The Lifeguards(7)

He kept the music going as he rolled into the drop-off lane. The summer camp director (also the school librarian), Ms. Contrera, was directing traffic, and she met his eyes and grinned, surprised. She lifted her fists and swayed a bit to the beat. The fifth-grade safety patrol kids danced. A girl dressed as Harry Potter opened the car door and Allie climbed out in her mom’s T-shirt, greeted by her whole school rocking out.

“I’m Taylor Swift!” cried Allie. “I’m Taylor Swift for Dress Up Day!”

“Of course you are,” said Ms. Contrera. “I can tell.” Allie ran into the school, her hand-me-down backpack hanging from her shoulders. There was no time to relish a tiny, fleeting victory—Ms. Contrera waved him on.

“Can you switch it to Ty Dolla $ign?” asked Joe from the backseat, his persona transforming into a taciturn, middle school hoodlum within seconds.

“Absolutely not,” said Salvatore.

Joe giggled. Twelve! Joe could make his voice a man’s or let loose that little-kid giggle. Salvatore had arrested twelve-year-olds for murder.

“Had to try,” said Joe.

“Always have to try,” said Salvatore.

Joe had a brilliant and troubled brain. He had tested into the best school in the city, a tiny magnet located inside a big middle school on the East Side, where Austin Police Department had been called more than once to break up fights and drug dealing. As they neared the school, Salvatore slowed to park and walk Joe in, but Joe said, “I’m good. Just let me out here,” in the low voice Salvatore was sure he practiced when he was alone in his room.

“Oh,” said Salvatore. “OK.” He stopped, and Joe jumped out, his Warriors jersey looking fine. “See you later, Steph Curry,” he said.

“OK, Dad. Bye.”

“Hey,” said Salvatore. He felt sick when he tried to talk about emotional things with the kids. His father, a career Marine, had ruled his family with his fists. But the first time Salvatore spanked a toddler Joe (just a quick smack on his diapered bottom!), Jacquie had quietly informed him that if he ever touched her child in anger again, she’d be “gone without a trace.” Her child!

Salvatore had been stunned. Not by her dramatic flair—he knew her tantrums well—but by the fact that he’d been so quickly eclipsed. Her fierce protection of Joe had shown Salvatore how strong she was. His own mother had been quiet and scared of his father.

When Salvatore, around age six, pointed to the bruise around his mother’s neck and said, “Did Daddy do that?” she pulled her robe tight.

“Do what?” she said.

“The bad color,” said Salvatore. He was dressed for school, a bowl of Cheerios in front of him. He had heard his mother being beaten the night before; he knew the thumps and cries.

“There is no bad color,” said Salvatore’s mother. “If you look away, it will go away.”

He looked away.



* * *



—

JACQUIE HAD DEMANDED THAT Salvatore be a different kind of man than his father. She’d opened him up like a tangerine, like one of those clementines, a Cutie. She’d allowed him to be richer, to be tender. Knowing he was loved allowed Salvatore to be compassionate. He still thought the “time-outs” were a crock, but he’d never hit his children again.

He’d tried to become a strict but understanding father, but even so, Jacquie’s warmth had enabled Salvatore to avoid getting involved with the “ushy gushy” stuff. “Hey, Son?” he said now.

“Yeah?” said Joe.

“Thanks for earlier. For your sister.” He cleared his throat, then made himself speak again. “I appreciate—”

“That cat costume was pathetic,” said Joe. “You gotta do better than late-night Primin’.”

Salvatore closed his eyes, delight coursing through him. His nerdy son’s transformation into a cool dude still seemed funny. “Late-night Primin’!” he said. “Is that a thing?”

“It honestly shouldn’t be,” said Joe. “Unless you’re Primin’ ice cream.”

“Fist bump?” said Salvatore.

“Oh my God, Dad,” said Joe, rolling his eyes but smiling. Salvatore was happy to play the innocent sap. He hoped that Joe knew nothing about the dark places where Salvatore spent his hours, the violence, the recent scourge of opiates in Austin.

It was a strange thing to be a parent. You spent so much time creating an alternate universe for your children’s imaginations, convincing them everything was fine, whispering lies into their ears at bedtime: Nobody could get into this house! I will protect you! If anyone tried to get into this house, my friends at the station would be here in seconds and arrest the bad person before you even woke up!

Salvatore knew better than anyone how truly dangerous every moment was, but also how precious. It was saving him, minute by minute, to cultivate in his children a belief that they were safe, a belief he understood was false. These were kids who had lost their mother—they knew it was a sham, too.

“Dad?” said Joe. “Dad? You OK?”

“I’m here,” said Salvatore.

“Later, Dad,” said Joe.

“I love you, Son,” said Salvatore.

“OMG,” said Joe, slamming the car door.