The air over the Cold Hole felt hot as Jimmy sailed through it, briefly, for one unforgettable moment of his life, in his new dry swimming suit, the leaves in their trees overhead lending shade down on the rippling pool of water, the edges lapping at the little rocks that lined the pool, the water steadily pouring through the big pipe that ran under the road from the cold spring up the hill. As he plunged into it headfirst and drawn up, crablike, he couldn’t help but yell. What? He didn’t know. Something. Umyammahokaywhee! Then he was under. Drowning his ass off. Mouth full of cold muddy water and gulping more down. He clawed his way to the top and spit it out and took a deep breath, trying to spot his daddy, or call out for help, but he didn’t know how to swim or kick his legs correctly and he soon went under again, mouth full of water, swallowing some, coughing, and then he clawed his way back up. His hair was plastered down over his forehead. He felt the doom of death closing over him on such a sunny day. He could hear his daddy yelling something. He knew they were up there on the road above him, drinking beer, his daddy and Mister Rusty and Mister Seaborn, where they’d been standing for a couple of minutes, before his daddy had thrown him in, but he couldn’t see much for the water in his eyes and then he was going under again. The water was very cold and he didn’t know how deep the pool was, but he didn’t touch bottom. Nobody had given him any instructions about holding his breath, but he’d seen some scuba diving on TV one night and thought to pinch his nose closed. Only thing was, now he couldn’t seem to get back to the top. He was just hanging under the surface, clawing rapidly at the water with one hand and his air was running out. He knew there were people in distant lands who lived around distant oceans and could dive for pearls or oysters or sponges or tourists, but he just couldn’t seem to get back up. He knew his daddy was going to be disappointed, and he tried to get back to the top. Plus he needed another breath of air before he died. But he just couldn’t seem to do it. He held his breath as long as he could and then he had to let it out. And when he did, the only natural thing was to draw in another breath, but his mouth filled with water, and he sucked some into his lungs, and then he knew he’d messed up. He felt himself sinking. He heard two big splashes above him. Then the cold cold black closed in. And, for just a few moments, Jimmy died for the first time.
[…]
When Jimmy came back to life, his head was on the rough pavement of the road and some people he didn’t know had pulled their cars over and were standing around. He was coughing and he was surprised to be alive since he’d been pretty sure he was going to be dead. Mister Rusty was soaking wet and pulling back from him, kind of hovering over him, and Jimmy couldn’t get all the water coughed out of his lungs fast enough. He gagged some, too, and tried to puke, but just strings of thick watery stuff came out and that was all. Then he looked over to the left and saw some chunks of the hot dogs he’d eaten for lunch lying in the road beside him. Had evidently puked while unconscious. He didn’t know you could do that. He gagged some. He gagged some more and said, A … A … Ack!
He coughed some more and tried to sit up, and then his daddy was kneeling beside him, dry, with a beer in his hand. His daddy put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy’s lips felt mashed, his nose pinched.
“Boy,” he said. “You all right?”
Mister Rusty looked more than a little pissed when he turned his head to Jimmy’s daddy.
“Hell naw, he ain’t all right, you like to fucking drowned him.”
Jimmy’s daddy had some kind of look on his face that Jimmy couldn’t say what was. He never had seen him look like that before. He wondered if he was still mad at him about the tools. Then he went dizzy for a moment. It was all too much for his head. […]
Later on, Jimmy was in the backseat of the ’55, and they were going down the road passing some turf fields and a big green pump. Pallets piled up in the corners of the fields. Sage grass at the edges of the woods. Jimmy was lying on a wet towel and his head was wet and his hair, his swimming suit. First time he’d worn it besides trying it on after he got it home. He coughed and turned over. The insides of the car smelled like they were rotted and his stomach felt like it was full of water. He wanted to puke but he didn’t think he could.
Up front, his daddy at the wheel glanced over his shoulder and said, “How you doing there, Hot Rod?”
Mister Rusty turned his head to look at him, as well as Mister Seaborn, who was sitting in between them. Mister Seaborn had recently had two of his front teeth knocked out by a skunk that made him fall down.
“I’m okay,” Jimmy said. He wasn’t really okay, but he thought he’d better say that. He didn’t want to get his daddy upset any more than he already was.
“You need to stop and throw up?” Jimmy’s daddy said. He was still glancing over his shoulder.
“Better watch the goddang road there, Sweet Pea,” Mister Seaborn said, and lifted his beer. It made a sucking sound when he drank from it.
“I’m watching the damn road,” Jimmy’s daddy said. “Say you all right?” Jimmy’s daddy turned his head back toward the front after he said that, but Mister Seaborn and Mister Rusty kept looking at him and drinking beer. They were both kind of halfway turned around facing him. Mister Seaborn was wet, too. His hair was plastered down, too, but now in the wind that came through the windows of the ’55, sprigs of it were starting to dry out and float around his red balding head.
“I guess so,” Jimmy said.
“How you feel?” Mister Seaborn said.
“Kinda sick,” Jimmy said.
Mister Seaborn took a drink of his beer. Jimmy’s daddy took a drink of his beer. Mister Seaborn said, “Well, I got a good reason for asking. I went to school with a boy that drowned one time. Drowned in his swimming pool. Right there at home. Stayed down about thirty minutes fore anybody seen him. He was cold as a mackerel when they pulled him out. Dead as a damn doornail.”
“Maybe it was one of them cold-water drownings,” Mister Rusty said. “I’ve heard of them before.”
Mister Seaborn looked like he didn’t appreciate Mister Rusty interrupting him. He turned to him briefly.
“Hell naw, it wasn’t no cold-water drowning,” Mister Seaborn said. “It was a fucking swimming pool. In August.”
“Oh,” Mister Rusty said.
“How deep was the damn water?” Jimmy’s daddy said.
Mister Seaborn didn’t turn around or answer Jimmy’s daddy because he was focused on Jimmy, and Jimmy was paying attention because hardly anybody ever focused on him and he liked it. He wished more people would focus on him more often.
“And see, back then, they didn’t know nothing about all this mouth-to-mouth shit like Rusty done on you. They used to have to like pump your arms up and down. Like this here, up and down. They had to pump all that water out of his lungs and he said when he woke up he felt so damn bad he wished they’d just gone on and let him die. Hell, he was already dead. Dead as a damn doornail. So my question to you is, you feel like that? You wish you’d just gone ahead and died?”
“No sir, I don’t reckon,” Jimmy said. “I was hoping maybe we’d get to go see Kenny Chesney in Tupelo next month.” He looked at his daddy.
That must not have been the answer Mister Seaborn was looking for. He took another drink of his beer and then looked at Jimmy again.
“Well, did you see any of that big white light at the end of a tunnel like they say folks see when they have a near-death experience?”
“No sir, I don’t reckon so,” Jimmy said. “It just looked muddy.”
“See anybody dead you knew, like your great-granddaddy?”
“Aw shit, leave him alone, Seaborn,” Jimmy’s daddy said. “He feels bad enough as it is.”
Mister Rusty turned back around and lit a cigarette. Jimmy sat up in the seat. He coughed a little. Mister Seaborn reached out and patted him on the back, not unkindly. Then he turned back around, too.
“Why don’t you send him to the YMCA?” he asked Jimmy’s daddy. “They could teach him how to swim.”
“Where’s a YMCA at around here, dumbass?” Jimmy’s daddy said.
“They got one in Memphis,” Mister Seaborn said.
“Memphis?” Jimmy’s daddy said. “You know how far away that is?”
“Hell yes, it’s seventy-five miles,” Mister Rusty said.
“It’s closer to seventy-eight if you go up Seventy-eight,” Mister Seaborn said with a mild chuckle.
“Why don’t you get him in the Cub Scouts?” Mister Rusty said. “I think they teach kids how to swim. I know they teach em how to camp out. Start a fire with rocks. All that shit.”
“I’ll teach him how to swim myself,” Jimmy’s daddy said. Then he said: “I don’t know why it didn’t work. It worked for me.”
Mister Rusty leaned forward and said, “So, your old man just pitched your ass in and you come up swimming like a duck.”
“Hell naw,” Jimmy’s daddy said. He nodded toward Jimmy in the backseat. “I looked about like he did. They had to come in and get me, too. Four times. They just kept on throwing my little ass in. I didn’t have the heart to do it to him.”
“Each generation gets weaker,” Mister Seaborn said.
“That’s the damn truth,” Jimmy’s daddy said.
Then Mister Rusty said something that was pretty amazing. “Me and you would’ve fought if you’d throwed him in again.”
And everything got a little quieter. The ’55 slowed. They passed a guy in the ditch with a garbage bag picking up cans.
“Is that right?” Jimmy’s daddy said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Mister Rusty said.
“Aw-right now, boys,” Mister Seaborn said.
“He ain’t your kid, Rusty. He’s my kid.”
“I know whose kid he is. It ain’t right to throw him in like that and him not knowing how to swim. Shit. His heart could have stopped or something. Happens to these kids playing football.”
Jimmy’s daddy thought it over for a few moments.
“Yeah, it does,” he finally said. He turned his head briefly to speak to Jimmy. He looked embarrassed. Jimmy didn’t see him look that way very often. He only looked that way whenever he made a mistake.
“Don’t tell your mama I throwed you in, all right?”
“No sir, I won’t,” Jimmy said.
“Raises hell about every damn thing already,” Jimmy’s daddy said.
Things were quiet for a few more moments. Then Mister Seaborn said, kind of murmured, “Where’s that big lake up here got all them bass in it?”
Jimmy’s daddy took a drink of his beer.
“It’s right on up the road here. He won’t let you fish in it, though.”
“How you know? You done asked him?”
“Everybody in the country’s asked him.”
“I heard it’s got some big bass in it,” Mister Seaborn said.
“Hell yes,” Jimmy’s daddy said. “Crappie, too.”
“I thought crappie wouldn’t live in a pond,” Mister Seaborn said.
“This ain’t a pond,” Jimmy’s daddy said. “It’s a lake.”
“How big?” Mister Seaborn said.
“About sixty acres,” Jimmy’s daddy said. “It’s a watershed lake. Government built it about three years ago.”
“We could go down on the river and fish,” Mister Seaborn said.
“Yeah, if you want to get a bunch of ticks all over you,” Mister Rusty said. “Last time I went down there I come back with about fifty on me. Them little bitty ones? Them deer ticks?”
“That’s the ones carries that Lyme disease,” Jimmy’s daddy said.
“That’s right,” Mister Seaborn said. “I saw it on TV.”
Mister Rusty said, “My uncle when he was in World War II was in a infantry company in Texas somewhere and they went out on a bivouac one night and he set his pup tent or whatever it was up in a big grove of pine trees and he got so many ticks on him he even had one go up inside his dick.”
“Ummmhhhhh!” Jimmy’s daddy said.
“Sheeeit!” Mister Seaborn said.
“Hell yeah. Doctor had to take some tweezers and go up in there and get it. He said he like to shit on his self.”
They shuddered some more and they all took a drink of their beer and Jimmy just sat in the back on the wet towel and listened to them. He didn’t ask any questions or try to interrupt whenever they were talking because he was so well trained about how to act around grown-ups. He could sit there for hours while grown-ups were talking and never say a word. Which is what he did again, riding in the backseat while they kept drinking beer, his wet swimming suit getting colder as the sun went down.
But he was also glad to be alive, and counted himself as very lucky, so he didn’t say anything about being cold. He didn’t ask them to roll up the windows. It seemed a small price to pay and eventually they’d go back home. There were plenty more hot dogs at home. If Evelyn and Velma hadn’t eaten all of them already. Evelyn could eat about six by herself. Raw.