He texted, “TMR?”
An upturned thumb emoji came back immediately.
“845?”
“Sure.”
He sent a disturbing ghost, a skull, and a knife.
The next morning, he pulled into the driveway in his shiny black SUV. They loaded two kayaks, one blue and green, swirled like two oceans peacefully co-mingling; the other red, orange, and yellow, as if it was angry. Paddles were loaded into the backseat; he tossed two small soft-sided coolers onto the floor, and they pulled away.
“How ya doing?”
“Fine.”
They drove for several minutes in silence.
“Can I play it now? he asked.
“Is there any way I can stop you?”
“No.” He unplugged one phone and affixed his to the system.
“Is this Screaming Bloody Murder?” the driver asked.
“You know very well their name is The Ax Murderers. Don’t be an ass. This is your favorite song, “Stabbed in the Back”.” He pressed play and an ear-piercing guitar riff screeched from the speakers. Then the drums started, a bass layering the bottom. He pumped up the volume and a clearly psychotic man, one whose genitals were obviously being whacked, wailed in agony. The vehicle throbbed almost as if it had a heartbeat.
“Ah, yes, this IS my favorite,” the driver shouted as through a megaphone. “Either this or “Evergreen” by Barbra Streisand. They’re so much alike.”
The three-minute paean to cheating bitches concluded.
“Your turn, old man,” and he switched back the phones.
He punched a couple of buttons on his console and announced, “Prepare to be blown. A. Way.”
The passenger spread his fingers on the dashboard, lowered his head, and exhaled mockingly like a convicted man awaiting sentencing. After a moment of silence, the purity of violins began to flutter into the air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes as Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” floated through the cabin, light as meringue.
“Make it stop, my ears are bleeding,” he deadpanned.
“Whatever. Did you hear Nadal pulled off another title at the French Open?”
“What a relief. I could hardly sleep worrying about that.”
“I can’t believe you aren’t amazed at his incredible prowess. He’s the finest athlete of our time.”
“As amazed as I am about dust settling on my dresser.”
They drove in quietude.
“How are things at the old hacienda?”
“You mean Leavenworth? Fine.”
“Your dad and contestant number three?”
“They’ve moved past the dish-throwing stage if that’s what you mean. Now it’s more like the artic circle.”
“How so?”
“Every word they say is tinged with icicles.”
“Door slamming?”
“Oh, Olympic level door slamming.”
“You know, you can always…”
“Crash with you and Gram. I know. Not there yet.”
They pulled off the road and onto a dirt path that led to a thicket of local flora. He maneuvered the SUV around and backed down to a smaller path, arched over with morning glory tendrils like the entrance to a secret garden. They unfastened the cords, and each pulled his kayak from the roof.
“Need help, Poppo?’
“Back off, sonny. I’m not feeble yet.”
“Gram said to watch out for you.”
“What, so you can finish me off? A kayaking “accident”?” he made air quotes with his fingers. “Is that the plan.? Then you two split the insurance money?”
“Yes, that’s the plan exactly. It’s an elaborate scheme. Lots of people. Cover-ups, hush payments. Crooked cops. But you figured us out.”
“You sure are a sarcastic little shit.”
They pulled their kayaks down into the portal, which opened onto an easy, rocky shore and right into the river. With coolers, paddles, and sunscreen in hand, they make their way to the water’s edge, their baseball hats pulled down, sunglasses affixed, looking like incognito suspects or celebrities dodging the paparazzi, the cool water rushing into their shoes and oozing out again.
They moved in synchrony, navigating shallow spots, dodging detritus, dominating rapids as they popped up. The summer sun shone down on the pair, a pleasant breeze blowing across their bodies, one lean and sinewy, athletic and solid, the other a bit doughy and soft, one homed in on this day, the other fretting for the future. One sported a long ponytail, worn as an act of social rebellion. The other’s close-cropped hair, combed over and molded with styling paste, was barely even visible under his hat.
The river meandered, placid and pleasant. Pin oak branches hung over the banks like giant green fingers from a children’s story. Warblers, woodpeckers, and thrush tweeted and cawed and sang. A rabbit and her kits darted in and out of view. He pointed at a blue heron standing in a shoal, its soft blue feathers emanating calm, natural bliss. They watched together as the bird lifted and took flight, awkward then graceful. A school of crappie bobbed under the surface, making tiny bubbles that looked like soda fizz. In the distance they could hear the hum of the interstate, but that world felt far away and seemed unimportant.
They stopped for lunch and to rest. They pulled up onto a pebbled peninsula and sat on the grassy fringe, chewing on what Gram had packed: sandwiches, chips, and apples. Each carried a bottle of water.
“I heard you quit your summer job,” he said in between bites.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?
“Boss was a dick.”
“Or did your laziness overwhelm you?”
He smiled and crunched his apple. “Maybe a combination of the two.”
“Okay, then. Come to the office Monday. Try not to look like a high school Harry. Linda will find work for you in the file room or running errands.”
“But I AM a high school Harry.”
“Exactly. But don’t look or act like one. They’re annoying and bad for business.”
They chomped on their apples and watched a hawk soar majestically over the water.
“Poppo, will the war escalate?”
“Probably.”
“Will I have to fight?”
“Don’t know. You might. I hope not. You worried about it?”
“I think I’m a pacifist. And an atheist. Maybe a socialist.”
“Well, for fuck’s sake don’t tell Gram you’re an atheist. It would kill her, and I mean that literally. Could be instant. Either a heart attack or a stroke, hard to say which. As for the other two, it’s easy to be a pacifist when you aren’t threatened directly. I’m a pacifist too, that is, until somebody tries to harm my family. Then I’m a goddammed NRA nut case. And I know socialism sounds more humane than democracy, and it is, but it just doesn’t work because some people are hard workers and some,” he paused dramatically, “are lazy. Some are smart and some are stupid, and someone is always there to seize power in the vacuum and bathe luxuriously in a sea of corruption.”
“So, what, my beliefs aren’t valid?”
“No, not saying that at all. At least you have beliefs. So many of us just float along in life embracing whatever’s in vogue. Just go along to get along. That’s how we ended up with our current political shit show. I think I prefer that your beliefs challenge the status quo, that you aren’t afraid to be unpopular if it means standing up for what you think is right. If there’s a Pacifists Club or an Atheist Society at school, I think you should join. You know, buy the tee shirt, march, protest, wave a flag in some goon’s face. Vote Socialist when you come of age. It would make me proud.”
He laughed, “Just don’t call YOU to bail me out of jail, right?”
“Hell’s bells! I’m your one call, buster. I have the money and the connections. Just because you’re a radical doesn’t mean you have to be an idiot.”
They sat for a moment and breathed the river in, the earthiness, the algae, the musky vigor.
“I fucked up at school, Poppo.”
“Oh?”
“I flunked Spanish. Now I can’t earn the college track diploma.”
“Que vas a hacer?”
“I’m thinking about going to trade school. I don’t like sitting in a classroom listening to the teachers drone on about shit I don’t care about.”
“Okay.”
“I know you’re disappointed in me.”
“No importa, mi amigo. My father was a mason. Hard-working man. Ten-hour days. Honest labor, good enough pay. But by the time he was my current age his knees were shot, his back was messed up, and his hands were gnarled with arthritis. He could barely move. He died six months before his retirement. The body breaks down. The mind, not so much.”
“I never considered that.”
“Hey, painters should paint, writers should write, Nadal was born to play tennis. You’re smart. You should use it.”
“I hear ya.”
They stuffed their refuse into a small trash bag and smashed that into one of the coolers and relaunched. The silky brown water carried them past burr oaks, redbuds, and paw paws. They glided alongside spotted jewelweed, goldenrod, and spiderwort. The banks erupted with white clover and butterfly weed, sawgrass and Virginia creeper. Squirrels jumped from sycamores to maples and juncos, goldfinches, and blue jays flitted searching for safety or food or both. Puffy clouds floated like shredded cotton batting as the pair paddled, rhythmically, evenly, peacefully. Dragonflies hovered and bees buzzed. As they rounded a cinematic bend Troxell Bridge came into view. They disembarked from the river and hauled their craft to the shore and up an incline where Gram waited in the Suburban. They loaded their gear and piled inside.
“Your Uber has arrived,” she giggled. “Ramon and Brock picked up your car as requested and took it back to the office. Did you boys have a good time?”
“Sure,” her husband said.
“You didn’t do anything stupid?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Pick up a hooker, get arrested for public urination, drink too much and fall overboard. Guy stuff.”
“We’re not sailors on shore leave.”
“Well, I don’t know what you two do out there all the time.”
“Nothin’. Just kayak.”
“It seems like a waste of time to me. What you need is a speed boat. A cigarette boat like at those regattas. THAT would be fun.”
As she soliloquized about fast boats, sports cars, and her crush on James Bond, the car reached the boy’s home. The kayaks and paddles were unloaded and hauled around to the barn.
“Will you tell your father to call me?” she asked. I really need to talk to him and he’s ignoring my messages.”
“Love you, Gram,” he called out and she gushed over him. The car pulled out of the driveway.
“Okay, spill,” she ordered her husband. “What did he have to say? What did you two talk about out there all alone the whole day?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“It was just a good hang, that’s all.”
“He didn’t give you any insight to his father’s troubled marriage, why he left his summer job, why he wears all black and mopes around like someone ran over his dog?”
“We just paddled.”
“I swear to God, if it weren’t for me, nobody in this family would be able to communicate in even the simplest way. It’s like you all never even learned to talk at all.”
