"That's it, Brad, that's it," Jeremy said encouragingly, squinting and turning his face against the water from the furious kicks of the six-year-old in front of him. He kept his open palm below Brad's tiny ribcage, half-supporting the boy.
He raised his eyes to the boy's mother, who sat on the edge of a plastic-ribbed poolside chair, flipping through a magazine. The puddles on the concrete rim of the community pool were reflected in her large sunglasses.
"It's Bradley," sputtered the child, bringing his attention back to his job.
"What? Oh," he said quietly. "Sorry. Bradley."
Jeremy had been working at the Cameron Street Y for eleven years. He began as a sweaty, indifferent sixteen year old working the food court, and took the appropriate tests to maneuver up to the wooden lifeguard's throne when he was eighteen. Now, at twenty-seven, he was painfully aware that he was probably the oldest lifeguard in history, but he tried not to think about it.
And those were just the summers. During the rest of the year he worked at odd jobs throughout the town. Since he finished high school he'd worked as a taxi driver, mailroom worker, warehouse lifter, and sandwichmaker down at the Safeway. Most recently he'd worked as a crewman for a film crew that decided his neighborhood was The Location to shoot the newest Woody Allen film. Although he didn't care much for the film stars themselves (and he never met Mr. Allen), he'd gotten along with the steady crew; and was sorry to see them go in the first weeks of spring. Had Jeremy not been Jeremy, he would've made connections and possibly made a career of it. But because he was Jeremy, he didn't.
Bradley was beginning to flounder above his hand, reaching out for the wall in front of him, not quite able to reach.
"Okay, okay," Jeremy murmured, easing his hand away and lifting Bradley's hands up to grasp the rim of the pool. Bradley calmed down, panting, and shoved up his goggles. He was too small to see over the wall, but he still called out to his mother, jubilation in his tiny voice.
"I kicked! I kicked for a long time!"
"That's great, Bradley," she called back in his direction, meaning it. She flipped another page.
Her name was Janet. He knew this by the checks she wrote to the poolhouse. She wasn't young, but she wasn't ugly. She was divorced, he thought; or anyway, she didn't wear a ring, the way the other mothers wore their big honker diamonds, making him squint in the sunlight they reflected.
When I get married, he decided, I'm going to wear my ring all the time. Even in the pool.
Jeremy looked over at the large clock stationed opposite the lifeguard tower: the lesson was over. Finally.
"Okay, Bradley, good job," he said, lifting the boy by his armpits and hoisting him out of the pool. His mother had finished her magazine and was approaching, holding a limp towel in her hand, ready to envelop him.
"See you next Tuesday?" he asked, swiping his bangs from his eyes.
"Sure thing," she said, smiling and bending down to slide on Bradley's flip-flops for him.
She thanked Jeremy, who waved goodbye from his spot in the shallow end. He watched them as they walked to the stairs leading back to the parking lot, passing the all-white plaster bust of Ronnie Starkman, the man who was responsible for the pool's existence. Mr. Starkman, a wealthy town member, had commissioned the pool in the early 1970s "for all the neighborhood children to enjoy," although it was discovered later that he really meant "all the neighborhood boys." He died in prison in 1992, and Jeremy had helped Ronnie Junior lift the bust onto its cement pedastal at the entryway to the pool five years ago when they were pretty sure everyone in the neighborhood had moved out or forgotten about Mr. Starkman. Jeremy never had the heart to tell him the statue looked nothing like his old man.
"Look, Mommy, he's smiling," remarked Bradley about the bust as they passed. He said that every week.
***
Jeremy stayed in the pool for another forty minutes, floating on his back for most of it, feeling the cool water coat his back and the sun warm his chest, his belly. The pool wouldn't be crowded until after school let out; thankfully, his shift ended before then.
He turned on his side and lazily began swimming laps, back and forth from the shallow end to the deep, half-wishing he'd forget how to swim halfway through so he wouldn't have to make the effort to make it to the other end.
The correlation between his wish and his life was not lost on him as he resignedly made his long, slow strokes. After all, he knew what his trouble was - that was not the problem. He knew he was bright. He knew he had potential. People told him so all the time. The trouble was that he could never tell himself that, too. Or let himself believe it, if he got that far. For every voice in his head that told him yes, it seemed there were two that rose up to say no.
A loud thud interrupted his thoughts and he stopped mid-stroke, listening for thunder. He did not hear the noise again, noting that the skies hadn't changed from its previous blue. Treading water, he turned to face the entryway, and found that the plaster bust was gone.
Confused, Jeremy did nothing. He lowered his head again to float, feeling his ears dip below the waterline. He hadn't heard - or seen - anyone come up to the pool since Bradley's lesson. Who would've taken it? Even more, who would want it? Thing was ugly as sin and probably wouldn't be much fun to destroy, if that was the intention. It would probably have trouble burning, anyway. He sighed, dreading the phone call he knew he'd have to make to a frantic - and furious - Ronnie Junior, who would demand that Jeremy, the employee with the longest tenure, go out and find it. He would demand that upon Jeremy's return he would have to finally go in and install those security cameras, goddammit, because those things cost a lot of money and money doesn't grow on trees or get caught in pool drains.
For Jeremy, the worst part of all was knowing that he'd probably do it. He imagined himself getting in his car, trunks still dripping, turning on his engine, and searching the town. He closed his eyes and as he floated, thought about the wind from his open window flapping his long bangs over his eyelids. He imagined the sting.
Dumb bastard, he thought. But not about Ronnie Junior.
Fifteen minutes later he neared the shallow end. He gave a sigh and felt with his feet for the smooth concrete bottom, and stood up, dipping his head under one last time to smooth back his hair. He turned toward the stairs and was surprised to see that the bust was still there, just knocked down onto the patch of grass below it; and for a moment, for some reason, he was made aware of how alone he was.
He waded to the edge of the pool and looked around, seeing no one, feeling nothing but the early afternoon heat and the eye of the pool's clock staring down at him. After a moment he lifted himself up out of the water, walked over to the lifeguard's tower and pulled his towel down from the wooden arm. Rubbing it over his head he slid on his own sandals, squeaked his way over to the stairs, and uprighted the plaster craft.
He threw the towel aside as he stared at Mr. Starkman's likeness for over five minutes, sweeping his eyes over its face, noting the discoloration already occuring at the corners of its mouth. He lifted it again, feeling its heaviness; but this time he kept it close to him, in his arms. He began the walk to his car out in the lot. He walked down the stairs slowly, keeping his head cocked to the side to see properly. When he got to his car he took a deep breath after loading the trunk with the statue; and placing both hands on the trunk, gave it a good, hard slam shut.
After a brief debate with himself, he got in the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled away, intending to hit the state line by three o'clock. He wouldn't call Ronnie Junior, he decided. There was no point in making a man angry so early in the day.
