What Is Not (March 26, 2009. New Moon. Issue 2)

The alarm clatters.

Reflexively Chuck reaches to slap it into quiet. Only when he feels the glass tub enclosure does he realize that he is sitting on the bowl – not quite asleep but not quite awake. He hears Em moan.

“Shit!” quietly to himself.

A moment. He imagines her rolling across the bed, her short brown hair caressing his pillows, her arm reaching towards the table they had rescued from his mother’s basement, her hand – more gently than his – tapping the button that would still time.

“Five,” he groans. “Five o’clock on a Sunday morning. I must be crazy.” He wipes and washes. Squeezing the tube from the bottom, he pastes his toothbrush and brushes. Last, a rinse –Listerine straight from the bottle. No shave, not today.

“Sorry,” as he reenters the bedroom.

A muffled response. She is still draped on his side of the king-sized.

“Forgot the alarm.” Chuck pulls off his pajamas, thinks for a moment, throws them on the bed.

“I have to get up, too.” A little clearer, less grumpy.

Chuck opens his drawer and pulls out a pair of boxers, starts to put them on, pulls them back off, throws them into the hamper.

“Hey, those are clean.”

“Sorry, I know. I forgot.” On the chair there is a pile of clothes, clothes he had set out for today. He pulls on his swim trunks – the silly Big Dog trunks that always make Doug laugh. “Just in case,” he thinks. The weather might warm. He might want to jump in. Jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, bright orange socks, sneakers – dirty with wear, kept for one day a year – and his hat, John Deere baseball cap bought at a truck stop.

“I’ll wake the kids.”

She sits – feet square on the floor – unmoving, not responding.

“I said I’ll wake the boys.”

“I heard you. Start the coffee.”

“How much …?”

“It’s all measured; just flip the switch.”

“OK.” It seems there should be more, something else to say. Fifteen years. There is nothing more. Chuck feels his wife’s indifference; he feels his own. He pushes the future away.

The door to Donny’s room is pasted with eleven-year zeal: Star Wars and Aliens competing for space. Chuck brushes his hand lightly against the door – a make-believe knock enough to satisfy his propriety but not enough to deprive him of actually touching his son and feeling his first stirs of waking. He turns the knob.

Curled on castoff jeans, Dummy wags his tail in anticipation as the door opens. No bark, never a bark. Big, shaggy, a mix of obscure breeds and endless affection, dumb enough to be ever indulged, the dog of dogs. He stretches and stiff-legged comes to have his morning pat. Then out the door to wait by the kitchen door. Perhaps, not so dumb after all.

Chuck walks to the bunk bed. Donny sprawled innocently in the upper bunk, his best buddy, Ron – his body held tighter – perhaps some anxiety for this new adventure – in the lower. Chuck reaches up and brushes his son’s face. Lightly. Just enough. The wonderful stir of life – a recollection of first time he had held his joy. The boy starts, a millisecond of apprehension, then the warm smile of recognition. “Morning, Champ,” Chuck mouths.

“Hi, Dad.”

Could life get better? Chuck feels his heart beat. “You guys better get up.”

“OK.”

Chuck hears the other boy stirring; the special moment gone.

“Morning, Coach.”

“You ready, Ron.”

A pause. Anxiety, to remember, to gather words? “Ready and willing.”

“Good boy.” Chuck likes Ron; what coach wouldn’t. He’s the kind of kid who tries his heart out on the soccer field and always had a good word. “See you guys in the kitchen.” He turns to leave.

“Coach?”

 “Oh, oh,” to himself. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for taking me.”

He turns back to smile at the boy. “Our pleasure! Right,Donny?”

Chuck opens the kitchen door, and the storm. “Time to get the screens in,” he thinks. Em will have to nag him just as she had in the fall, just as she had about Christmas lights and Halloween decorations. But, for the moment, he is ahead of the curve.

He watches Dummy check out the yard. “Yeah, it’s all there, boy.” Turning away from the door, Chuck switches on the two urns. One would make coffee for the adults, the other hot water for cocoa. He pulls two boxes of Nestlé’s from the cabinet – one with mini–marshmallows and one without. Em had laughed when he had brought them home. It was a little ritual thing – every year two boxes, every year the same teasing laugh.

Next, the Entenmanns’s: Donuts, plain and chocolate covered, coffeecake oozing sugar and raspberry jam, and crumb cakes – mustn’t forget the crumb cakes. All have to be pulled from the fridge where Em has carefully stored them – as if they weren’t preserved to outlast mere mortals.

The boys bounce into the room. “Did you brush?” Half giggling, they bounce out.

Scratch, scratch. Dummy wanting to come in. Chuck opens the doors and absently bends to pat the expectant nose. He steps out. Dummy by his side, he stands in the yard admiring the damp coldness of early morning. He stares at the screw-willow they had planted to honor Donnie’s birth. He wonders – as he does every spring – will these tiny beginnings become real leaves?

Em is in the kitchen when he comes in. She has taken out the half-and-half, the milk, the Tropicana, the sugar: all the stuff he had forgotten. Napkins, cups, stirrers: those she had put out the night before. Part of him bristles even while he appreciates. “Brrr. Chilly out there.”

“It’s early,” she reassures.

“I know. I’m just saying.”

“It’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“To call it off.”

Em smiles. Chuck sees a smirk. “These trips are precious.”

“I know.” Softly, almost warmly.

Hw continues, ignoring her acquiescence.

“Something we share.” He gestures his futility. In a voice struggling with emotion: “Something he’ll remember.”

“I really do understand.”

The boys come laughing into the room – a kids’ joke. a shared intimacy. For Chuck a pang of jealousy.

The door chimes. The boys, yoked, open.

“Hi, Uncle Mark.”

“Hey, Donnie.” A quick hug. “Who’s this guy?”

“My friend, Ron. Ron this is Uncle Mark.”

“You coming with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’ll try to keep you from drowning.”

A moment. “Thanks … I guess.”

“Just kidding.” A bear of a hand musses the boy’s black crew cut.

“Oh.” The boy’s voice still quivering.

“Uncle Mark always kids.”

More relieved. “Oh.”

“Uncle Mark is a kid.” Self-deprecation.

Ron smiles.

“Hey, buddy.” Chuck reaches as far as he can around his friend.

“Hey.” The embrace is returned. “This is Jenny.”

Chuck sees what he had come to expect from his best friend: a girl – never the same, never well known, never long lasting. Always signs of rebellion: multi-colored spiked hair, tattoos, nose ring (probably pierced tongue and tit Chuck thinks). Her fluffy pink jacket too tight around over big boobs; jeans tight-fitted around luscious ass. “Tits and ass, always its and ass.” He reaches out. “Hi, I’m Chuck. This is my son, Donnie and his friend Ron.”

“Yeah.” Her voice nasal and empty.

“Breakfast’s in the kitchen.”

“Best part of the day.” Mark laughs. “We met last night. At Sombrero’s. Jenny’s a tattoo artist.”

“Oh?”

“Not really. I want to learn… Want to see my tats?”

“Yes,” the boys enthusiastic.

“Sure.”

A thorn-crowned Jesus, lightening, lions: nothing to suggest warmth to come.

“Nice.” Voice noncommittal.

“Wow!” “Neat!” Boyish chorus.

Others arrive – pieces of Chuck’s life come together. A tradition. A custom. A ritual. Yes, a ritual. A spring ritual. Second Sunday of May. Rain, shine, warm cold. They gather. A core of six. Then, there are the others – wives, girlfriends, children, friends, lovers –invited, begged, guilted, coerced. That number each year reflecting weather, love life, and perhaps the baseball season. But always there is the six. A circle hubbed around Chuck, heavyset, unathletic Chuck whose idea it had been. He had first invited them. How many years had it been?

So they return. A ritual! A rite! A sacrament of spring and brotherhood. Not something they always enjoy. Not something they honestly want. Not something they could have defended to the curious or even to their own families. It is something they do because … No! There is no because. It is something they do.

“Regular idiots.”  Sue sips her Styrofoam coffee nibbled a crumb cake. Sue had gone the first year –five years, not again, never again. Chuck is her brother and she loves him, but she had gone that first year and no! never again! Bob can go; she gladly drives him. She gladly drives him and whichever of their children and their children’s friends who are of a mind. This year Stevie has chosen to go. Their daughter has spent the night at a friend’s. Today they will go to the mall. “That’s what girls do,” she had explained to her Bob. He had shrugged acceptance.

Sue has driven them this morning and will return for them in the evening. But, she? Never again. “From now on I’ll do my penance in church,” she had said. Sue had said it, and she had meant it.

Bob goes; it is his ritual, too. He will ride shotgun to his brother-in-law. He will ride shotgun and tells jokes they have all heard, adolescent male jokes about dumb blondes and stupid sex. “Don’t tell your mother I told this.” Each joke prefaced to the children in the back seats, and they will feel elated by being part, by being made a part of what they can not really comprehend. Bob’s Stevie – his tight-muscled body full of nine-year enthusiasm and Stevie’s friend Mike – his first time and trepidatious – sit in the middle seats. They hit and poke, giggle and laugh. Behind them, Donnie and Ron – more withdrawn - dream of being adults.

Today, early. Getting organized. Shivering cold in sweatshirts and breakers they now assemble. Gathered in knots on the driveway they hold hot cups and go through the dance of organization. Sandwiches in waterproof bags. Bottles of water. Who will drive? Em, Sue, Carole – Chuck’s mother – pour hot-cups of coffee, cocoa, reconstituted orange juice, hand out more carbohydrates.

“Of course I called.” Insult in his voice. “I didn’t need to. Jimbo remembered; we’re his regulars.” Tom always asks – part of the ritual. Paternal. Chuck always the same response.

Pete is two years younger than Chuck. It would be the obvious conclusion that they are friends, obvious but wrong. It is Tom, Pete’s father who is the link in this spoke. He had loved Chuck’s mother – nothing untoward just the love of like souls who went to the same church and sang in the same choir. When Chuck’s father had died, when the bucket from which he was working touched a live line, when he had been electrocuted, tossed to the pavement, and blazed in momentary auto-de-fey. Then Tom has shown his love and his guilt by taking the then young boy under his wing.

Pete had been old enough to understand his father’s explanations. Old enough to understand and young enough to still resent. Dressed in flannel and denim, faux-Afro a paean to folk groups gone before his birth, listened to at his father’s knee: Pete most looks the part and is least willing for the day. His own son, Josh, at seven, coming for the first time, excited beside Mark, between burly man and bimbo, shivering in excitement, muffled beyond the day by his fretting mother who now holds a cup of coffee and worries. Emily tries to bolster. She talks of Donny, and Sarah is reassured. “Josh couldn’t sleep.”

“Of course not.”

“He woke us at five.”

“He’ll sleep well tonight.” The women laugh.

“All the boys will.” Carole. They laugh again. She wonders, as she always does, “If Fred had lived, …?” She doesn’t speak the words; they have never passed her lips.

The vehicles are organized. Mark has stuffed himself behind Pete, Pete who grumbling pushes the passenger seat of his father’s Toyota as forward as it would go. Josh has squeezed into the middle. Jenny – blank – looks out the window.

The highway hums beneath them. Josh’s action figures attack Mark. He reaches over to push them away, changes his mind, brushes the boy’s hair, smiles into Jenny’s indifference, wonders if he will ever find an Emily; she seems so perfect.

This winter’s girlfriend had demurred. “Canoeing? Not my thing!”

He had written her off even as he knew that Emily would also balk. “Too chilly,” that had been the excuse. It was, he admitted, a chilly May. Still the woman should have – that is if she was serious. Why should she? He knew better, still.

Still slightly hung over, Mark knows he shouldn’t have gone to Sombrero’s. His stomach starting to rebel, he knows he shouldn’t have tried to drown his disappointment and anger. His head demanding more time on the pillow, he knows he shouldn’t have invited this black-eyed, hardened stranger with whom he has nothing. Absently, Mark thumb wrestles the action figure. Josh laughs.

“Don’t bother Uncle Mark.” Pete, parental, solicitous, jealous. The discipline father. “Practice the piano,” “Work on you lay-ups,” “Clean up your room.” He holds the superhero and looks to Mark. Mark says nothing; he wants to but knows it will not fly.

Josh smiles. The moment has passed; Mark has retreated into his hangover, into the list of girls who have passed through is life, into the Jesus tattoo on Jenny’s left shoulder. She has taken off her sweatshirt. He notes the definition of her muscle. He notes the inked drops of blood. He notes a scar across her left wrist and tries to see the right.

The road hums. In his Dodge king-cab pickup, the sixth member of the circle cracks a can of beer. Brian always drives – alone if possible, sometimes with a drinking buddy. Today he is alone. He always drives and always drinks. He will, by the time they reach, be well buzzed. He will make dumb jokes and laugh alone. He will spend the day in a nimbus of aloneness. And, he will, by the time the day is finished be irritable in the way that drunks deprived become.

They had not been friends, had barely known each other: Thrown by the draft and government into the same regiment, battalion, company; thrown by the C.O. into the same platoon. Two young men from Jersey learning life in Cold War Germany. Beer, wurst, and girls: all of life at twenty. Returned to the states, one going to work for Con Edison and the other still looking for a good brew. Fred had never been willing and Carole had never requested, so Brian had never been pushed out of their life. Part of the family in a slobbering senseless way. Part of the family at the hospital when Sue was born. Part of the family when Chuck came along. Part of the family when Fred had died. Part of the family when Chuck and then his sister had married. Part of the family when their children … Part of the family, who brought laughter when he arrived and relief when he left. Brian, beer-gutted carpenter’s helper who is last to arrive each second Sunday of May.

Chuck pulls into their first stop – their always stop: the Oakwood Shell, just off the expressway, bathrooms clean, and the cigars, the skinny cigars Mark buys for them all – part of the ritual – smoked after lunch by the river’s edge, even in rain, by the river’s edge. And candy – carousing children on a sugar high day.

There is a story in the stop – a story never told, never shared – a secret between  two friends – a story, a secret, a subtle dig.

Friends for life; friends since second grade. Victim of small bladder? Playground disaster, Just a little boy? Mark – object of little girl teasing. Crying. His mother not home.

Chuck unbidden and un-permitted running home to get pants, underpants, even shirt. Principal scolding. Red-faced teacher admonishing. One boy instinctively knowing what was right, what was caring. The other forever grateful. A friendship forged.

Still, there are the unsaid digs. The stop, every year – Oakwood Shell. The stop for Mark. Then on. Jimbo will be waiting.

He is waiting as the three vehicles pull into the lot. Chuck’s blue Chevy van, Pete’s happy if road-weary red Toyota, and Brian’s Dodge, black and foreboding. As they disembark, he counts. Five kids, half price. Just seven adults. He pulls on his cigarette, blows a lazy ring. “More coming?” he queries disappointment creeping into his voice.

“Too chilly.”

“It’ll warm up.”

“Not on the radio.”

“You gonna believe those guys or me?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”

“I see. Twelve of you.”

“Five kids.”

“Three canoes.”

“No way. I’m paddling.” Donny pushes his voice forward. 

“Me, too.” Ron hesitant but wanting.

The muscular flannel-dressed proprietor looks at Chuck who shrugs. “They’ll have to pay full.”

Chuck shrugs again. “Nine full.” You don’t haggle over traditions.

“Don’t I get a paddle?” Josh sounds ready to cry.

“Everybody gets a paddle; everybody works.” The gruffness in Jimbo’s voice intended to make amends. “Five canoes?”

No response. None seems called for.

“Five canoes, right?”

“Right.”

“Nine paddlers. Three kids with paddles.”

“Right.” Chuck knows the drill. He pulls out his license and credit card.

The canoes glide effortlessly through the almost motionless water. The mist is giving its last kiss to the river. Just budding treetops reflect in the stillness. It should be quiet. Instead, the bang of paddles on gunwales – aluminum on aluminum.

“Do we really have to wear these?”

“Don’t let me see you … the Coast Guard would arrest all of us.” Pete’s tone demands compliance.

Josh doesn’t argue.

In another canoe Donnie laughs. Ron follows. Pete glares. Tom, unseen by son or grandson, smiles, gives Donnie a furtive thumb. The boys laugh again.

“Watch how we go,” Chuck tries to sound nautical.

“Watch for whales.”

“Yeah, the white ones.”

“Are there really whales?” Mike asks – doubtful but unsure.

“Only in Uncle Chuck’s head,” Stevie whispers loudly enough for all to hear.

Brian wonders why he has come: alone, kneeling in the middle of his canoe, an Indian, the last of his breed, a voyageur discovering the Inland Passage, an out-of-sorts drunk taking part in this ritual – this rite of May.

A fish breaks water or at least the sound. “Thar she blows.” Mark calls.

Jenny echoes. “Thar she blows.” Her pink jacket has been removed. She raises her hand to point at nothing. The orange life vest – Coast Guard mandated – seems to accentuate her – proud prow of sexuality.

Ron – oh so fully aware – gapes and raises in preadolescent appreciation. Embarrassed, he tries surreptitiously to pull his sweatshirt in concealment.

Ducks launch from the grassy banks. The babies dew-drops of yellow fluff. Unafraid, expecting bread, nature made tame. Josh calls to them in the language of childhood. “Sssh!” Pete. Tom shakes his head.

The paddling grows coordinate. The canoes pass. Yards with dinghies and docks and manicured lawns. Breaks of cane and brush showing signs of teenage infestation. Not wilderness, but not without character.

A portage: a road, a culvert. Life vests off. Climb one side, cross – no traffic, down the other. A grassy spot, a break. Cigarette, Coke, candy bar. The sun has warmed; sweatshirts are bundled. Ron ­– shirtless – a tabby-cat boy. Chuck notices the hair under his arms. “When did these kids start growing up?” He looks at his son and wonders.

Mike and Stevie play “You’re it.” Poke and re-poke, giggle and run. Josh watches hungry with envy. Stevie runs by and pokes. “You’re it.” Josh looks to his father. No response. Tentative – he runs after the other boys. Pete frowns.

“Let him play.”

“I know, Dad. But, they’ll end up teasing him.”

“Of course they will; that’s what kids do.”

“He’ll get upset.”

“They do that, too.” Tom turns his face into the sun. “That feels good.”

Jenny, too, is enjoying the sun. She has pulled open her blouse revealing the skimp of her bra.

Ron watches her breasts rise and fall. “Wow,” he mutters.

Donnie follows his friend’s gaze. “Yeah.”

She notices. “Hey guys, come over here. The sun feels so good.”

They scramble over. “Where’s Uncle Mark?”

“He and that other guy went into the woods.” She points to a nearby bramble.

“What other guy?”

“The grump.”

“Brian?”

“Yeah, the grump.”

“What are they doing?”

“What do you think?” She makes a drinking gesture.

“Oh.” In unison.

The three bask in their bodies. A squirrel runs to a piece of dropped candy. Up a tree, a poplar. He chirrups success. Josh stops his chasing to point.

“Do you like soccer?” Donnie is trying. In the stress his voice cracks. Jenny laughs, he reddens. She edges to him and kisses him on the cheek – a gentle kiss – almost motherly. The tender emotion reddens both.

“What about me?” Ron.

She scootches to him and kisses – this on the mouth – sensual, direct. He feels his arousal. She reaches down and touches. He writhes in pleasured agony. “Holy shit.”

The river doesn’t so much flow as inch. The canoes move gently. The sun warms. What is is; what is not – that is possibilities.

Bob sings – not well but pleasantly. Old show tones filled with laughter and make-believe love. The others join and leave the songs; choruses swell; sometimes there is humming; sometimes there is only Bob. His son moans – taught by his mother and sister.

“Hey, kid, leave your dad alone.”

“Yeah, don’t worry; there aren’t any dogcatchers around.”

Laughter.

“What kind of bird is that?” Mike’s curiosity is palpable.

“The one on that tree?”

“Yeah.”

“No idea.” Bob interrupts his songs.

“A dirty bird,” Tom puts in.

“What?”

“A dirty bird.” Tom mimes wiping his head.

Laughter.

 “That’s stupid.”

“Don’t talk to Uncle Tom that way.”

Simultaneous. “I was just kidding.” “Come-on I was asking for it.”

Bob tenors his way into South Pacific. “Some enchanted evening …”

Around the bend is lunch. O’Neil’s – a shack with over-boiled coffee, sodas, sandwiches in factory plastic, candy, ice-cream – all overpriced, a pay phone, first aid, bathrooms – not clean, but. There is a grassy bank with picnic tables and garbage cans. A flower bed – planted from Wal-Mart. They pull ashore.

Tuna, bologna, ham and cheese: the choices are simple and basic – made by Emily while Chuck slept. Well-stuffed and fresh, slathered with mayo and mustard. Better than O’Neil’s. Better than roughing it. Fresh baked cookies, too. All washed by soda from the shack-store – something to justify their presence. The coffee well past acceptable is ignored. The kids back for an ice-cream – good-humored spenders – joking and shoving. The men take out those thin cigars purchased at the Shell and light with a sense of manly bond.

Mark offers a drag to Donnie: a first, a recognition. The boy coughs it down; still coughing, he passes to his friend. Ron, a bit older, a bit more experienced, takes his drag and returns the glowing phallus Mark. “You guys are getting older.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess.”

Their breasts swell.

“Want to try some of this?” He pulls a pint from his hip and offers it.

Ron reaches, takes a swig, and shakes his head to suppress reaction. “Good.”

He hands it off. Donnie coughs again. Hides his embarrassment and takes a second.

“Easy there.”

He hands it back. “Thanks, Uncle Mark.”

“Growing up. Right?”

“Right,” they chorus. Pleased, puffed, preened. Young primates on the cusp.

Brian is watching from his solitude against a tree. He holds up his pint in toasting recognition and then swallows deep.

Not knowing what else to do, the boys hit each other in the shoulder. With another thanks they move away – trying to move with nonchalance.

“That was cool.”

“You’re lucky. I don’t have any uncles like him.”

They exchange another set of punches – short, hard, designed to sting and meant as manhood.

The younger boys are playing tag. Their enthusiasm fired by sugar and freedom.

“Kids!” Donnie trying to sound mature, his voice breaks.

“Yeah.” A moment. “I wonder where she is.”

“I think she went for a walk.” He points to a well-littered path that leads away from the river. They puch each other yet again  what else to do with excitement?

Chuck has pulled out a blue nerf football. He throws it, Donnie catches and throws back. “Want to get up a game?”

“Later, Dad, Ron and I want to take a walk.” He tries to hide the furtiveness in his voice.

“That’s cool,” trying to hide his fatherly disappointment, wishing he had not allowed his son to bring a friend. Realizing that he is being stupid, Chuck calls to Pete. “You and Josh up for some Nerf?”

The path winds aimless through the budding underbrush. It gives a sense of privacy and forest even though if they would care to listen the boys could hear suburbia. They do not care to hear; for the moment they live within the primitive – within the most basic hunt. They follow until they come to her.

Wearing only the patterned bottom of her two-piece – clothes draped on a stump – Jenny moves in rhythmic grace.

“What is she doing?” whispered.

“Some kind of dance.”

She hears and turns, bare-breasted. “It’s called Tai Chi.”

The boys are uncomprehending.

“It’s related to Karate.”

“Oh.” “Wow?” “Can you kill someone?” A momentary return to childhood. Then, a reassertion. “You have …”

She laughs. “Do you boys like …?”

“Yeah!” as one voice.

She walks towards them. They take a step back and then stare.

“I won’t bite.”

Taking two hands she places them on her breasts. “Feel. That’s what they’re for.” She laughs, “that and milk, but you’re too old for milk.”

Ron – unable to contain; his voice a groan “I’m not.” His mouth finds her tit. He sucks and licks.

“Don’t drool.”

He says nothing; his mouth too busy for words.

Donnie is transfixed. His right hand on Jenny’s tight-formed breast, he stands aware of his attention – so powerfully aware and so helplessly captured.

Ron’s hand drifts downward. He pushes between flesh and fabric. She spreads her legs slightly to accommodate. “Does this feel …?

“Ssssh,” her voice soft and yielding – reassuring of desire.

“Ssssh,” he echoes – soothing yet lustful.

Donnie pulls his hand away. She reaches for it. He steps back covering the hand with his other.

“No?” she croons.

Ron is startled. He pulls away.

“Not you, silly.” She pulls his head forward – a mother guiding her new suckle.

Donnie is overwhelmed. He leans against a tree and stares. “It’s all right. Maybe next year, honey, maybe next year.”

“Yeah, next year.” Terror, desire, confusion – all in one breaking voice. He stares at his friend and wonders who this stranger is. He stares unable to break his vision. Finally, “We’d better get back.”

Gently she pulls Ron’s hand from its exploration, his mouth from her breast. “I’ll get dressed.”

She goes to her clothes, fastens her swimsuit bra, slips on her sneakers and ties them, drapes the rest over her arm. The boys have turned away strangely now embarrassed. They look at their feet, each ashamed to look at the other.

They mumble.

“Wow!”

“I don’t believe you …”

“Why didn’t you …?

Exclamations made, they know they will never speak of this again. Yet, they know that they will speak of it over and over again.

She takes them by the arm, one on each side, and pulls them forward – back to the others, away from the moment.

“I have to piss.”

“The bathrooms are just …”

“No, I want to piss here.”

Ron turns to the side, unzips and aims at a sapling – satisfaction smiles on his face.

Donnie feels the urge. He decides to wait. Their friendship is changed. He knows this even while he does not.

What is is; what is not – that is possibilities.

“How much farther?” Mike tries to hide the whine in his voice.

“Not too much.”

“About another hour,” Pete adds from the next canoe.

“How do you know?” Josh’s hand makes circles in the water; his paddle lies on the bottom of the canoe.

“Because I know where I am.”

“How do you know?” The whine replaced by a little boy’s defiance.

“Watch it.”

Tom, long past tired, “We’ve been here before. Every year. Round that bend where the tree hangs out, that’s where the swans are. From there about half an hour.”

The younger boys peer at the tree as if by magical vision they can see through it and beyond to the promised swans. They do not see the dog that has come to the water’s edge. It is Brian who whistles and points. The dog stares as they move downstream.

Then they appear, two large, white and stately and three smaller and more sallow of color.

“Stay clear of those little one,” Chuck warns.

“They’re cute.”

“Just stay away from them. Swans get pretty nasty if you get near their chicks.”

“Cygnets,” Pete corrects.

“What’s cygnets?”

“That’s the right word for young swans.” He is glad to have something to teach, something to tell his son.

“Oh.” The boy sounds disappointed – he had expected something more.

“Swans mate for life,” Chuck wonders if the same is true for himself. “They’re really into their families.” That he is sure is true. He looks at his son and smiles. “This is what it’s all for,” he thinks.

The boy is staring ahead – staring at the canoe in which Jenny paddles bow. In his head a tape plays and replays. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t know what to think.

The swans swim noiselessly. One dips head in silent hunt.

The children have lost interest.

“How much farther?” This time Stevie.

“We told you, another half hour.”

“How will he know?”

They skirt an island of litter and glop. “Who leaves this shit?” Brian demands.

Nobody answers.

“How will he know?”

“Who?”

“That guy, the one who gave us the boats?”

“Canoes,” Mike corrects his friend.

“Great, the guy who gave us the canoes. How will he know where to meet us?”

“You see that bush?” Bob points. “The one with the black berries?”

“Yeah.”

“If I told you last year that it was over there,” he points to another spot, “or that it had green berries, would you believe me?”

“Why not?”

“Because things don’t change like that. They stay the same.”

“Right. That’s how Jimbo knows. He knows because every year we get to the same spot at about the same time and he’s there.” He dips his paddle deep into the water and pushes hard turning the canoe. “So paddle, boys, and let’s get there.”

“Yeah.” They dig in – paddles banging, water splashing.

The other canoes seem to pick up their energy – all except Brian, who – numbed by his drink – has set himself a blurry rhythm.

Donnie and Ron are unconsciously caught in the new energy. Their bodies are present even while their minds have stayed behind. They clash paddles. “Hey, guys, watch what you’re doing,” Chuck offers from the stern.

“Yeah, guy, watch what you’re doing,” Donnie echoes from amid-ship – voicing distain and anger.

Ron, in the bow, says nothing. He doesn’t care. He has bigger concerns, greater preoccupations. His movement quickens, his paddle froths the water.

What is is; what is not – that is possibilities.

Jimbo meets them – now in tee-shirt, Marlboros wrapped in sleeve. “Enjoy yourself?” he asks as he helps Jenny from the canoe.

Her response a smile.

He says nothing else as he helps pull the canoes onto the sand. Nearby the truck and canoe trailer, the mini-van rescued from school bus obsolescence – rusted dents and yellow paint. They pull lawn and leaf bags of discarded clothes and carry them to the bus.

“Damn,” Chuck yells, “I left the nerf.”

“Don’t worry, you can get it next year,” Tom jokes.

“Yeah, next year.”

“Udderly Delicious” Ice cream. Every year, tired, often cold, still they stop. Part of the tradition. The cars pull across the gravel. Stevie and Mike our first. Only moments before close to sleep, now again excited. Josh, drowsy, more restrained, looks in question to his father. Pete nods assent.

“Spring Berry. It’s good.” Jenny holds her cone out to Donnie. “Try it.”

“No, thanks, I’ve had it.”

“I thought it was a special.”

“Last year. Every year. It’s always the special.”

“Oh,” she sounds disappointed, almost a child. “It’s still good.”

“Yeah, it’s ok.”

“You don’t have anything?”

“Not hungry.”

“A growing kid like you: I’d think you’d be starving.”

“Well, I’m not. It doesn’t matter.”

He walks away, gets back into Chuck’s van, slams the door. She looks after him for a moment, then turns her attention back to the pink ice cream that is beginning to melt onto her hand. She licks some away.

“Good, huh?” It is Mark. He motions to lick her cone. She pulls it away. “You have your own.”

“Yeah, but it’s chocolate mint; yours is berry.”

Spring Berry,” she corrects as if it matters. “Why didn’t you get some if you like it?”

“I figured we could share.”

“Whatever.” Reluctant, she holds out her cone.

He bends towards it, changes his mind. “Yeah, whatever.” He turns, “Chuck, …” he calls with no point.

There is a white bench in front of the stand. Ron sits sucking milkshake. He wishes, but knows not what. He thinks, but has no idea.

Brian sits, too. He doesn’t eat. He prefers a different refreshment – one from his glove compartment.

The others finish their refreshment and slide into their vehicles. Brian ambles toward his truck. Turning back to Ron, “You want to ride with me?”

He knows that he shouldn’t. He knows that the man has had too much to drink. Still. “Yeah, sure.”

Dummy is first to greet them. His tale still, his body wagging. Em and Carole take charge: plastic bags for the wet, hot tea for the chill that comes with fatigue, sympathy for the tired muscles. Phone calls are made, and rides appear. Quickly people disperse.

“Fun,” “next year,” “enjoyed,” “again:” echo on the driveway. The tradition is over, the rite fulfilled.

Donnie picks at his food and goes to his room. “School tomorrow,” he answers.

“Want to do it again next year?” Chuck asks.

“That’s a year away.” A grownup answer.

That night Chuck doesn’t sleep well. Tired as he is, he cannot help tossing. He drifts off. It is a dream:

He is a swan – one alone – no flock, no mate, no cygnets – alone in a puddle, a small puddle created from his own tears.

What is not – that seems beyond possibility.