Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,32

Coffen kin are buried in their gadgets. Bob stares out the window. No Mom and Pop presence in this suburb, every business is a cut-out of a business that originated someplace else. The intersection the Coffens currently sit at is a paradise of saturated fats—fast food Chinese, two corporate burger joints, a fish-and-chips shop that originated in Seattle, and a Taco Shed. The latter makes Bob’s stomach growl.

When they first moved here, Bob and Jane used the usual rationalization: Yes, this is a boring suburb, but the public schools are great and besides, it’s only a half-hour drive into the city, which is true. They haven’t, however, driven into the city in over a year. The freeway would take them there, if they got on it. The Coffens’ universe is getting smaller every year, as confining as a snow globe.

The pool where Jane practices treading water is a component of a high-priced gym that costs Bob $650 a month. The facility actually has two pools: a pristine, immaculately maintained indoor facility, where the very serious swimmers are allowed to train. There are two members who are Olympic hopefuls in their respective strokes. There’s an underwater ballerina who often hones her craft here. And, of course, Jane. These four represent the small caste permitted in the fancy indoor waters.

There’s also an outdoor pool that’s for the laypeople of all ages, the splashers, the elderly with their calisthenics, the Marco Polo players, the dog-paddlers, the pissers. This stratification between the two domains is strictly enforced.

The good news, at least from Bob’s perspective, is that the indoor and outdoor pools are only separated by one gigantic window. So if he were to, say, insist that his children accompany him to the outdoor pool for a couple hours of wily water shenanigans, he’d be able to see Jane and Gotthorm getting their workout in prior to the big bid to break the world record.

Bob gets the kids settled by the outdoor pool, close to the lifeguard chair, though it’s currently empty. Neither child is wearing a suit, though they have them packed in a duffel bag sitting between their chaise lounges. Schumann, also a member of this esteemed fitness community, stands there, still shoved into his whole football uniform.

“Dad,” Brent says, pointing indoors, “I see Mommy!”

Margot makes a face: You are busted. Unlike her brother, she’s pointing directly at Coffen.

Bob says to her, “Shall we make it $50?”

Coffen would like to think it’s not greed that makes her ponder these new terms. He’d like to believe it’s dedication—that his daughter, sensing something might be wrong between her parents—wants to help her dear old dad right the ship. This is what Bob would like to think, and he’s doing a decent job convincing himself that it’s probably true until Margot says, “$75.”

“She’s good,” says Schumann.

“Deal,” Bob says.

“I hate swimming,” Brent says.

“Did you bring your phone, buddy?” Bob asks. “Play a game and sit here enjoying the afternoon. You don’t have to swim.”

“I want to go inside.”

“Not right now. It’s good to be outdoors. And we’ll get frozen yogurt on the way home.”

“People call it fro-yo, dad,” Margot says, fiddling with her iPad, settling into her lounge chair.

“Fine, we’ll get fro-yog after.”

“Fro-yo.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You said fro-yog.”

“She’s right,” Schumann says. “We all heard you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Coffen says. “Schumann, keep an eye on them.”

Gotthorm is the first to see Coffen enter from the men’s locker room and he shouts, “Nei, nei, nei, nei!” and waves his arms aggressively at Bob. He’s of course wearing nothing but his Speedo, though he normally never swims—at least not that Bob has ever observed—so a swimsuit seems unnecessary. Instead, he stands on the deck, hands on his hips, giving Jane instruction and encouragement—and, of course, a lovely view of the bulge.

“I’m here for Jane,” Coffen says, pointing to his wife, who bobs in the water.

“We can’t have you here, Bob,” Gotthorm says. “We need her mind flat as a frozen sea. We need her mind smooth and lithe.”

“She and I are ‘we,’ Gotthorm. We are married.”

“Not near the pool you’re not. Here, Jane is not a person. Here, she is muscle memory. She has no active mind. She is seaweed.”

“I don’t have time for your Swedish philosophy.”

“Norwegian.”

“Same thing.”

“Those two nations once fought a war. We’re very different people.”

“Yeah, who won?”

Gotthorm moves his arms in a dismissive gesture. “Jane is a drop of salt water. She is a molecule. She is the ocean and the ocean is Jane. No one