The Water-Method Man - Page 109

'Merrill's dead, Big,' I said - I don't know why. And you came over and hugged me from behind, squeezing me so hard that I couldn't turn around and squeeze you back. In fact, when I wriggled free enough to reach you, you pushed me off.

'I wanted to hold you for Merrill, Bogus,' you said. 'Don't you try to hold me, please.'

So I let you h

old me your way. If you wanted to think you were hugging Merrill, I wasn't going to stop you. I said, 'What about Colm, Big?'

'Couth loves him,' you said. 'And he loves Couth.'

'Everybody loves Couth,' I said, and ploink! ploink! ploink!

'Couth is very fond of you, Bogus,' you said. 'And you can see Colm whenever you want to. Of course you're welcome to come here ...'

'Thank you, Big.'

Then you ploinked a snail of your own off the dock. 'Bogus?' you asked. 'What are you going to do?'

And I thought, Ploink! Then I spoke a handful: Ploink! Ploink! Ploink! Ploink-ploink-ploink! I watched you turn away from me and looked up at the two figures silhouetted at the picture window in the pool room; they stood side by side, pool cues on their shoulders like rifles during a parade. But they weren't marching; they were looking down at the dock, and neither of them moved until you started up the path to the house. Then the taller, thinner figure left the window, dissolving into the house to meet you; the shorter figure flexed his cue stick like a fencing foil, and then he too turned away.

Ploink! was what I thought as I heard the screen door slam.

From deep inland, beyond the salt-marsh where Couth and I once swamped a boat in the salt-stunted pines, a loon said what was on his mind.

*

Dante took three straight games from Biggie before he began to miss shots on purpose just so he could see her arch her body over the table with all her bends and boulder-shapes hard under her soft, slinky robe. She held her lower lip in her teeth when she stroked the ball.

Down on the dock, her two lovers, he guessed, sat close together, their legs hanging off the end, striking a bargain with a handful of snails.

Jesus, Dante thought. Who's who here, is what I'd like to know.

You have always been kind, Couth, and that suits the way you look. As fair as I am dark, you're white with freckles, whereas I am linseed oil rubbed into coarsegrained wood. Your height conceals the fact that your hips are broader than your shoulders, but you don't look broad; those long, skinny legs and your pianist's fingers and your noble, unbroken nose make you look slender. You're the only strawberry blond I've ever liked. I know that you grew your beard to hide your freckles, but I never told anyone.

We're as different in the body as a seal and a giraffe. You must be a whole head taller than me, Couth, and I can't help remembering what Biggie used to think of people bigger than herself. Come to think of it, though, she must outweigh you.

I mean, your chest could fit in her cleavage, Couth.

Biggie used to like the idea that she couldn't get her arms all the way around my chest and keep her hands locked if I chose to fill my lungs. Well, she could collapse your lungs. And when she wraps her legs around your waist, beware of your back! In fact, it's a wonder she hasn't killed you. Yet clearly you've survived.

But all I said was, 'You look well, Couth.'

'Thank you, Bogus.'

I said, 'Well, you know, she wants to stay with you.'

'I know.'

I threw a snail as far as I could, and you threw one too. Yours went nowhere near as far as mine, though - not with that funny, twitchy way you have of throwing. You've got a lousy arm, Couth, and for all the time you've spent on boats, you row like a bird with a broken wing. And fancy you teaching Colm how to swim.

But all I said was, 'You'll have to watch Colm around the water this summer. He's approaching a dangerous age.'

'Don't worry about Colm, Bogus,' you said. 'He'll be fine, and I hope you'll come and see him, whenever you want to. And us, too - come see us, you know.'

'I know. Biggie told me.'

Ploink!

But you threw your snail so badly that it didn't even reach the water; it went fip! in the mudflats.

Tags: John Irving Fiction
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