FRIDAY, AUGUST 22:
Plenty of Grease
After The Price Is Right, Mom asks if I want to go to the swim club with her.
“I don’t know,” I say, switching off the television. “I might go down later with Tony.”
I feel a little sorry for Mom. I was four when the swim club opened, so she and I went every day. She’d sit under a big umbrella with other ladies and watch their kids splash in the kiddie pool, then she’d take me into the big pool and teach me to swim. For the next few summers we were there all the time, but then I started spending more time with Tony. She’s still there every day, but I hardly ever go with her.
“You sure are having a busy summer,” she says. “Want lunch?”
“Yeah.”
I sit on Dad’s high stool at the counter while she fries up some ham for my sandwich. “Big scrimmage tomorrow,” I say, “so I figure I ought to rest up.”
She gives me a small smile and says, “Mmm-hmm.”
“But maybe I will go with you. Just lie on a towel and get some sun.”
“That would be nice,” she says. “I’d like the company.”
I pick up a saltshaker and turn it around in my hand. It’s a tall, clear one, with a few grains of rice mixed in with the salt. I always wondered about that. “Why is there rice in here?” I ask.
“It absorbs moisture. Keeps the salt from clumping up.”
“Oh.” The salt is clumpy anyway.
I exhale. “What, umm . . . You think Ryan . . .”
“I think he’d better do something soon,” she says. “That application to Drew has been sitting on his desk all summer. So far he filled out the line that asks for his name. You want toast?”
“Yeah.”
“Get it. This is almost ready.”
I put two slices of bread in the toaster and wait. When it pops up, she grabs it and sticks the ham between the slices.
I take a big mouthful.
“This is no game,” she says. “Kids like him are the first ones they send to the front lines. It could be too late already; his birthday’s in two weeks.”
I swallow. The ham sticks in my throat. “Ryan says the war is immoral.”
“I voted for Nixon because he said he’d get us out, but he just keeps digging in deeper.”
The phone rings and she goes to the hall to answer it. I can hear her talking about some library board issues.
When she comes back she asks if I’d like her to fry more ham. “There’s plenty of grease.”
I think about it. “Sure.” I could stand to gain a few pounds.
She puts another slice of butter in the pan. “I’ll drive him to Canada if it comes to that,” she says. “They’re not taking my child. Not for this war. Not for some pointless intervention.”
I lie facedown in the grass near my mother’s umbrella, the sun beating down on my back, and think about football and that dance next week and Ryan’s situation.
The grass smells grassy. Patches of it are very dry, but here by the kiddie pool, there are a lot of dripping children, so it stays well watered.
I feel a splash of warm water on my back and look up. It’s Tony, wiping his mouth.
“I banged on your door for ten minutes,” he says. “You were supposed to wait for me.”
I push up onto my elbow. “I guess I forgot.”
“Jerk. . . . Hi, Mrs. Winslow.”
“Hi, Tony.”
I stand up and we walk toward the locker room. “They here?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. They’re not usually around this early.”
“Right.” I don’t know what we’d do if those girls were here. Walk past and pretend we don’t notice them again?
Every day’s been like this all summer. Get up way too early with my dad, watch TV all morning after he leaves, have lunch and hit the pool with Tony, go to practice. Maybe school won’t be so bad after all. Lots of possibilities.
Tomorrow’s scrimmage is an intrasquad, but we’ll be on the big field. They even hired a couple of referees, so it’ll be run like a game, with the clock and the scoreboard and everything. They’re handing out the game jerseys tonight after practice, but I’m on the side that’ll wear the practice grays. With the team split in two, I ought to get a good bit of playing time on both offense and defense.
We wander around for an hour, shoot some baskets, then go home.
Yeah, it was boring, but that’s life. Boring isn’t always so bad.