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...cont. I grow up to know his secret—the art of tickling just lightly enough to play with the possibility of pain. A mother at nineteen, I tickle to make three-month-old Jeremy grin as we stand waiting to be allowed on board the U.S.S. Bryce Canyon docked at Pearl Harbor. My husband, Dan, stands dressed in dark blue slacks and shirt as he requests permission to board, his last name stamped on each piece of clothing he might forget. He is short, packed for strength, his mountain man image altered by the Navy’s regulation haircut and closely shaven beard. He steers his mother up the grey steel ramp as I follow behind, and we climb three spiral grey staircases near the mid-ship smokestack until finally we stand on the top deck. The U.S.S. Arizona Memorial stands out clearly a mile away, by itself on the calm water of the harbor, outside the long, parallel lines of huge ships. I have seen it before, but my mother-in-law, Serena, is visiting for the first time and is struck silent. She has made me feel proud this week—admiring Jeremy, talking incessantly of recipes and bargains, advising me to buy a bikini, quietly cooking favorites while I nurse the baby. I watch her watch the view and suddenly know, as I have not known before, that the man beside her is her firstborn. Looking down 300 feet into dark water, I have a clear picture of me throwing my baby into the water. It scares me horribly, and I tell no one. I hold Jeremy so tightly that his cooing turns to cries. Serena and Dan are smiling at me, leading the way down spiral steps to the bowels of the ship. Goade's complete essay can be found in our Spring '98 Issue. |