Reed, Robert - Hexagons

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Hexagons by Robert Reed

My mother always made a lot of noise about keeping busy, and how much she hated tripping over kids

who were doing nothing but reading books or watching the electric vase. That’s why my brother and

I belonged to the biggest, most important swim team in our little end of the world. It was to keep

us fit and keep us from being underfoot. Chester was one of the stars on the team. I wasn’t.

Nobody ever explained how I got accepted into those lofty ranks. But if I know my mom, she told

the coach, "Fair is fair. And if you want one of my boys, you’ve got to take both of them." Mom

loved to talk about things like fair play and decency, but mostly, it was just awfully convenient

having the two of us involved in the same sport. It meant less driving, and fewer events to

attend. Which is a kind of fairness, I suppose–making life easy on your folks.

I wasn’t an awful swimmer. In a flat-out race, Chester and I were pretty much equal. Pretty much.

But my brother happened to be four years younger than me–four years and seven months, to be

exact–which made him one of the top seven-year-olds in the province. And made me his big-assed

sidekick. Our coach was pretty plain about his own affections. He’d stalk the sides of the bath,

hollering instructions down at poor Chester. Elbows, legs, breathing, and then back to the elbows

again. Swimming is a ferociously technical business. It demands a muscular grace that I’ve never

been able to maintain. Occasionally the coach would check on me, making sure I wasn’t dead in the

deep end. But in general, my value with the team was more of a spiritual order: I made the other

twelve-year-olds feel good about their abilities. Lapping me was a great game. Boys and girls

could play that game all night. You can see why I didn’t exactly adore the sport. But it wasn’t

that awful, either. I got to stare at girls wearing tight wet silks. That’s always a benefit. And

since nobody expected anything from me, I was free to cling to the side for minutes at a stretch,

watching the girls and listening to the coach roaring at my brother. "Pull through the water!

Through, Chester! Down the middle of your body. And bring your hand out this way. This way! With

your elbow up . . . oh, Christ . . . what in hell is that. . . ?"

I don’t remember that night’s workout. And I don’t have any special recollections of getting

dressed in the locker room afterward. We always took showers, but I never got rid of the chlorine

smell. The stuff clung to my hair, and if my goggles leaked–and they usually did–my eyes would

burn for hours. Then we’d put our school uniforms back on again, and I always had to make sure

that Chester remembered his silk trunks and goggles. I assume all those usual things happened that

night. But what I do remember, without question, was that our father was supposed to pick us up.

That gave the evening a dramatic kick. In our lives, Dad was something of a wild card. You could

never guess where he was or what was so important, but his busy life had its way of dividing his

allegiances, spreading him thin. I can’t count the nights when it was Chester and me sitting on

the steps of the Young Legionnaires’ Club, waiting for that old green Testudo to pull up.

That night was different, however. The old man surprised us. Not only was he waiting at the locker

door, he’d actually seen the last few minutes of the workout. "You looked strong out there," he

told Chester, rubbing at his stubbly hair. Then to me, with a pushed-along concern, he asked, "Are

you hurt? I saw you doing a lot of standing in the shallow end."

I could have lied. I could have told him, "Yeah, I had a cramp." I should have made up a great

story, my twisting, pain-wracked body sinking to the bottom and half a dozen girls in wet silks

fighting for the honor of pulling me up again. But instead, I just shrugged and told him, "No, I

wasn’t hurt."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Standing," I said. And I left it there.

Our father wasn’t a big man, or small. There was a time in life when he seemed wondrously

powerful–a titan capable of casting shadows and flinging snowballs clear over our house. But at

the wise age of twelve, I was realizing that shadows were easy and our house wasn’t all that big.

And everything about my father was beginning to diminish. He had a fondness for overcoats that

were too large for him. He was a smiling man. A salesman by trade and by temperament, he had a

smiling voice and an easy charm and the sort of rough, unspectacular looks that helped people

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believe whatever he was trying to sell them. We might have been rich, if Dad had just stuck to

selling. But he had this dangerous streak of imagination. Every few years, he’d start up some new

business. Each venture began with hope and considerable energy, and each lasted for a year or

maybe eighteen months. At some point, we’d stop hearing about his new career. Dad would stay away

from home, at least past dinnertime. Toward the end, he couldn’t make it back until midnight, and

I would lie in bed, wrestling with my brain, trying desperately to make myself sleep before Mom

had the chance to corner him and the shouting began.

That night was a winter night. Windy and bitter. With Dad leading the charge, we stepped out into

the cold dark air, our breath smoky and my wet hair starting to freeze. The old Testudo, big and

square, was parked under a light. Hadrian was sitting in the back, in his straw, watching for us.

I liked that cat, but he worried me. He liked to nip fingers. My fingers, mostly. All those

generations of careful breeding and the fancy Asian splicing, but really, cheetahs are still as

wild as they are tame. And while I thought it was neat to have a cheetah, Mom held a rather

different opinion. "Do you know why your father bought him?" she asked me once. "Because he’s

going bald."

"The cat is?" I asked.

"No, your father is," she rumbled. Which, frankly, made no more sense to me than the cat going

bald.

I climbed into the back seat, just so I could stick one of my least favorite fingers through the

wire mesh, that dog-like face greeting me with a rough lick and a quick pinch of incisors. Chester

was sitting up front with Dad. Dad cranked the motor, and it came on and then died again. He tried

again, and there was a roar and cough and silence again. That was my father’s life with machines.

He decided the motor had flooded, and so he turned on the ceiling light and waited. He smiled back

at me, or at his cat. I could never feel sure which of us was getting the smile. Then with an odd,

important voice, he said, "I want to show you something."

I said, "Okay."

He reached inside his big overcoat, pulling out a folded-up newspaper. It was already turned to

page two. One tiny article was circled. "Read it," he advised, handing the paper back to me. And

even before I could start, he asked, "What do you think?"

I saw my father’s name.

"Leonard Dunlop, 38, has filed as a candidate for Senate in District 8," I read. Then I held the

article up to the weak light, eyes blinking from the chlorine, little tears giving every word a

mushy, dreamy look. "If he wins," I read, "Mr. Dunlop intends to use his salary to help pay for

his children’s university education."

Again, Dad asked, "What do you think?"

"You’re running for what?" I asked, using an unfortunate tone. A doubting tone.

"The Senate," he said, pointing proudly at the tiny article.

"The big one?" Chester asked. "In New Rome?"

I snorted. Twelve years old and not particularly wise in the ways of politics, but I still had

enough sense to dismiss that possibility. "He means the little senate. For our province, that’s

all."

Which wasn’t the best way to phrase things.

Dad gave me a look. Then he turned forward and started the car, listening to the ugly engine cough

and die. Then he turned to Chester, telling him, "But this is just the beginning."

With his salesman’s voice, he sounded convinced, saying, "This is an important district. If we

win, it’s a launching pad to New Rome. And from there, who knows? Who knows?"

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Reed, Robert - Hexagons

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