah. This is Rig. Well, his real name is Gehrig."

  "Gehrig like Lou Gehrig?"

  "Exactly," I say.

  He looks at my Yankees s
hirt and grins, which makes his eyes nearly disappear into little slits. He has a long, narrow dimple, like an innie belly button, in his left cheek. "You a Yankees fan?"

  "Sure am." I can't believe I said that out loud. I know a lot about the Yankees, but I am quite sure I cannot honestly call myself a fan. I can't figure out a way to unsay it. "I'm Marley," I say. At least that's true.

  "Ha—like that dog movie?"

  How original. "No, like Marley Baird."

  "Your dad's Mr. Baird?"

  "Mr. Baird? Robert Baird, yeah. I'm staying with him."

  "He teaches at my school."

  "You go to Little Valley?"

  "Yup. How 'bout you?"

  "I'm at Hills East."

  "Cool," Jack says.

  I nod.

  He nods back, eyebrows up.

  I nod again.

  "This," Jack says, saving us from another round of nodding, "is one great dog." Rig is sitting right in front of Jack, gazing up into his face, like they've known each other forever. Jack rubs each of Rig's ears and then reaches down and picks up a long black vinyl bag. "First day of baseball camp," he says, pointing with his chin, possibly in the general direction of the park. "I'm going early." He seems embarrassed. "You here for the day?"

  "No, the whole summer."

  "Cool. You just hanging out?"

  "No, I'm working. Babysitting some little kid."

  "Well," Jack says, lifting his bag up onto his shoulder. "Have fun." He sets off down the street, his bag swinging and hitting him on the shins with every other step, the sound the same as Rig's happy sound: thump thump thump.

  ***

  When Dad comes into the kitchen, he finds orange juice already poured into the cups and a fresh dandelion bundle on a napkin on his plate. It's a gesture. As Mom would say, I'm making an effort.