Short Story:

                                                 
                                                                                          by
                                                           Marci Stillerman

It was a Sunday morning in 1950, hot and bright as it usually is in Chicago in July.  I was five, a red haired girl with pink-rimmed glasses, freckles and baby fat.  I loved the funnies.  Orphan Annie, who looked something like me, had a daddy something like mine–––tall and handsome and rich.  But Daddy Warbucks was crazy about Annie, took her places, gave her presents and paid a lot of attention to her. 

My father paid attention to me only when I did something wrong––talked too loud, asked questions, or whined.

I wanted him to love me just the way I was, but I thought that wouldn’t happen as long as I was me.

            “You and I are going swimming, Michelle,” Father said that Sunday morning.  “Here’s your bathing suit.  It was made in France.”

             Father was born in France and favored things French.  He had given me my French name.  My Mother who was from Germany had named my brother Albert.  Father held between thumb and forefinger a small red woolly garment without arms and legs that looked big enough to fit my doll. A French bathing suit.

            I was scared.  I’d never gone anywhere with Father and couldn’t remember ever being alone with him.  What to expect.  Would we talk to each other?  Would he hold my hand crossing the street?  What if I had to go to the bathroom?  Would I do something to make him angry?  I knew nothing of how a girl should act alone with her father. I wished I didn’t have to go. But Father said we were going swimming and there was nothing to do about it.

“Isn’t Mother going?”

            “No.  She’s busy.  Just you and I.”

            Perhaps if my brother, Albert, had not had a cold, he would have been going with us.  And Mother, too, but she had to stay home to take care of Albert.  So we, Father and I, were going alone.

“Swimming?” I asked, although I’d heard him perfectly well.

            “Yes.  In the park pool.  Get ready.”  He was getting impatient.  I was asking foolish questions, something he didn’t like.

            “But I don’t know how to swim.”

            “I’ll show you.  Go on, now.  Quickly.”

            Mother helped me pull the scratchy and surprisingly stretchy little suit over my naked body and cover it with a dress.  I wore sandals on bare feet and a sun-hat jammed onto my snarly hair.

            “Be a good girl,” she told me. 

            What must I do to be good, I wanted to ask her.

            Father waited for me in the dark-green Cadillac, a pile of towels beside him on the front seat.  I sat next to the window, on the other side of the towels. I hoped I wouldn’t get carsick.  What if I threw up in front of Father, on the fluffy snow-white towels?           

            On the ride to the pool, Father said, “Puppies can swim as soon as they’re born.  All newborn animals can swim.  Babies could too if put in the water as soon as they came out.”

            I was astonished to hear this.  The newborn puppies I’d seen didn’t even open their eyes.  And little babies!  They couldn’t even sit up by themselves.  But if Father said so, it must be true.

            “Can I swim?” I asked.

            “Probably not.  It’s too late for you.  You will have forgotten.  But we’ll see.”

            I left it at that. 

            There were a few swimmers at the pool when we arrived.  The lifeguard sat on his high stool reading a book.

            “Go in the Ladies’ and get ready,” Father said. “Wait at the door for me.”  

At one side of the pool were two wooden buildings each with a door but no windows.  I entered the one Father indicated.  It was a long room lit by a few bulbs hanging from the ceiling.  There was a row of showers and a few toilet stalls with no doors.  It was empty and smelled sour.  I pulled my dress over my head and kicked off my sandals.  The hooks on the wall were too high for me to reach so I balled my dress up with the shoes and my hat inside and went out into the July sunshine to wait for Father to come out of the Men’s.  I felt itchy and naked in the tight suit.  I hugged my clothes to my chest.

            “What’s this stuff?”  Father took the bundle out of my hands.  “You should have left it inside.”  He stuffed it into a net bag with the towels. 

            I forced myself not to stare at Father.  Over his black bathing suit, he wore a blue robe, untied.  I’d never seen my father so undressed.  At home, he wore trousers and a sweater or a short-sleeved shirt, the same clothes he wore when we went on Sunday picnics or visiting or for rides in the car. 

I thought he looked younger, like fathers in picture books.  His usually combed black hair was rumpled, dark hair sprouted over the top of his bathing suit, and his arms and legs were covered with dark curls.

            He took my hand and we walked to the pool.  The water was so clear you could see ‘way, way down to the bottom.  It glinted in the sun.  At one end, the water was deep with a ladder against the side, for people to climb down into the pool.  At the other end were broad stone steps where you could walk into shallow water.  Father led me to the deep end where the water surely was over his head.  He placed his bag on the side of the pool and lifted me in his arms.  I could not remember ever being in his arms and I felt a thrill of pleasure.  I put my arms around his neck and the bristly hair of his chest tickled my skin.  He walked to the edge of the pool, to the ladder.  He was going to climb down the ladder and swim with me in his arms.  I was excited and terrified.

            With his hands on my waist, he turned me to face the water.

            “Swim,” he said, and tossed me into the pool.

            The shock of the cold water took my breath away.  I was under water and it was dark green and stung my eyes and when I tried to scream, my mouth filled with water.  I thrashed about with my arms and legs and for a moment, came into the air.  I gulped air but the water in my nose and throat made me choke and cough and I was under again.  I stopped struggling and felt myself sinking to the bottom.  Suddenly, I was grabbed and brought to the surface.  As soon as I could open my eyes, I saw it was Father, carrying me under one of his arms like a fat pillow.  I sputtered, coughed, and vomited water.  Father brought me up the ladder and put me on my feet on the side of the pool.  He patted my back until I could stop coughing, rubbed my face with one of the towels and put it around my shoulders.

“Well, now we know you forgot how to swim.”  He was laughing, so I knew he wasn’t mad.  I couldn’t stop shivering under the towel.

            “I was so scared,” I whined.  I wanted to cry but I knew Father wouldn’t like it, so I swallowed hard and took deep breaths, grateful not to be gulping water.  My hair dripped into my face but I didn’t want to take my arms out of the towel to wipe it.

 

            “Don’t be silly,” he said.  “Never be scared of water.  We were all fish before we became people.  Water was mankind’s first home.”

            This surprised me.  I thought it was the Garden of Eden.

            He got to his knees on the rim of the pool.  “Now watch,” he said.  “Here is how you swim.”  He moved his arms in wide, long pulls, first one, then the other, turning his head from side to side.  “You stroke your arms, and with each stroke, you bring your head out of the water and take a breath.  With your feet, you kick, like this.”  He chopped his hands up and down.  “See how easy?”

            “Do I have to go in the water again?” I asked.

            “Of-course you do, but this time will be different.  I’ll hold you and you move your arms and legs like I showed you.  When you catch on, I’ll let you go and you’ll be swimming.”

            He took the towel from my shoulders, dropped it on the cement, picked me up in his arms and climbed with me down the ladder into the water.  He must have felt my heart beat against the hand he put under me.  With the other hand, he held the straps of my suit.  My stomach felt crampy.  I was terrified of the water.  It wanted to drink me.

            “Now do what I told you,” he said.  “Put your head in the water, stroke with your arms, kick with your legs, and turn your head to breathe.”

            I lay on the surface of the pool, supported by his hand.  I didn’t trust him not to remove it and drop me into the water.  I stroked and kicked and moved my head, but in no way did I feel I was swimming.

            “Good,” Father said.  “If you do it right, the water will hold you up.”

             I didn’t think so. 

            “Don’t let go,” I sputtered.  “I’m not ready.”

            “I’ll know when you’re ready,” he said.  We crossed the width of the pool to the other side and started back.  My arms and legs were so tired they ached.  My neck was sore from the turning.  I stopped moving to rest, floating along on Father’s hand. “Get going,” he said.

            And suddenly, my support was gone.  I thrashed wildly.  Hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep afloat.  The water did not hold me up as Father promised but sucked me down its cold dark throat.  Down I went, too exhausted to fight my way up.  This time, Father didn’t rescue me by putting me under his arm.  He grabbed the straps of my swimsuit, yanked me up and deposited me on the rim of the pool.  I dropped to my knees, coughing and retching to get rid of the water I’d swallowed.  He threw a towel to me and I buried my face in it. 

            I’d disappointed him.  I felt hot tears behind my eyes.

            “I’m going for a swim,” Father said.  “Watch how I move.”

            There were several people in the pool now.  I sat on the rim at the deep end, my feet dangling in the cold water. Men and women dived in, swam the length, returned and did it again, or came out and sprawled on the grass alongside the pool.  In the shallow end, children played, their mothers sitting on benches nearby watching and calling out warnings.  I wanted to be one of those children, safe in the shallow water.  I tightened the towel around my shoulders.  I pulled my feet out of the water and sat on them, warming them under my bottom. 

            I located Father and watched him swim fast and smooth from end to end of the pool, hardly bringing his head out of the water to breathe.  I finally stopped shivering, warmed by the sun.  I wanted to go home.  The glitter of the sun on the water made my eyes ache, the laughter and splashing of the swimmers confused me and I felt terribly tired and sad.  I knew Father was disgusted with me, a girl who couldn’t swim even after he taught her.

            When he finished, Father pulled himself out of the pool without even climbing on the ladder.  He stood dripping above me, drying his hair with one of our towels.

            “You’ll learn,” he said.  He tied the towel around his waist, picked up the towel bag and pulled me to my feet.  I didn’t know why he thought I’d learn.  Puppies and babies knew how to swim without even being taught.  I’d fallen to the bottom of the pool like a stone even after Father had shown me how to swim.  I was ashamed to look at him.

            He took my rolled-up dress and shoes out of his bag and handed them to me.              “Go in and get dressed,” he said, leaving me at the Ladies’.  “Wait outside the door for me.”

             Inside, a few naked ladies stood under the showers.  I didn’t look at them.  I draped my towel over my shoulders and tried to peel off my suit.  I had it down to my hips when I noticed my belly and chest were bright red.  The towel with which I modestly tried to hide my nakedness was also stained red.  I was having a hard time holding onto the towel and trying to get my legs out of the tight suit when the lady who was mopping the floor came to my side.  Putting her mop on top of her bucket, she stooped down beside me.

            “Here,” she said, “I’ll help you.  Look how your suit has faded all over you.”  She got my suit off, wrung red drops out of it, and took the towel out of my hands.

            “Where’s your mama?” she asked, patting my body dry with the damp towel.

“I’m here with my father,” I said.  “He’s in the Men’s.”

            “Let’s get you dressed.  Look how wrinkled your dress is.”

             She slipped it over my head and tried to pat it smooth.  I slid my feet into my sandals. 

            “Did you lose your panties?” the woman asked.  I nodded, ashamed to admit I’d come without any. 

            “So you’ll have to go bare-bottomed,” she said.  She took a comb out of her pocket and tried to pull it through my snarls.  “Oh, well, your hair will dry in the air.  Your mama must have a time combing it.” She was right about that.  She handed me my hat.   “Hold it till your hair dries,” she said.  “All right, now.  Go and find Papa.”

             She wrapped my bleeding suit in the stained towel and piled the bundle onto my red-stained arms.

            There were a lot of people outside the dressing rooms.  I didn’t see Father.  He’s gone home and left me, I thought.  He’s so ashamed of me.  He’ll tell Mother he lost me.  I knew I could never find my way home.  I would be found someday like the Raggedy Ann I saw in a neighbor’s garbage can, filthy and torn.  My face itched with tears and the water leaking from my wet hair, but I needed both hands to hold my things.

“There you are!”

 It was Father, looking fresh and young, dressed in clean white

trousers and smooth shirt, his wet hair combed sleek. “What’s happened to you?” 

I felt his disgust at my wrinkled dress and red hands.  He took the stained towel from me and the bathing suit fell to the ground. 

“So much for French bathing suits,” he said.  “They don’t know enough to make them color fast.”

            “You should see my belly,” I said, and suddenly, my grief and embarrassment were forgotten when I heard my father laugh.

 

                           END

Marci Stillerman has been writing professionally since 1990.  Her award-winning book NINE SPOONS is in its 7th printing and has international distribution. SWIMMING LESSONS, a short story collection, was published in 2006. SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAPPENED ON KENMORE will be available at bookstores and on Amazon in fall of 2009.