Discretion (4 page)

She smiles and giggles; her eyes roll away from me, and she toys with her hair. “We can hang out tomorrow, if you like.” She pauses a moment. “Want to go shooting? We could go with my dad.”

She’s the perfect woman…for someone else. “Ah, yeah. The last time I fired a gun…it didn’t go so well. I better not. For the safety of the human race. But we could do yoga together, right?”

She laughs a little and I feel ashamed I brought it up. “It’s a women’s class. But we could go running…in the morning? I like to run before it gets hot or take out my bike, so it doesn’t kill me. Are you game for that?”

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound confident when I know this woman is going to kick my ass running up a mountain. “When and where?”

She names the mountain, about a quarter mile from my home as the crow flies, at first light, which is a little after five. “You don’t mind getting up early?”

I shake my head. “It’s a date.”

She smiles. “Yeah, uh. Just so you know…I’m…real competitive.”

I’ve hiked that mountain a couple times with Chelsie, who was obsessed with fitness until she got sick. She was precocious and an overachiever and beat me every time. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll let you win.”

She laughs and a car horn beeps behind us; her mother’s voice breaks the good vibe. “Gotta run. See ya tomorrow.” And she gives me a peck on the cheek, and then runs off to the waiting car. I watch her leave and wave as they drive away.

My father, who I’ve not seen since before the game, walks over to me from the parking lot to give a brief smile and a few words of little consequence. We get into the car and head for home. I think about Christel and the questions that feel as endless as the stars.

For once, I can think about Natalie, and it’s not a daydream.

N
atalie beats me on the mountain every morning all summer long. She talks me into going shooting for a date, which proves a terrible idea. Her father Marc and I learn a few valuable lessons. Christel saves me from tragedy, helping me trust her. She is my best…mysterious, unseen…spirit?

I lie awake at night and ask questions, but I can’t help feeling as if I’m just talking to myself. She doesn’t answer, and it’s awkward, like masturbating and the need to hide the evidence—which is becoming more frequent with images of Natalie running, donned in fitted athletic wear, tantalizing my mind during late-night hours. We decide after a passionate kiss, at the conclusion of the third morning run, that we should restrain ourselves from being physically affectionate, for her sake and my own. Christel reveals Natalie’s thoughts to me and it seems Natalie is having as hard a time holding back as I am. Like Jamal, I learn that Natalie takes faith seriously; I take her formidable father seriously, who I’d love to call Dad.

Christel suggests we go to a Diamondbacks game, and that turns into another favorite dating place.

All through the summer, Christel is helpful—a guide. She reveals what I need to know. She allows me freedom from academics, to do what I like instead, as I hardly study, yet I’m well-prepared for the new school year.

I spend hours, days it seems, online searching for information that will help me understand Christel. Many spiritual blogs exist, but provide little believable information. Some books discuss communication with angels, demons, and the like, but don’t touch on what I experience every day. A few blogs about communication with the dead are downright frightening.

Not knowing how or why Christel visits me is very strange, yet exciting. She is intimate in a deep nature words fail to describe. She understands me completely, with all my thoughts, failures, jealousy, yet she accepts me as I am. She passes no judgment. She knows me, my thoughts and feelings at a level I would never share with any person and she provides comfort when I need it most. She is like a roaring fire on a freezing night.

With Christel, there are no rules.

For Labor Day weekend, my father suggests we take the boat out, to give Natalie and me some time on our own—sort of. He’s leaving Brooke home, who promptly decides she’s leaving for Malibu to visit family.

“Colin, we’re running late,” my father says, as if we have some important meeting to attend. His tone says more than the words coming from his sunscreen moistened lips. The shine gives him a rather metrosexual look. Or perhaps it’s his pink and blue floral print Tommy Bahama trunks. He stares at me behind designer sunglasses and wonders what the hell I’m doing instead of getting ready.

“Got it, Dad. I’m ready.” I grab a stack of oversized towels and keep my subordinate rank in check.

My father’s thinking is typically a degrading experience and I wish mute existed in his case. Being on the boat today with him, confined for multiple hours, is going to be difficult. Fuck, I hope he packs some alcohol and takes a long nap. The idea of knowing what my father thinks for hours on end is daunting.

He loads the vehicle with the just-in-case things. He takes the towels from my hands and uses them to pad everything in place with a meticulous approach, as if he’s transporting someone’s heart in our cooler. He puts in the equipment he insists we bring along, though it will probably not be used. He hums “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffet.

Once the current year white Range Rover HSE is loaded, we depart for Natalie’s home.

Tension builds, as if I’m going on a job interview. I try to concentrate on something else, but it hardly helps and no song on the radio is good enough.

I should be excited. Natalie and I will get some time to ourselves, but the rules are the same and I suspect they will be tested the most today. In part, I feel we are setting ourselves up for failure, but at some point we should have fun and we’ll still be in public—so how much trouble can we really get into?

We arrive to pick up Natalie ten minutes ahead of schedule. And like my father, she is ready to go, in a lovely blue dress.

“I would ask if you had trouble finding the place…but,” Natalie says jokingly as she climbs into the back seat on the driver’s side. I contemplate changing seats to keep her company, but my father’s thoughts deter me—
a pathetic romantic who’s head over heels.

“No trouble at all. Ready to go?” my father says.

My father likes Natalie, but her dad and Allan Wyle the great strain the relationship with issues of their own.

“Is it starting to cool off or is it just me?” she says, referring to our recent streak of triple digit days in the valley. We share a brief laugh, because we know more heat is in the coming weeks.

“That’s why we have the AC,” my father says, staring at the road ahead.

“Should be a fun day at the lake. I’ve been looking forward to this, actually. Worked on swimming all this last week,” Natalie says.

“Working on your tan, you mean?”

“Well…yes, that, of course. But I mean really swimming, since I’m not the best. Plus…it helps me keep in shape.”

My father laughs a little at my giddy girlfriend and changes the radio station. “I bet you’ll be just fine for the lake. We have inflatables and you’ll wear a life-vest. Besides, the point is to lounge and relax for the day. The lake will be busy, so nobody is going to swim very far from the boat.”

“The point?”

“The point for my father is to relax and drink,” I interject, before my father can give some witty reply.

How much Natalie’s mind races from one thought to the next is fascinating, like watching a six-man sprint, each fighting for a place on the podium. Her brow creases and her nose crinkles as if she just smelled something disgusting, but it’s only a repulsive thought passing through.

She plans to swim today, or at least make an effort. She would like to compete in a triathlon someday, or so she’d said a few weeks ago at the mountaintop. She’s great in a pair of running shoes and on a bike, but swimming is a challenge.

She says nothing more for a while, stares out the window while her thoughts and worries about the day run wild, like horses running free. Her mind centers on the new swimsuit she has on under her dress. She hopes I like it and that wearing it doesn’t overtly entice—as her father wouldn’t approve. On occasion, her mother will allow some flexibility and her swimwear is one exception.

My father has been drunk once in his life that I know of. According to Nora, my father’s second and short lived wife who was with him, he was far too intoxicated to drive a tricycle. Making matters worse, he wouldn’t allow her to navigate to the dock and then drive them home in a brand-new Lincoln Navigator. Father, of course, has a different extended version, as it’s referred to within the family. It’s fun to listen to them debate the details of an event neither of them remember. That night of drinking is the one and only regret my father has regarding his boat. Since then, the cooler is present, but the load is light.

Natalie starts conversation again and we banter about sunscreen and the expected crowds of the day. Sports finds a way into the conversation, which brings some debate, but nothing out of the ordinary. Natalie has a liking for the Sun Devils, which comes from her family being alumni.

On arrival, we load the supplies into the shuttle, which is like an oversized golf cart. We take a ride to the waiting Four Winns Bowrider—a thirty-footer—Dad got a few months ago. I sit behind the wheel and my father opens a Heineken less than twenty yards from the port.

When we get past the no-wake zone, he says, “So who wants to water-ski first?” A smirk is plastered on his face. He won’t say anything in front of Natalie for my sake, but I have a tendency to fall fast. No plans in place for the Olympics, so I don’t see reason for concern. He likes to tease, which has subsided a bit with my sudden Little League fame.

“I would love to,” my girlfriend chimes in. She walks to the rear of the boat and slips off her dress. Her bikini, consisting of five ounces of Lycra and Spandex, dyed hot pink, is all that covers her slender sun-kissed body. My anticipation of this moment cannot be overstated, like a kid entering a candy store. The suit is modest, but my mind runs to the gutter in a hurry and enjoys it. I tell myself not to stare…but attention elsewhere has so much less appeal.

I look at my father and take note of his gaze fixed on me.
He thinks you’re a sucker and in over your head. You’ll come crying when she’s gone.

I
study my father a moment, and then direct my attention elsewhere.
Gee, thanks, Dad. Maybe I should avoid looking at you. Ever.

Natalie. She takes notice of my gaze and smiles a little while spraying on sunscreen. She feels self-conscious about her appearance and is anxious for my comments.

“Love the pink. New?” I want to feel less pathetic around my father, so I keep it short.

She walks toward me and lifts the skis from the floor of the boat. “Now how’d you know it was new?” She watches me a moment with a mischievous grin. “I kept it a secret that I got this a few days ago…and I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Oh, I can tell it’s new,” I say, struggling to look but not stare like a goof.

Natalie changes stance, shifting her weight and her hips like she does. “Yeah, how?”

“The color is perfect, like it’s never been worn. The fabric is flawless and it looks great on you,” I say, trying to divert the topic.

Okay, I lied. You look perfect.

“Really?” she says. Her smile does little justice to show how excited she really is. “You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” I make a point not to look at my father, as I don’t want to know what he thinks right now.

She leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Thanks,” she says, lingering. She tosses the skis overboard as if she’s done this many times, then dives in. She emerges a moment later and straps in, readies herself behind the boat at the end of the line.

“Hmm. Poor swimmer, huh?” I mumble to myself, and my father laughs. He took her seriously as I did on being a weak swimmer. He glances my way, a rare smile across his face. He’s in his element and glad, for the moment, that the underage eye candy is in the water and out of sight.

Natalie water-skis for what feels like a short time, as I savor every moment from the back of the boat with a cold drink in my hands. My father gets on the skis, and Natalie and I get to talk, just us. We agree the lake is perfect, that the new boat is amazing and there couldn’t be a better way to spend the holiday.

I take a turn on the skis and surprise myself at the decency of my efforts—Christel coaches me on how to balance, making the difference. Natalie applauds me for trying and my father affirms, in thought, that Natalie did much better than me. We decide to anchor and grab lunch at the marina, which is wonderful. Stuffed, we return to the boat and I drive us for a scenic tour. My father falls asleep at the bow, stretched out with his feet resting on the rail.

Natalie and I are physically drained from the day and happy to relax, take in the surroundings. The party that is the lake on the holiday is in full swing, with boats crowding in all areas, no signs of weariness. We catch the wake of two cigarette boats blasting by and the ride gets bumpy. Natalie grabs the rail and screams like she’s on a roller coaster, a strain to keep in the seat. The wake passes, and I hit the throttle. Smooth and fast, we make for the other side of the lake. Once we get close, I kill the engine and drift awhile, and then drop the anchor in a little cove that is well populated, but not impossible to maneuver. With my father asleep at the front and Natalie alone at the back, I hardly need to think about what to do next.

We take a swim. Float awhile. Engage in a splash fight, which is decisively childish fun. We check on my father, asleep on the deck. Natalie insists we put up an umbrella, so he doesn’t burn, lying there in the sun. Of course, we have one.

Sitting at the back together, Natalie’s legs are bent at the knees and her feet find a cozy spot on my lap. She loves to have her feet rubbed and I take well to giving foot massages, rubbing each painted toe. She smiles at me when it tickles and even when it doesn’t.

“You did well on the skis,” I say.

“So did you,” she says, laughing a little, because she thinks I looked like a fish out of water.