I’m in a lawn chair on the bank of our pond, snapping pictures of Nicholas. He’s maybe fifty feet out, in his plaid earflap hat and Ghostbuster coveralls, trying to put a bobber on his fishing line. If Freud were sitting next to me, he’d probably deduce that stressors (i.e., me) have caused Nicholas to backslide into childhood to re-create his brightest moment in the sun. He’s going to catch that bluegill again and hold it up proudly for the camera. Everyone will clap.
I call his phone.
He looks over at me in my chair, like, You are ruining this. We could be ten thousand miles apart and I’d still know what he’s doing with his face. Telepathic waves beam at me, rippling the water like a helicopter’s taking off. He’s thinking loud and clear: Go away. I’m becoming Who I’m Meant To Be. It’s a touch prissy and so familiar that I think I’m starting to love it on him.
This guy. Seriously.
I call him again. This time he answers. “What?” he snaps.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
It looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But I can’t say that or he’ll hang up. I need to monitor this situation as closely as he’ll let me, for the sake of psychology. Science. America’s Funniest Home Videos, possibly. He’s still struggling to get his line baited because he doesn’t want to remove his gloves.
“Aren’t fish hibernating at this time of year?”
He pauses. “That’s not … fish don’t hibernate.”
“I think I’ve heard they do.”
“Shh. You’re making me talk and I’m going to scare all the fish away.”
“Did Leon say there’s fish in this pond?”
His silence tells me he has no idea, but Nicholas is a prideful man. He’ll stay out here until spring and catch a frog. Emaciated down to fifteen pounds, he’ll thrust the frog in my face. See!? “Shh. I’m trying to catch dinner.”
“I’m not eating fish from this pond. I don’t know if the water’s polluted.”
“First of all, I didn’t offer to share. Secondly, please stop talking. For multiple reasons.” He hangs up and doesn’t answer my next call. The call after that goes straight to voicemail. This is highly irresponsible of him. I could be having an emergency right now and he’s made himself unavailable, which is the first thing I’m going to say to the nurses after rousing from my coma.
Nicholas tries to cast his line, but he doesn’t press the release button at the right moment and the bait never leaves his own canoe. Sneaking a look over his shoulder at me to see if I witnessed that, he stands up and tries again. The poor lamb’s unsteady on his feet and knows he has an audience, which undoubtedly makes this worse. I would hate to have Nicholas watch me try to fish.
It’s like whenever I come upon him while he’s doing push-ups and his body instantly quits on him. The simple fact of me standing there and observing transforms it into a public performance and his legs and arms turn to jelly. I bet video montages of his contributions to grade school plays will play on an endless loop when he gets to hell.
Nicholas eventually casts his line about five feet from his canoe and sits down, shoulders hunched. I know the precise moment he remembers his father’s terrible posture, because he snaps straight again. He’s got plaid flannel on beneath the coveralls and has been trying to coax his stubble into a real beard, but no matter how much he tries to be a burly lumberjack he still looks like he belongs in a boy band. The wind slowly revolves his canoe in a circle until he’s facing me against his will, and he has to recast.
He’s dying to look up at me. I’m a specter in his fringe. I’m to blame for the fact that he doesn’t know how to fish. It’s probably dawned on him that the little boy who caught a bluegill had somebody there to bait his hook and do all the arm work. Grown-up Nicholas is a prima donna. He uses rubber worms instead of real ones.
To avoid eye contact, he sets his pole down and starts to paddle his boat back around. His bobber tugs and he drops the oar by instinct to reel in his line. As the abandoned oar starts to tip over the edge of the canoe, he clumsily reaches for the pole and the oar and loses both. Both. Only Nicholas.
Oh. My. God.
(Yes? responds Nicholas, even in my imagination.)
I can imagine this cheapskate in the store prepping for self-actualization with outdoorsy equipment, debating whether to spring for a second oar. He’s already dropping so much money on the state-of-the-art fishing pole, I know exactly how he rationalizes buying just the one oar. I’ll stroke on one side of the boat, then the other. Easy.
Nicholas stands in the empty canoe, wind slowly spinning him, utterly decimated by this turn of events.
I stand, too, cupping my hands around my mouth. “How’s it going?”
Nicholas takes off his cap and throws it down in a tantrum, raking his fingers through his hair. The oar is floating toward me. I can’t help it. My laugh becomes the loudest sound in the universe. It echoes through the forest, sending up shocks of blackbirds. It thumps through Nicholas’s veins, making him want to explode.
If it weren’t for my laughing at him, Nicholas likely would have sat down and formulated a plan that didn’t involve him getting wet. But I can push his buttons so well, coherent thinking falls to the wayside and his behavior takes a sensationally un-Nicholas turn.
He picks his hat back up and tugs it firmly down over his head, then dives into the freezing water. I laugh harder, giving myself rib pains, hiccupping. “What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim between vicious bursts. He got himself stranded. Actually stranded. And now he has to swim back to shore. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. My body wants to give up, it’s so weak from laughing, and I lean on my chair for support.
As Nicholas nears, my vision sharpens and I make out the ferocity in his eyes. His boots and clothes must feel like anchors, but he’s swimming toward me with aggressive swiftness.
Oh, shit.
I’m backpedaling. “I would’ve helped you!” I call. “You should have stayed put.”
It’s true, I would’ve found a way to help him. After letting him sit there for an hour and posting a video of it online.
Nicholas’s teeth are chattering when he emerges from the pond, sopping wet. He lumbers straight toward me. “Agh!” I squeal, ducking and crossing my arms like a shield in front of my face. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder and my first thought is holy wow. He’s stronger than he looks. Maybe it’s adrenaline strength.
He turns on his heel and heads back to the pond. When I realize what he’s about to do, I clutch tightly to him for dear life while simultaneously kicking and thrashing. “No! Don’t you dare! Nicholas, I mean it!”
He swings me around to tuck me under his arm, planting his boots two feet apart on the bank. I’m flailing like a snake but he doesn’t lose his grip, tipping me over until my face hovers an inch over the water. Our reflected stares meet. My eyes are terrified, and his burn.
“Nicholas Benjamin Rose, I swear to god I will call the police if you don’t put me down right now.”
“Right now?” he teases, sliding me forward a centimeter. He’s going to drown me.