The Wooden Sea

Before I had a chance to mull that one over, we were a block away from the Schiavos’. Even from that distance I could see strange things going on down there.

In the middle of the darkness the house was brightly lit from all sides. Circling it was a ring of floodlights, all aimed directly at the building. My first thought was mining disaster. You know what I mean—those pictures forever on TV or in magazines of a mining site somewhere in the world—England or Russia, West Virginia. Miles below the earth something went wrong and there was a cave-in or an explosion. Rescue workers have been digging continually for thirty hours to reach the survivors. The site is as bright at night as during the day. They’ve brought in ten million candlepower to keep it lit for the workers.

That’s what the Schiavo house looked like. It was so strange and surreal against the backdrop of deep thick night that no matter what they were doing there, it looked suspicious.

And who were they! Workmen. As we got closer I tried to see if I knew any of the men but not one was familiar. Dressed in no special style or uniform, they were guys in yellow and orange hard hats setting up scaffolding. Around the house they were quickly erecting an intricate system of interlocking pipes, struts, and co

What was extraordinary was how little noise they made. To fit the strangeness of the scene it would have been better if they had been completely silent, but that wasn’t the case. They made noise—metal struck metal, the creak and strain of things being fitted, bolted, erected. With all the activity and workers on the site it should have been a hell of a lot louder. But it wasn’t. You heard things, sure, but not enough to believe it was somehow real—how could all this go on so quietly?

“They’re making no noise.”

The boy rubbed his nose. “I was thinking that. The whole scene’s got like a muffler on it.”

“What are they doing to the house? What’s with the scaffolding? Why are they doing it in the middle of the night?”

“Beats me, Chief. My job was just to get you here.”

“Bullshit.” I didn’t believe him for a minute, but it was useless arguing. He’d tell me only what he wanted and I’d have to figure out the rest.

I walked to the house and asked a worker where the foreman was. He pointed to a tall dark man who looked Indian passing a few feet away. Taking a few fast steps, I caught up with him. “Excuse me? Could I talk to you a minute?”

He looked me up and down like I was an eggplant or a whore he was considering buying.

“My name is McCabe. I’m chief of police in Crane’s View.”

Unimpressed, he crossed his arms and said nothing.

“Why are you here? Do you have permits? What are you doing to this place? Where are the Schiavos?”

He remained mute until a small smile twitched on at the edges of his mouth. As if what I had said was fu

“Dot does nut mean I have dee an-suh.” Sure enough, he spoke with the kind of thick Indian accent where the tongue never moves in the mouth, as if it were a cow lying in the middle of a road and words had to drive around it to get out.

“You wa

“I explain nothing. I’m working! Can you not see I’m busy?”

“You won’t be busy after I kick your ass, Gunga Din.”

The Indian’s eyes widened in disbelief and rage. “You little fuckah—”

Whomp! The kid kicked him in the balls so fast and hard that the sound filled the air. Gasping, the man fell down holding his nuts. As soon as he hit the ground, the boy kicked him in the face—boom boom boom—like trying to kick in a door. With both hands on his crotch the foreman had no chance to cover his head before the kicks rained down.

The boy smiled and stretched his arms out like wings, like he was doing the Greek “sirtaki” dance. Zorba the Greek on your head, bam bam bam. The viciousness and speed of his assault was brutal. The kid went from zero to a hundred, from chat to blood, in a second. And that kid was me.

Seeing him attack, part of me shouted Yes!

We lose it, it disappears, evaporates. The edge, the courage, the black madness and abandon of the young. The dazzle of living one hundred percent in the minute. It goes away, leaks out of us like water through cracks. Cracks that come from growing older. They start when you buy whole-life insurance policies and mortgages, or hear the results of not-so-good physical checkups. They start when there’s a need rather than a desire for warm baths. Safety over spontaneity, comfort over commotion. Part of me hated it. Not the growing older, but becoming tame, upstanding, predictable, halfhearted, skeptical about too much. A good-sized chunk of me loved this flipped-out kid stomping a man for no reason other than a shitty attitude, a dismissive look in his eyes. That part of me wanted to join in on the beating. Am I ashamed to admit it? Not at all.

I grabbed the boy and dragged him away from the Indian. His body felt like electricity through steel; he was all high voltage and tensile strength. I am very strong but didn’t know if I could handle him.

“Stop! Okay, stop. He’s down, you win.”

“Get off me, asshole!” He tried throwing another kick but was out of range.

“Enough!”

“Don’t tell me—” He twisted around and threw a punch at my face. I blocked it and in the same motion, grabbed his arm and twisted it up around his back in a hammerlock. Then I put my other arm around his throat in a chokehold.

No good. With the heel of his cowboy boot he stomped down hard on the top of my right foot. The pain was like fire. I let go. He jumped away and hands up, started dancing around like a boxer throwing jabs, ducking and weaving. Who was he fighting? Me, the Indian, the world, life.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You think you can beat me? Think you can take me? Come on, try it!”

I stood like a flamingo on one leg, holding my throbbing foot and watching him taunt me. The Indian lay on his stomach, hands under him, moaning. Teen me kept dancing around, doing Muhammad Ali routines. A group of workers had gathered to watch our festivities. While I held my foot, one of them stepped out of the crowd and whacked the kid on the head with a board. Afterward the guy just stood there with the two-by-four in his hand, looking stupid, like he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do now.

The kid was suddenly on the ground on all fours, head hanging low. Someone was helping the Indian up. I tested my foot to see if it still worked. It hurt, but I’d survive. “All right, that’s it, everything stops. Who’s in charge, who’s the construction company, where are your permits? I want to see everything right now.”

“Fra

I looked from him to the house, the workers, to little Fran on the ground. It felt like every one of them was staring at me but none made a sound. And then the idea arrived. I pointed at the house. “What do you see, Joh