A Summer Ache

by Matthew Hamity

It’s Friday night. My roommate leaves for his girlfriend’s. I pour myself some vodka and turn on the TV. Home Shopping Network is on. I buy baseball cards and a bagel-guillotine. I do a set of fifty push-ups. I have another drink. The door opens. My roommate’s back early. Take it easy, he says. I feel my knuckles on his jaw. Stay on the ground. Just stay there, I say. But he’s on his feet, shaking. My fist pounds a second time. The next day, I’m gone.

****

“Seatbelts,” a flight attendant says.

Cars on the highway grow larger. I imagine the drivers are people I’ve known: the station-wagon carries my second grade teacher to the library where she bones up on the religious beliefs of Pueblo Indians. My dentist, in his silver Mercedes, flosses his teeth while steering with his knees, as my little brother David sizzles past in his convertible, hurrying back from college, a guitar laid across the backseat. Me, I’m all done with school. No more late-night study sessions over pizza at Ed’s – grease rendering napkins of my notes (Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs is unexpectedly absorbent.) And no more illusions of independence. Just thinking about Solitaire makes me lonesome.

We land at O’Hare International Airport. I watch a boy struggling to lift his suitcase. He wears a baseball cap pushed down low on his head, ears splayed outwards like chickadee wings. An old man comes to his aid. The boy nods his appreciation.

When I step into the muggy Chicago air, I spot my dad leaning against his car in the pick-up lane. Gray stubble coats his face, much thicker than the wispy hair on his head.

“Franky-boy,” he says, giving me a hug.

“Car looks good, Dad.”

“Thanks. Had it washed this morning.” He runs a finger along the side

paneling. “Think it needs another coat of paint?

“Nah, Dad. It looks fine.”

Neither of us gives a damn about cars.

On the drive home, “Wild World,” by Cat Stevens comes on the radio. I start to hum. I hear David’s guitar in my head and then his voice. “You sing like an old man on ice skates,” he says.

We pull into the driveway and my dad cuts the engine.

“Come on, Frank,” he says.

“It’s a goddamn husk.”

“Your mom’s in there. She’d like to see you.”

He opens the car door and I manage the same. I stare at the house. The red paint on the shudders has chipped away. The basketball hoop hangs from the garage without a net.

Inside it’s cold. My mom is asleep on the couch wrapped up in a chenille blanket. I bend down and kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes blink open. For a second, I think she confuses me for my brother.

“It’s me, Mom.”

“I know that, Franky.”

She’s a small, sturdy woman. She has a sideways tooth. It’s hidden in the back, just before the molars. When she gets nervous, she massages it with her tongue.

“Come on,” she says. “The pizza will get cold.”

My mom and dad sit on one side of the kitchen table and I’m alone on the other. “Franky,” my dad begins, “Your mom and I want you to know that we’re glad you’re home. We don’t care about anything else.”

My dad isn’t eating. He likes to watch me eat first, making sure I get ample

fruit and vegetables.

“A little time off might do you some good,” my mom says.

“It’s not a little time off, Mom. I dropped out.”

“But you’d nearly graduated, honey. I’m sure we could talk to the university.”

“I dropped out. End of story.”

“That’s fine, Frank,” my dad says, glancing at my mom.

“Anyway, I already talked to Jud over at Southmoor,” I say. “I’ve got a job as the

Assistant Pro there.”

“Sounds great. You know your mom here has started playing a bit herself.”

She pantomimes a serving motion, raising her left hand in the air for the toss and then reaching up with her right to smash the invisible ball. I must admit, she looks like a natural.

After dinner, I linger downstairs on the den couch. I lay on my back staring upwards, letting my eyes glaze out of focus until the ceiling appears fluid. I feel like I could reach up and dip my finger in it. Maybe even take a lick. I begin to nod off.

David and I are in a boat on Lake Michigan. It’s a tiny bare-bones dingy and

we sit facing each other, our knees nearly touching. The sun descends toward

the horizon.

“Let’s go for a swim,” David says.

Before I can respond, he’s in the water.

“How is it?” I ask.

“It’s wet,” he says and takes off.

I can barely make him out through the water splashing around him. For a moment, I see his hand held high and straight in the air, like a boy hoping to answer the pretty young teacher’s question. Then he’s gone.

I pull into the parking lot of Southmoor Country Club at 7 in the morning, the

lot empty aside from a few luxury sedans and SUV’s. I squint into the sun as I make the familiar walk to the courts. An iron smacks against a golf ball in the distance, probably an old man loosening up on the driving range before the day’s round. Laughter comes from the caddy house, young men passing the time playing poker and telling jokes.

After sweeping the courts, filling the coolers with fresh water, and setting out

the towels, I head towards the Pro Shop. When I come in, there’s a kid standing by the window, a case full of rackets slung over his shoulder and a cream cheese bagel in hand.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Pete.”

I shake his free hand. “I’m Frank.”

He takes a big bite of the bagel. “You know,” he says, “It’s my job to sweep the courts and all that other crap.”

“Guess I just got a little nostalgic. It used to be my job a few years back.”

He claps his hands together. “So you know Mrs. Nittleton?”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“Oh, you’d remember her,” he says. “She has huge tits.”

I’m on the court from nine until noon, hour lunch break, then back on until 5. In the morning, I play doubles with old ladies more interested in one another’s hairdos than the game. By noon, I’ve worked up an appetite and I walk over to the cabana where the Pro and Assistant Pro eat for free. I order a grilled cheese and fries and take a seat at one of the formica tables to wait for my food. A girl comes in and orders a vanilla milkshake. Her hair is wet and pulled back in a ponytail. Water drips from her one-piece bathing suit. She has a swimmer’s body, her sun-burnt shoulders and toned back muscles forming a v-shape with her waist. When her milkshake is ready, she takes a big gulp and scans the room. We make eye contact and I try my best to appear as friendly as I can without looking creepy. She starts to walk toward me.

“Anyone sitting here?” she asks.

I motion toward the chair with an open palm.

“You’ve got a nice backhand,” she says. “I was watching from the pool.”

I glance at her and then I look down at my sandwich.

She takes a loud sip from her milkshake. “What’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“I’m Emma,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I tap my fingers against the table. I should really clip my nails. “You look like you do a lot of swimming,” I say.

She nods. “I’m a lifeguard here.”

“Ever had to go in after anybody?”

“Just once,” she says. “Some kid was practicing his dead man’s float and he fooled me.”

“You must have felt like a real douche-bag.”

“That’s exactly how I felt,” she says sarcastically, “Like a giant

douche-bag.”

Once I’m able to throw “douche-bag” into conversation with a girl, I’m

usually okay. It has a strange calming effect.

“So let me ask you something,” I say. “If a 400 pound guy starts flopping

around in the deep end, how would you get him out?”

“That would never happen. Fat people aren’t allowed in the deep end.”

I start to laugh. “Are you sure you’re a girl?”

She gives me a look. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just that in my experience, girls aren’t very funny.”

“Is that so?”

My food arrives.

“Well, I guess I should get back to work.”

“See you tomorrow?” I ask.

“We’ll see,” she says, and hurries out, the screen door slamming behind her.

I’m no longer hungry but I force the sandwich down anyway. From my seat, I can see the shallow end of the pool. Two women lay out in the sun while their children play in the water, a girl and a boy. They splash each other with red kickboards. They giggle. Then the boy takes it too far. The girl swallows a mouthful of water and begins to cough. The game ends and the girl swims away.

I show up at the courts around 9:00 the next morning. I let Pete take care of

the coolers and towels this time. There’s nothing scheduled until 10, so I decide to take a stroll around the club. I stop to look at some ducks floating in the water hazard on the ninth hole. They move in a perfect circle around the pond. I have the urge to tee up and crush one of their skulls with a screaming drive. Throw their whole universe out of whack. But I’m not a golfer, just a guy who gets jealous of ducks.

Afterward, I go into the Pro Shop to get a glass of lemonade. Pete sits behind the desk watching me.

“A girl came in to see you.”

“Emma?” I ask.

“Don’t remember.”

“Well, what’d she look like?”

“She was alright. Didn’t have much up-top if you know what I mean,” he says,

cupping his man-breasts. “Said to meet her at the pool at 5.”

5:00 rolls around and I speed-walk to the pool. She’s waiting for me in mesh

shorts and a Deer Park Swim Team t-shirt.

“Do you like dogs?” she asks.

I nod. “I used to have one, a beagle.”

“Great. My dog needs a walk.”

She lives in a small apartment complex across the street from a bakery. She

tells me they have wonderful marble cakes. We walk up a flight of stairs and stop in front of her door. She fishes for her keys in a rush.

“Kosher hasn’t been out since lunch,” she says.

“Kosher?”

“That’s right,” she says, opening the door. “Cigarette butts, other dogs’ crap, he eats it all. Won’t touch bacon though.”

It’s a one-room apartment. There’s a twin-bed in one corner and a desk in the other. A computer hums atop the desk, a poem on the screen entitled, “Dog-food and Dylan Thomas.”

Kosher emerges from under the bed and stumbles over Webster’s dictionary toward Emma. She kneels on the floor and Kosher buries his nose in her crotch. His shape reminds me of my big toe.

Kosher snorts and then he wheezes. “He doesn’t sound very healthy,” I say.

“That’s normal for bulldogs. It’s part of the charm.”

I crouch down and Kosher comes toward me. I pat him on both sides, watching the fat ripple.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Emma says. Kosher lumbers to the door. He sits on his

robust rear-end as Emma attaches the leash to his collar.

A few times during the walk, Kosher spots a squirrel and charges after it. Emma

has the leash wrapped twice around her wrist. He never gets anywhere near slobbering distance.

“So it’s just you and Kosher living in the apartment?”

“Yeah, my family’s back in Seattle,” she says. “I’m all alone.”

I take her hand in mine. “Not anymore,” I say.

She yanks free. “Is it fun being a crazy person?”

“Yes and no,” I grin.

I meet her at 5:00 by the pool every day for the next couple weeks. Sometimes we take Kosher for a walk. Other times we play miniature golf. My parents ask to meet her. I decide we’ll all go to a Cubs game.

We meet in front of the train station, my dad decked out in his Cubs bucket-hat and jersey, my mom waving a giant foam hand. I introduce Emma and my mom flashes her best smile.

“We’ll have to get you a Cubs hat when we get to Wrigley,” my dad says.

Emma opens her mouth to decline but reconsiders when she sees my dad’s hopeful expression. “Thanks,” she says, “That’d be great.”

A breeze blows in the air, announcing the L-train’s arrival before it’s in sight. Cubs fans of all kinds pile in, the young and the old, the casual and the diehard. It’s easy picking out the diehards: middle-aged men, sitting alone with faded caps that cover their bald spots. They scribble every put-out on their scorecards. A win is good, a loss is bad, and a day off is unbearable.

The train empties at Addison and people start to push and shove. I hold Emma’s hand and place my other arm in front of her. It feels good having something to protect.

Like he promised, my dad buys Emma a Cubs hat. She wears it with her ponytail dangling from the space above the adjustable buckle. Once inside Wrigley, we find seats in the right field bleachers. Here in the bleachers, throwing back huge cups of Old Style, chanting “Left-field sucks,” with the people around you, and the splendor of the field itself all take precedence over the actual game.

“How do you like it?” I ask Emma after the third inning ends on a bang-bang play

at first.

“What?” she yells back. I wait until the booing dies down.

“How do you like it?” I repeat.

“Oh, it’s great,” she says and then hesitates, confused. “Are the Cubs winning?”

After several beers and a few runs, it’s time for the seventh inning stretch. Everyone rises to their feet, a little wobbly from the booze. My mom leans against my dad and he bends down, planting a kiss on her lips. Some second-rate celebrity in the press box psyches up the crowd before singing “Take Me out to the Ball Game.” I only mouth the words.

The game ends and we take the L home. We say our goodbyes in the parking lot. When we get inside my car, Emma lunges at me, the brim of her cap hitting me in the forehead. I move my hands down her back as I kiss her, coming to rest on her backside. I start to pull my hands up, concerned it might be too soon for ass-grabbing, but she pushes them back down. I get a good chunk of denim in my fingers.

“Your parents are so cute together,” she purrs.

I reach down on my left, pulling the lever that adjusts my seat into full reclining position. I pull too quickly and the headrest bangs against the backseat vinyl, our teeth clicking together.

“Let’s go to my place,” she says.

When we get to her apartment, she fumbles for her keys while I distract her with

kisses. She opens the door and Kosher greets us with a look, tilting his head to one side. We fall onto the bed. He watches and then he sleeps.

“Why’d you drop out of school?” she asks. I’m still inside her.

“I don’t know.”

”Oh, come on. You can tell me.” Her breath is warm in my ear.

“Just leave it alone.”

“Please,” she says. “I really want to know.”

I get out of bed and start to get dressed “Where’s my shirt?” She points at Kosher. He’s sleeping on it. I walk out the door, shirtless.

The next day I’m in the Pro Shop with Pete. He tells me that while Emma’s a decently cute girl, there’s no reason I shouldn’t push for implants. I thank him for the advice.

After work, I walk to the pool. Emma sits with her feet dangling in the water. I take off my shoes and socks and sit down next to her. I move to kiss her and she looks away at the diving board.

“You don’t trust me,” she says.

I put my hand on her thigh. “Sure I do.”

She moves her leg and my hand falls on the cement.

An orange ring glows at the bottom of the pool. I jump into the water. All the air leaves my body and I sink. I grab the ring and then I rest, looking up at Emma’s feet.