Lights Out

“You all right?” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“Had a funny look there.”

“I’m fine.” He was hungry, that was all. When had he last eaten? He remembered: in F-Block. Eddie walked to the other end of the pool to get his towel. Bobby followed.

“We had some times in this pool, didn’t we, Eddie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, toweling off.

“You were something. You had a scholarship offer, didn’t you? Clemson?”

“USC.”

Bobby shook his head. “Isn’t that something?” he said. “I ended up swimming for Dartmouth. Just about my speed.”

“That’s nice,” said Eddie, starting toward the locker-room door.

Bobby followed. “Best exercise there is,” he said. “I’m still in here three, four times a week. Nothing strenuous. Long slow distance, keep some of this fucking fat off. But you know something, Eddie, I had an idea, watching you. A crazy idea.”

Eddie stopped and turned.

“What’s that?”

“It’s kind of crazy, like I said.” He looked Eddie in the eye; Eddie didn’t remember Bobby having that look. “Thing is, I think I could beat you now.”

“Do you?”

“Just a hunch,” Bobby said. “You a gambling man, Eddie? I hear a lot of gambling goes on in … those places.”

“I knew a bridge player once,” Eddie said. “He liked to gamble.”

“There you go. What do you say?”

“To what?”

“A little action. One-hundred free. How does that sound?”

“For money?”

“Just to make it interesting.”

“How much?”

“You name it.”

“A hundred,” Eddie said.

“Dollars?”

“Dollar per yard,” Eddie said. “Just for the sake of fearful symmetry.”

Bobby stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “It’s great you didn’t lose your sense of humor,” he said, holding out his hand. Eddie had been wondering when they would shake hands. They shook; in greeting, or simply sealing the bet?

They walked around toward the starting end, Bobby stretching his arms above his head, Eddie trying to remember where he’d read about fearful symmetry. It must have been years ago, long before he’d discovered “The Mariner.”

Bobby took his place in lane six. “Do we need a starter?”

“No.”

“We’ll just use the clock, like in the old days.” A big clock with a red second hand hung on the wall at the other end. “Second hand touches twelve, we go.”

The water was still again, flat blue. The second hand rounded six, ticked up the other side. Eight, nine, ten. Bobby got into his crouch. Eddie had forgotten about that. He bent his knees, trying to find the right position. Eleven. One, two, three, fo-the red hand was a full click away when Bobby sprang off. Eddie followed, a hurried dive so steeply angled he almost touched bottom. By the time Eddie hit the surface, Bobby was half a length ahead. In seven or eight strokes, he stretched it to a full length.

Eddie had forgotten his racing dive. Now he forgot about sculling too, lost his feel for the water, fell into a crude imitation of Bobby’s powerful stroke. He thrashed on, falling farther behind, thinking: What the hell are you doing, jailbird?

Bobby hit the first turn, flipped it well, smoother than in his racing days. That observation threw off Eddie’s timing. He forgot to spread his feet, pushed off crooked, started his roll too soon, forcing himself to stroke too soon. Bobby gained another half length. Two days out of the pen, jailbird, and racing for all the money you’ve got.

Bobby gained another stroke or two by the second turn, flipped it nicely again. Eddie did better on his second turn, not perfect, but better. And in the calm of the glide, he realized he’d been thrashing. Like an animal: a freestyler needs finesse. Feel the water, feel how it gives against the palm, curls around the fingers. Feel it: an obvious psychological trick, but it worked on him. He began to scull, rising up in the water; not yet skimming, but moving faster. Bobby’s big white kicking feet came back to him a little at a time: the one or two strokes he’d lost on the second turn, maybe more. He was about a length and a half behind when Bobby hit the last turn.

Eddie didn’t see how Bobby handled it. No time. He came to the wall, piked, flipped, rolled, glided, stroked twice, breathed. Perfect. He glanced at Bobby. Half a length now, and closing. Stroke stroke stroke stroke breathe. Stroke stroke stroke stroke breathe. Eddie closed a little more, almost skimming now. Bobby glanced back; his eyes widened. Stroke stroke stroke stroke stroke-and then, in mid-pull, his body failed him, all at once, as though someone had switched him off.

How long had he been swimming before Bobby challenged him? He didn’t know. It could have been twenty minutes, it could have been two hours. Enough so that now he was done, just like that. He almost stopped right there in the middle of the pool.

But he knew-there was no time to think, he just knew-that if he stopped it was over for him. So he kept making the motions of swimming; and at the same time a voice in his head, his own voice said: Go, Nails. Not yelling, not screaming, simply saying go, and calling him by that name.