J.J.
CLARK
The Present
Perfect
Lily June followed her grandfather from standpipe
to standpipe as he opened valves to release the cold water onto
the scorched field. Although the day dawned cool when the sun rose
in the East, the same sun setting in the West on a late July afternoon
was unrelenting. When Boppa stopped for a moment to dig out a clogged
valve, he said, “You stay put, L.J.” He worked while
she sat on a levee, her tanned pot belly in full command of the
space between her cutoffs and frilly pink bikini top. Boppa had
once told her, “If you unscrew your bellybutton, your butt
will fall off.” It was a pearl of sage wisdom that she treasured.
The horizon rippled and curled like a hair singed by heat, and
while the temperature outside caused Lily considerable discomfort,
it was preferable to the chill of her air-conditioned home on North
Seventh Street. The lure of a nearby canal full of rushing water,
however, was a far more tempting kind of cool, and the burbling
sound convinced Lily in an instant to sneak a swim. She was quite
adept at vanishing at will, and when she was sure that Boppa was
good and distracted with his plugged-up cement pipe, Lily slipped
away.
The water beckoned, and in mere moments she was enticed into the
coolness of the grass-bottomed canal. Floating on her stomach in
the murky fluid, Lily’s shoulders and neck sizzled as the
sun beat down on her back, but she willed herself to stay still.
Her tiny body spun with the current, just another leaf adrift on
its surface, and the underwater world flowed in and out of her
vision. Water beetles exploded from the bottom sludge and wriggled
away in search of another hideout, leaving behind slow-motion swirls
of silt. When a feather of moss drifted by, found her cheek, and
stuck there, she didn’t blink. An awful mineral taste filled
her mouth and black mosquito fish nibbled and poked at the undersides
of her arms, but Lily remained quiet in spite of the discomfort,
allowing the pulsating movement of the swaying pond grass to mesmerize
her as she twirled motionless down the channel. The roar of the
current was muted in her ears, as was the rhythmic sound of tiny
bubbles escaping from her right nostril: Poink, poink, poink…
Yet she didn’t stir, convinced that any motion on her part
would disturb the delicate miracle that now visited her. Something
had enveloped Lily completely. Something perfect. Her body skated
along the top of the water like a Jesus bug, the surface tension
unbroken, the water barely denting in around her form. She dared
not move for fear of competing with the flow, and instead drifted
along, rigid and limp all at once. Her tiny muscles were exhausted
from their very calmness, from the non-effort of keeping her supine
body from moving even a fraction so as not to upturn the balance
she had stumbled upon. But the burden of being attached to her
body soon became too much trouble for Lily, and her tether to this
world gave way with a snap.
She was almost gone when she heard a man’s voice from behind
her, distant and frightened. Without warning, the water surged
and roiled, and she found herself fighting against brown muddy
waves. A huge hand clutched the back of her neck and plucked her
from the water like a drenched kitten. Lily struggled, even resisted.
Her feet found the bottom of the ditch, but before she could stand,
she was dragged backwards out of the canal and onto the bank. She
took a breath, but there was no room for air in her lungs. A hand
pushed on her stomach and ditch water rushed out of her mouth and
nose. She was jerked into a sitting position as she choked up fluid.
Her arms were lifted above her head, and she was shook and pounded
on the back so hard, she thought her lolling head was going to
snap right off of her neck.
Jesus, Jesus, someone said. Lily’s vision returned before
her voice, and the face of her grandfather bled into focus. The
man was tall and broad, and he squatted in front of her to see
her eye-to-eye. She had no sooner regained her wind than the words
aspirated from her mouth with her first solid exhale: “I
was breathing!”
Boppa collapsed on the bank next to her and pulled a blue bandanna
out of his back pocket. “Well, you seem to be now, anyway,” he
said. He mopped the ditchwater and sweat off of his face. He wiped
his eyes, too, and blew his nose. “Why didn’t I see
that coming?” he asked someone, Lily didn’t know who
but it wasn’t her.
“I was breathing underwater!” she said in a tone that
insisted upon acknowledgement.
“Breathing?” he asked. She nodded, eyes wide, waiting
for the look of astonishment she was sure would wash over his face.
But Boppa just shook his head and some of the worried creases between
his eyebrows eased up. “From where I was standing, it looked
more like drowning.” His eyes darkened. “Christ, don’t
you ever pull a stunt like that again, do you understand me?”
She nodded and bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling; it
was a short journey from there to tears, and she didn’t want
to cry. After a moment of letting her suffer, he reached out to
hug her and she didn’t resist. She scooted over and rested
her head on his knee, the wet denim of his Levis cool and stiff,
the wrinkles forming impressions on her cheek. It was okay to cry
a little now because he couldn’t see, and she did cry because
she knew that he didn’t understand. Or he didn’t believe
her, which was even worse. It was because he was so old, she thought.
Last Christmastime she told him that she wished he was a kid like
her. He had fished a lariat out from underneath the seat of the
pickup truck and told her that they were like different ends on
a piece of rope. He stretched the rope out so that the ends were
far apart, but then he grabbed both ends and brought them together
in a circle. Then he tied the lariat into a hangman’s noose
and they played sheriff and rustler for the rest of the afternoon.
Her fine hair dried out quickly in the sun, taking on a texture
and color so like straw that Lily had to be careful around Blackie
and Blaze because more than once they had tried to nibble strands
straight off of her scalp. With large, clumsy hands her grandfather
tried to untangle the tangles her hair had made around the plastic
clips holding her pigtails, picking out reeds and strings of moss
while he worked. “This is easier when you’re still,” he
mumbled, and she felt comforted.
After a long time, she said, “You don’t believe me.”
He was quiet for a while. Then he pinched her
neck where gills would be, saying, “You’re not a fish,” and
Lily couldn’t help giggling.
“Stop it,” she replied, swatting at his hands. “I was
breathing underwater.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.” He grinned as she pouted. Spying
a rock pressed into the mud bank, he leaned over to dig it out
with his thumb. When he had extracted the pebble, he wiped it on
the leg of his jeans and gave it to Lily.
“Pretty,” she said of the dense piece of granite shot through
with soft quartz. She put the rock in her pocket, and both got
up and scanned the ground for more. Her very best treasures had
come from Boppa. He whittled horses for her out of sticks unless
she deemed a particular burl of wood too pretty to carve up with
his pocket knife. Once he gave her the tail off of a muskrat he
had killed, and she carried the dried out appendage around with
her in her pocket, showing it off to strangers when it seemed appropriate.
They poked around the muddy bank as Holstein cattle
gathered in a timid circle around the pair, too frightened to get
too close,
too curious to ignore the two of them entirely. Boppa found a flat,
round rock, and in a fluid motion turned at the waist and skipped
the stone across the ditch, his sudden movement serving to scatter
the cattle with a rumble of dust. Lily and her grandfather watched
as the stone bounced once, twice, three times on the surface of
the water before it sank. “How does it do that?” Lily
asked. “Rocks can’t float.”
“Who says?”
“Everyone.”
“But you saw it right there.”
“I know. But I think I was breathing underwater, too, not drowning
like you said.”
Boppa frowned. “Breathing underwater?” Lily nodded
and stared at the ground. “You don’t say?” Lily
nodded again without looking up. Then Boppa said, “Maybe
you should tell me how you did it.”
Lily’s heart banged around in her chest like a bat in a box.
She was determined to be understood, but when she opened her mouth,
she found no words. She thought a little, mouth still open. The
only explanation that came to her mind was that not knowing how
she could breathe underwater was somehow connected to being able
to breathe underwater. Which wasn’t a very good explanation
at all. Finally, defeated, she said, “I don’t know
what I did. I didn’t do anything.”
Holding a glossy green pebble up to the sun, Boppa trapped a glint
of light inside of the translucent stone before putting the rock
in his pocket. “Makes perfect sense to me,” he replied.
Lily checked his face to see if he was teasing but she couldn’t
say for sure. After a minute, he said, “I’ll tell you
what. Suppose you were breathing underwater. If that’s the
case, maybe we should have a signal so next time I can see that
you’re breathing and not drowning. Maybe stick a cattail
in your hair so I know.” His face was serious, and Lily’s
happiness filled her to the top with sparks. She adored cattails.
Glancing around for his irrigation wrench, Boppa said, “We
should head home.”
“Are you finished irrigating?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’ll rain.”
Lily was incredulous. “In July?”
“It might. It has before. Sometimes things get done when you don’t
do anything, remember?”
Taking a big breath, risking everything, she said, “Do you
believe me?”
He paused before his reply. “I believe you believe you.”
And Lily had to be satisfied. Boppa started for the pickup with
long strides and Lily trotted to keep up. He looked down at her,
his cowboy hat framing his face in straw. As his head tilted, a
beam of sun skated a quick loop around the rim of his hat, and
she had to squint one eye in the face of the glare. He said, “I
was going to see if we could keep this breathing underwater to
ourselves.” Hoisting the irrigation wrench over his shoulder,
he gave Lily a level gaze. “But I’m not sure if you’re
any good at keeping secrets.”
“I didn’t tell anybody about that time when Blaze was acting
up in the corral and you threw the pitchfork at him,” Lily
retorted.
Her grandfather appeared mildly surprised. “Really? No one?”
“Nope.”
He smiled. “Okay, then. Our secret.” Lily reached up
for his free hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Have I ever told you the story about the man who ran himself to
death because he hated his own footprints?” Boppa asked,
and this time both of them laughed because that was the whole story.
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