Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [31]
A red-haired girl had brought along a small bottle of oil. She said the oil was made from little fishes the Cree Indians called ooligan.
‘It was a medicine and valuable. My dad says the name Oregon originally came from that word. So that’s how our State got its name.’
‘That’s very interesting, Sandra. Of course there are many different stories about the naming of the State. Travellers told strange stories about us. On old maps Oregon is sometimes called Terra Incognita – unknown land . . .’
The Show and Tell continued. When it came to his turn, Joey had a photograph for the class to see: ‘This is a snapshot of my dad when he was in the navy. He can navigate by the stars. Before he was in the navy he won prizes for swimming.’
The teacher’s attention sharpened. ‘He was a swimmer? Joey, would your father be Benjamin Pinkerton?’ A nod from the boy. ‘But he was a champion! A hero!’ She addressed the class: ‘Ben Pinkerton won the fifty-yard freestyle in the AAU championship his first year as a contender. He won races in Europe; we thought he’d be going for the Olympics!’ She looked down at Joey. ‘What happened?’ She realised the question might sound accusatory. ‘I mean what happened to change his mind about a career as a swimmer, Joey?’
The boy shrugged. ‘He’s never talked about it, I guess.’
‘Well. Tell him he has a fan at your school. Next parents’ evening I’ll be proud to shake his hand. Okay, who do we have next?’
‘She wants to shake your hand. She said you were a champion.’
‘That’s all in the past.’
Joey watched his father carve the pot-roast. His movements were careful; he was a man who never hurried. The man in the snapshot had bright hair, his shoulders were broader than his hips and his smile revealed teeth as brilliant as his white uniform. Joey remembered seeing him wear that uniform a long time ago, the white sharp in the shadows of his mind.
His father had grown more bulky than he was in the picture, and his hair had darkened into a sort of mustard, a dull colour. His eyes too were dulled. Like the teacher, he wanted to say: Dad, what happened? Because he knew what she was really asking: how come Benjamin Pinkerton stopped being a champ? But Nancy noticed Joey staring at his father and reminded him sharply that he should wash his hands.
The snapshot lay nearby on a side table and glancing over, she recalled the day it was taken. There was another photograph from the same day, of the two of them: Ben in his uniform, and Nancy in a mint-green dress with a heart-shaped neckline and a swirly skirt, laughing up at her fiancé. He was about to embark on another voyage and she was enjoying a secret joke: how amazed he would be when her liner docked in Nagasaki. On the shiny paper of the snapshot, the two of them, laughing, bathed in sunlight, looked young, carefree. And then came the sea journey, and all that followed. It was, she realised, the last time she had been completely happy.
Hands washed, Joey was back at the table.
‘Dad . . .’
Pinkerton knew what was coming and forestalled the questions.
‘I was good. Very good. Winning races came easy. There was a guy I met called Weissmuller at one of the events, he won everything he went in for, swimmer of the year, a world champ. He’s famous now; went to Hollywood. I hear he’s making a movie, but I knew him way back, and he told me how day after day he worked till he dropped; he had to swim for hours, the coach was God and took no arguments. I reckoned life was too short for all that. And if I wasn’t going to swim through the water, I’d sail over it!’
Pinkerton knew he was talking too much, saying more than necessary, and also less, with no mention of parents who had regarded swimming as fine for a hobby, but no way for a grown man to earn a living. A bank job had been suggested. Ben’s choosing the navy had been their first real disagreement. He pulled back now from awkward places in the past, wrong turnings or turnings not taken. Moreover he had found that life was not too short,