Slide - Kyle Beachy [67]
Five of these elderly died of heat-related causes during the second week of July, only two short of the record. I myself stuffed cargo pockets full of twelve-ounce bottles each morning before leaving the warehouse, though a part of me secretly adored the possible irony of falling down in pathetic drama, succumbing to dehydration while working for a water company.
My other employment brought a sweat that simmered only within. Cool basement sealed away from outside world, cool color of walls and furniture, cool air pumping through vents. What was it about the Midwest and our furnished basements? The heat of the angel surrounded on all sides by the cool of subterranean academic pursuance.
“Begin,” the official timekeeper said.
I would not have claimed to be a good tutor. My illusion of authority was thin and translucent, and it was therefore semimirac-ulous to watch Zoe listen attentively and take occasional notes. I marveled at the innocence of it all, the purity of intention. The mother happily opening the basement door. Zoe with hair and eyes and bare arms, shoulders. Neck.
I stood up and began walking circles through the basement. I swung my arms and hopped. Outside, movement was limited to the slow and gentle. You operated within the rules of the atmosphere and did whatever you could to minimize your confrontation with the air around you. To move with any quickness was to risk angering the tyrant.
“Twelve minutes.”
Down here I was free to dart and cut. In the free space by the stairs I went through a series of basic calisthenics, ending with thirty jumping jacks. Zoe, consummate student, was not distracted. I dropped and did push-ups, then hustled back to my chair.
“All done,” she said, lifting herself from the floor to the couch.
“If you finish early you're supposed to go back and review your answers.”
“Reviewed. Think I aced this one.”
All of the sun tea in the world, all of the lemonade.
Rarely were all three of us in the same room. There was a new presence in the house, floating shapelessly this looming conversation that was sure to come soon: the technicalities of our family's situation. More than once Carla had approached me, but I had sensed an explanation coming, perhaps seen something in her posture that warned me of her intention, and I had changed rooms, stepped outside, or driven away completely. They continued to share their bed in the first floor's master bedroom, which seemed impossible until I realized that, between them, there was nothing new here. This secret of theirs, fresh to me, may in fact have been old, stale, a gradual and slow decay of which they'd known and adapted to.
Late one night I drafted a message to Audrey, taking my parents and their split as a perfect excuse. But reading over it I realized it was all wrong, too much us, so I clicked delete and confirmed, yes I really mean it, computer.
And when my mother brought home a new water-filter pitcher, her timing struck me as drastically wrong. What could she have meant by introducing a new kitchen appliance at a time like this? She walked through the door carrying a single plastic grocery bag. Inside were two boxes, the pitcher and a six-pack of replacement filters. I sat at the counter and watched her open the box and read through the instruction packet. She submerged the filter in cold water and left it to soak as she went about her household business, while the replacement filters sat on the counter like some cruel reminder of time's passing. Three months each, a full year and a half embodied by that box. Who could say where Carla would be by then? Or Richard? Not to mention, not to mention.
I was eating breakfast when my father first encountered the pitcher. Carla was in the garden. He removed the full pitcher and held it like some mysterious alien technology, then set it on