The Summer That Melted Everything(67)

It was the first time I’d heard him make my parents his own. The first time he’d spoken my brother’s name like he belonged to him too. I guess I should’ve said that was all right, because he looked down like it wasn’t. Like he could never be my brother, the third son of Autopsy and Stella Bliss.

“I just mean he’s not going to stop with me. You know that, Fielding. He’s starting to talk at those meetings about you and yours.”

Elohim was still diving below the water, unaware of anything more than the ship and the woman he was trying to save.

“I’m not telling you to hit him.” Sal placed the stone into my hand. “Just let him feel a little splash. Let him know you’re willing to fight for and protect those you love. That if he drags out this fray, he will not leave it unscathed. It’s a battle we are in, Fielding. And if a few stones can end it, wouldn’t you rather have them than a war that goes forever?”

Ready the earth for all she can spare, for it was a war, and already we had lost one on our side. Granny. Death by enemy’s poison. Wasn’t she worth a splash to his face? And what of this war? If it could be ended by a thrown stone, why not? I’d be a fool to hold out for a fire that could dare hell.

I gripped the stone and heard Grand’s voice from when he was teaching me the art of the throw.

“Head up, Fielding. Chin pointed to your target. Get your whole body workin’ together. Do you feel it now? Let me see your grip. Fingers over the top. Good. Keep it out on your fingertips now. No, Fielding, not in the back of your hand. Keep it at your fingertips. Good. Use your wrist. Don’t let it get stiff. That’s right. Now you’re ready. You’re ready, little man. Throw.”

It was a beautiful throw. The way the stone sliced through an arch down to a large splash that hit Elohim’s face.

“Hey”—I smiled—“this ain’t so bad.”

Maybe I even called Elohim a dumb midget as he dived, his feet thrashing at the surface to follow him down.

We threw stone after stone, believing with each one we were bettering the war.

But more than this. I was actually having fun doing it. I was laughing even as I said, “C’mon, Mr. Elohim. Can’t ya save at least one? Your fiancée sure would be disappointed you can’t save her. Hear her screamin’ for you, Mr. Elohim? Gosh, I sure do.”

I turned to give Sal a high five, but he was just standing there, his hands empty as he looked out on Elohim as if he were someone we should kindly pull from the water and sit with our arms around. It was then I realized I was the only one still throwing.

“When’d you stop, Sal?”

“We’ve done enough, Fielding.”

“He deserves this. Remember?”

As soon as I threw, I knew what big sins can be made from things as small as stones. When it hit his chest, it sounded like melons being ripped apart. I waited for the howl. The scream of pain. Neither came. He was quiet and still. The stone sinking in front of him. He could have saved that one. All he had to do was to reach out and put his hand under it and he would’ve saved it. But he gave it up, to look at me.

He’s still looking at me.

Every morning, I get up and think the sunrise might be beautiful. He’s looking at me and I know it’s not. Every night, I go to bed, thinking I may get some rest, but he’s looking at me and I know I won’t. The seasons may still exist, celebrations of life, but I don’t know, because he’s looking at me. Was that a joke you told? I can’t laugh, because he’s looking at me. With those gray, broken eyes saying, I loved you once. Maybe like a son. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you hurting me, Fielding?

I didn’t return to the bucket for another stone. I didn’t return to the bucket, but Sal did. He picked up a stone, the largest of them all. He gripped it tight as he moved through the water.

“You’ve saved her now.” He placed the stone into Elohim’s hand. “You can stop your crying. You’ve saved her now. No more sinking today.”

I’d never felt more like the devil. I taste the salt of that shame to this day. Teeth marks here. Teeth marks there. This is me.





19

… she for God in him.

—MILTON, PARADISE LOST 4:299

ALL LOVE LEADS to cannibalism. I know that now. Sooner or later, our hearts will devour, if not the object of our affections, our very selves. Teeth are the heart’s miracle. That a mouth should burst forth on that organ without throat and crave another’s flesh, another’s heart, is nothing short of a miracle.

To fall in love is our species’ best adventure, and when love, in its burgeoning industry, coils sweetly around our soul, we surrender to the heart’s fang and we pray—yes, we pray—to the infinite span that all love has its fair chance, its own share of miracles. And yet the miracles seem pushed to the side when the lovers are young, as if in their youth, there seems to be an almost certain prophecy to be had.

Maybe the misfortune of young love is just the Romeo and Juliet fragments Shakespeare has left us with, or maybe it really is the voyages of fate that youth and love should burn on contact. What is it the Greek chorus sings? Something like, Young lovers are tragedy’s excuse.

I ask you now, what was the excuse of the yellow balloon? Did it escape from celebration? Was it the bloated announcement of a birthday, a wedding, a day at the fair? Is a child to be blamed for its wandering way?