The water's flow as his body drifted downward must've looked like a bulb of garlic; his rump at the root, arms and legs shooting scape-like towards the flickering sun above and beyond the surface of the pool.
"LET GO AND LET GOD!" was slapped on some of the bumpers in the parking lot at his church. It was a line drawn in the sand by people who laid hands on their cars to cast out demons when cash was low and oil and duct tape couldn't keep the engines running. John was old enough to drive, but poor enough to have to walk.
The pool became his prayer closet when something was bothering him, and every time he heeded the call to wade in the water, the boy knew he was continuing a tradition that stretched back to Jesus, who sought out his cousin on the banks of the Jordan so that John could prove himself worthy of the name "Baptist."
This John was falling into the pool because he had fallen in love.
Her name was Sarah. She was tall and athletic, with full lips set beneath a straight, thin nose. Freckles danced across its bridge from one high cheekbone to the other, and her auburn hair waved and crested just past her shoulders and gathered around her slender neck. But what really shook him was her eyes. Sarah had brown, almond-shaped eyes that caught the light and held it close whenever she smiled.
The first time he felt those eyes on him was in the library as he dutifully searched through the stacks for a book on ocean currents. Graduation was two weeks away, and an early acceptance letter pretty much guaranteed that John could coast through high school's final daze. Still, he was deep in the stacks when he looked up and spotted her taking him in.
She didn't turn away -- he would have -- but she held his gaze, lowered Great Expectations, and smiled a sonic boom smile that blew the color from his face. He felt like he'd been caught stealing. Maybe he had. There was no one behind him, though. She was indeed smiling at him. John's cheeks rushed red and he left the library as fast as he could.
That afternoon he found a note in his locker. She thought John was cute; but, more importantly, she heard he was nice, and she needed nice in her life. "Is it true?" she wrote. "Are you nice? If you are, then call me."
He did. Nervously. With a few starts and stops. When he finally dialed through all seven numbers John held on tight until someone picked up. "Hello?" he asked (with a clear, strong voice a person could lean on), "Is Sarah there?"
That was six weeks ago, and they had been seeing each other almost daily. In the waves of telling that fall fast on young love John learned that Sarah was an Air Force brat who moved to Vegas from Florida three years earlier. Unlike his own, Sarah's parents were still together and relatively happy. He learned that the first time she had sex Sarah had gotten pregnant, with her baby girl arriving stillborn, the father not arriving at all. She had been bold, he thought, in how she approached him, but that was because Sarah's experiences with sex and love and loss made her more certain, more sure of what there was to grab and hold onto in life. She knew it could be dangerously short, so she wasn't going to wait. She would take chances (was he one?), and she would make mistakes (was he?), but she would never stay home and cry about them. Except once a year.
Instead of risks John took dips. Before Sarah, whenever his loneliness reached its limits, he would go searching for the bottom of the pool and let the bubbles carry his prayers to God. He wasn't as bold as she, but there was a sameness between his longing and Sarah's in that more than anything else John too wanted to love and be loved. He wanted a beautiful girl with brown almond eyes that struck like flint whenever she smiled. And he had her. Yet here he was, in the water again.
For all that she was and had come to mean to him in such a short time, Sarah wasn't saved, at least not in the way he had come to understand how salvation was supposed to be. There was no altar call confession for Sarah, no speaking in tongues. She had never been slain in the Spirit. Still, she didn't drink, Sarah didn't smoke, and she was as kind as she expected him to be, maybe more so. He thought of the time they were driving out to Lake Mead, and how hysterical she became when she ran over a snake. Sarah got out of the car to see if there was any chance it was alive and able to be saved. When she realized it wasn't, she and John sat on the shoulder, he with his arms around her as she cried and cried. She knew life was fleeting and precious and worthy of deference -- even reverence. Even a snake's.
As soon as he felt his rump hit the pale blue concrete John pushed the rest of the air out of him as loudly as he could. His voice burst through the bubbles sounding like a wind chime that operated on the same octave as whale song. He screamed until his face matched the blue that surrounded him, and only then did he push himself up towards the surface to pass and catch his breath.
John breached the watery plane with a twist that threw his long, wet hair behind him, and he hungrily swallowed whatever noise might still be hanging in the air back into himself. Then John settled and calmly tread water, his chin resting just below the surface. There was no voice from heaven. No parting clouds or flaming doves. Just a thought of Sarah and the snake. Was Sarah his Eve, or was he meant to pull over and try to save her? He closed his eyes against the desert sun, saw Sarah's face, and felt a weight take shape in his core. He opened his eyes and looked up, then John took a deep breadth, and let the questions push him under again.
"LET GO AND LET GOD!" was slapped on some of the bumpers in the parking lot at his church. It was a line drawn in the sand by people who laid hands on their cars to cast out demons when cash was low and oil and duct tape couldn't keep the engines running. John was old enough to drive, but poor enough to have to walk.
The pool became his prayer closet when something was bothering him, and every time he heeded the call to wade in the water, the boy knew he was continuing a tradition that stretched back to Jesus, who sought out his cousin on the banks of the Jordan so that John could prove himself worthy of the name "Baptist."
This John was falling into the pool because he had fallen in love.
Her name was Sarah. She was tall and athletic, with full lips set beneath a straight, thin nose. Freckles danced across its bridge from one high cheekbone to the other, and her auburn hair waved and crested just past her shoulders and gathered around her slender neck. But what really shook him was her eyes. Sarah had brown, almond-shaped eyes that caught the light and held it close whenever she smiled.
The first time he felt those eyes on him was in the library as he dutifully searched through the stacks for a book on ocean currents. Graduation was two weeks away, and an early acceptance letter pretty much guaranteed that John could coast through high school's final daze. Still, he was deep in the stacks when he looked up and spotted her taking him in.
She didn't turn away -- he would have -- but she held his gaze, lowered Great Expectations, and smiled a sonic boom smile that blew the color from his face. He felt like he'd been caught stealing. Maybe he had. There was no one behind him, though. She was indeed smiling at him. John's cheeks rushed red and he left the library as fast as he could.
That afternoon he found a note in his locker. She thought John was cute; but, more importantly, she heard he was nice, and she needed nice in her life. "Is it true?" she wrote. "Are you nice? If you are, then call me."
He did. Nervously. With a few starts and stops. When he finally dialed through all seven numbers John held on tight until someone picked up. "Hello?" he asked (with a clear, strong voice a person could lean on), "Is Sarah there?"
That was six weeks ago, and they had been seeing each other almost daily. In the waves of telling that fall fast on young love John learned that Sarah was an Air Force brat who moved to Vegas from Florida three years earlier. Unlike his own, Sarah's parents were still together and relatively happy. He learned that the first time she had sex Sarah had gotten pregnant, with her baby girl arriving stillborn, the father not arriving at all. She had been bold, he thought, in how she approached him, but that was because Sarah's experiences with sex and love and loss made her more certain, more sure of what there was to grab and hold onto in life. She knew it could be dangerously short, so she wasn't going to wait. She would take chances (was he one?), and she would make mistakes (was he?), but she would never stay home and cry about them. Except once a year.
Instead of risks John took dips. Before Sarah, whenever his loneliness reached its limits, he would go searching for the bottom of the pool and let the bubbles carry his prayers to God. He wasn't as bold as she, but there was a sameness between his longing and Sarah's in that more than anything else John too wanted to love and be loved. He wanted a beautiful girl with brown almond eyes that struck like flint whenever she smiled. And he had her. Yet here he was, in the water again.
For all that she was and had come to mean to him in such a short time, Sarah wasn't saved, at least not in the way he had come to understand how salvation was supposed to be. There was no altar call confession for Sarah, no speaking in tongues. She had never been slain in the Spirit. Still, she didn't drink, Sarah didn't smoke, and she was as kind as she expected him to be, maybe more so. He thought of the time they were driving out to Lake Mead, and how hysterical she became when she ran over a snake. Sarah got out of the car to see if there was any chance it was alive and able to be saved. When she realized it wasn't, she and John sat on the shoulder, he with his arms around her as she cried and cried. She knew life was fleeting and precious and worthy of deference -- even reverence. Even a snake's.
As soon as he felt his rump hit the pale blue concrete John pushed the rest of the air out of him as loudly as he could. His voice burst through the bubbles sounding like a wind chime that operated on the same octave as whale song. He screamed until his face matched the blue that surrounded him, and only then did he push himself up towards the surface to pass and catch his breath.
John breached the watery plane with a twist that threw his long, wet hair behind him, and he hungrily swallowed whatever noise might still be hanging in the air back into himself. Then John settled and calmly tread water, his chin resting just below the surface. There was no voice from heaven. No parting clouds or flaming doves. Just a thought of Sarah and the snake. Was Sarah his Eve, or was he meant to pull over and try to save her? He closed his eyes against the desert sun, saw Sarah's face, and felt a weight take shape in his core. He opened his eyes and looked up, then John took a deep breadth, and let the questions push him under again.
Header art by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH TOM:
In addition to editing Prodigal's Chair, Tom is a teacher, father, husband, writer, artist, futbol fan and slightly maladjusted optimist. He likes birds, and lives in Beverly, Massachusetts with his wife and their two newly adopted cocker spaniels. You can connect with him on Twitter @t_guzzio, or via email at [email protected].
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