The Sea of Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

empty. I shouldn’t, but do—heavy reps of bench press and even a few shoulder dips. The amount of healthy cartilage remaining in my left shoulder is laughable—old war wound, DeKuts would call it—and several specialists have recommended surgery. I keep putting it off. Too much to do. Anyway, I’ve had enough of hospitals.
    I work triceps, lats, pecs, abs, deltoids, until I can hear the gristle rasping against bone in there, and when I raise the left arm to stretch it, tears burn my eyes. There’s this rule of mine: to do whatever I make the kids do. Last spring I didn’t, got alternately underweight and flabby, remote and mean. Thirty-four years old and I started to see facial lines. Elasticity was leaving me behind. But that stuff is over now, Kay three months dead. And if I cannot do this out of desire any more, I will do it out of habit.
    *
    Warm breeze mixed with post-twilight chill washes through the open window driving home. Send head honchos out to rich alumni—real estate bigwigs, investment bankers—and get them to establish a new scholarship. Or siphon free rides away from less successful teams and call the siphoning something else. A plot for McMullen to work out with the boys in Administration.
    It is on my head, this recruitment. Their money’s buying damaged goods, but damaged goods are sometimes salvageable. Maybe Babe Delgado deserves something. A different kind of chance—for what, I don’t quite know. And maybe the kid can be fixed. Enough to pull a few good races out of her, anyway. Then, like Lewison says, she and I can tell them, Hey folks, fuck off, because we have won enough around here. But I don’t know. What I saw in her face today was long-term loneliness, a barely contained revulsion at the world. Can’t say I blame her.
    *
    To check out the competition, McMullen used to joke whenever we went to these national meets. And both of us knew what a joke it was, because the kids we saw there were the big-time burners, Division I stuff, national-class material, a lot of them world-class. Still, there’s no law against looking.
    Which meet was it? Indianapolis. Two, three years ago. Bart Sager was there, with bells on, because Southern seemed headed for another national championship— The Big U, they called it. A totalitarian-run stable of talent and power. But some of his kids looked unhappy to me, and one of them was Babe Delgado.
    Not so for the backstroker Liz Chaney—she was a real live monster, a confident sort, set an American record in the 200 and we saw her do it. She is dead now, along with most of her teammates, buried by the winds and waves of Angelita. But that day in Indianapolis McMullen ignored the electronic timer on the wall and zeroed his own stopwatch. I want to get these splits. This kid’s going to set a record soon, girl. I asked him was it in the air and he said yes, it’s in the air. He was sweating excitement. For a moment I liked him because he was genuine, almost worshipful, without the usual bullshit. She’s a cool cookie, huh? Knows no fear. Every backstroker was in the water ready to start—except for Chaney in lane four, who was wiggling to the rhythm of some dance tune in her head, feet shuffling, arms rocking, hips thrusting. There was a bratty smile on her face. She turned completely around until she was facing Bart Sager. Then stuck out her tongue.
    I REPEAT. ALL SWIMMERS IN THE WATER. THIS IS THE WOMEN’S TWO-HUNDRED-METER BACKSTROKE. FOUR LENGTHS OF THE POOL.
    Liz Chaney scratched her ribs like a monkey.
    SWIMMERS IN THE WATER. A WARNING IS ISSUED TO LANE FOUR.
    She took a small hop and jumped in feet first. Shouts echoed to the ceiling mingled with laughter. I glanced at Sager, saw that his face was sweating red, and he was smiling. Then I asked Pete if there was any truth to the rumor.
    Which one? he asked. They say Bart Sager’s in love, I told him. And he said It looks that way, doesn’t it.
    TAKE YOUR MARKS.
    In lane four, Liz Chaney