"Robert Reed - Hexagons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

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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. ThatтАЩs 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 wasnтАЩt.
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, youтАЩve 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 supposeтАУmaking life easy on your folks.

I wasnтАЩt 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 meтАУfour years and seven months, to be
exactтАУwhich 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. HeтАЩd 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 IтАЩve never
been able to maintain. Occasionally the coach would check on me, making sure I wasnтАЩt 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 didnтАЩt exactly adore the sport. But it wasnтАЩt
that awful, either. I got to stare at girls wearing tight wet silks. ThatтАЩs 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 donтАЩt remember that nightтАЩs workout. And I donтАЩt 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 leakedтАУand they usually didтАУmy eyes would
burn for hours. Then weтАЩd 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 canтАЩt count the nights when it was Chester and me sitting on
the steps of the Young LegionnairesтАЩ 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, heтАЩd 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