Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,67
and hid under your bed. You fed it salt-water taffy.”
“I named it,” Jane says, eyes finally focusing on Bob.
“What did you name it?”
“Geraldine.”
“How did you know it was a girl?”
“She chewed her taffy in a very feminine way.”
“Geraldine the giant squid,” says Bob.
“What are you doing here?” Jane asks.
“Gotthorm invited me. He said that all your training has worked perfectly—that you’re the best athlete he’s ever trained. But he thought you might be getting tired and he asked if I wanted to tread water with you for the last five hours.”
The judge says, “Five hours, nine minutes.”
Bob says, “Five hours and nine minutes.”
Jane says, “You’re going to tread water for five hours and nine minutes?”
Bob says, “Only if you’ll do it with me.”
Gotthorm smiles at Coffen: “Yeah, Jane, we thought that seeing your husband might help you finish it off.”
“Yes, we did,” Bob says, already wishing he’d taken off his shoes.
“Are the kids here, too?” Jane says.
“I can call your mom,” Gotthorm says. “She can bring them back. They were going to set an alarm and return at midnight if you broke the record. Would you like them back here now?”
“Yes,” Jane says.
Gotthorm goes to call Erma.
The judge stands on the side.
Bob bobs. Jane bobs.
Jane says, “I’m so fucking tired.”
Bob says, “A porpoise is one with the water.”
Jane says, “Don’t make me laugh right now.”
Bob says, “Sea otters look like my uncle Mickey.”
Jane says, “What are you doing in here with me?”
Bob says, “I needed some exercise.”
Jane says, “I don’t think we can do this.”
Bob says, “Watch us.”
Five hours and nine minutes is what Jane needs. What Bob needs, too. He has a sturdy guilt about doubting her likelihood of breaking the record earlier and the only way to purge it is this.
Getting rid of his guilt is like sucking venom from a wound: Coffen has to draw his doubt out of his system or it will poison him, poison them, and he’s not going to let that happen. If she can make it well over eighty hours in the pool, Bob can handle five hours and change.
Bob tries visualization to fight his fatigue: he and Jane are in a bathtub, relaxing. It’s not working. He tries counting his exhalations, inhalations, tries humming a tune to himself. Nothing seems to ease his exhaustion. He tries silently chanting, We need five hours and nine minutes in total, five hours and nine minutes, five hours and nine minutes …
“How much time has gone by?” says Bob after half an hour.
“Nei, nei,” Gotthorm says. “Kelp can’t decipher the clock.” Bob looks at Jane. She seems to have stabilized, her stroke improving. She’s not as pale as before. Her breathing’s steady. Her eyes are shut.
Coffen copies her, shuts his eyes, too. Trying to rally. He has no idea that you can sweat so much while swimming. Has no idea how woozy an individual can get simply treading water. Certainly, he has no idea that you can almost hyperventilate just staying in the same place, flailing your arms and legs, head slipping under the water every now and again.
The fatigue and cramping pain poking up his thighs are getting worse.
He notices he’s hungry.
Notices his vision isn’t quite double, per se, but it’s certainly more than single.
And yet there’s something about Bob Coffen that’s enjoying this arduous task. Digs the exertion and mounting headache. Thrives on how thirsty he is.
He accidentally swallows the chlorinated water and coughs. The taste left in his mouth is salty, almost like a cured meat.
We need five hours and nine minutes, keeps ringing in Bob’s mind.
Strip, jump
“Dad, are you okay?” Margot says.
“What happened?”
“You almost drowned.”
“What?”
“He had to pull you out.”
“Who?”
“Gotthorm.”
“Huh?”
“He gave you mouth-to-mouth.”
“Oh, no.”
“You were dead, I think, for a minute or so,” she says.
“Did you watch Gotthorm give me mouth-to-mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Brent, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus, kill me.”
“G-Ma watched with us.”
“Of course she did.”
“Mom couldn’t watch because she was finishing up.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Talking to those reporters. I filmed it for you.”
“She really made it?” Bob sits up on the pool deck, still in his soaked clothes, and peers over at Jane talking with two reporters.
“Yeah. She finished.”
Gotthorm walks over to Coffen and Margot. “You needed to tread water for five hours and eleven minutes,” he says. “You made it about five hours and two minutes.”
“Thanks for saving my life.”
“I had no choice; your kids were here.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“You made it much longer than I thought you would. You have fight in you.”
“I tried.”
“You succeeded,” Gotthorm says. “She did it. That’s what you were trying to do.”
“I