Chasing Water. Anthony Ervin
before it’s burned a hole into the bedsheet.
Back in Mundania. And in deep, deep shit.
The maid reported the damage, and Sherry soon learned that Anthony was being sent back on the next flight. She and Jack would have to foot the bill. When they met him, he was hiding behind the air hostess, who’d served as his steward in transit. Anthony, who’d been in tears on the flight back to LA, feared the physical punishment that awaited. But there was only disappointment from his mother. It was his first memory of shame. Her anger was instead directed toward the swim league for leaving Anthony unattended. (Due to her subsequent pressure, the rules were changed to mandate that swimmers had to be on deck for all races and could never be left unsupervised.) Around Thanksgiving he had to appear at a tribunal, where he was given community service and barred from all-star trips for a year.
There were other sources of tension at home. Jack had been working in production control for an aerospace firm but was laid off when the industry shrunk after Reagan left office. For supplemental income, Sherry returned to waitressing at an upscale restaurant. The swim club made an exception on their swim fees, offering them a reduced rate. Between chores, homework, swim practice, meets, and the frequent punishments, where he’d be sequestered to his room without video games, Anthony felt like he was missing out on life. He begged to quit swimming, but to no avail. Now that he was competing less and practicing halfheartedly, his performances suffered and he no longer dominated in his events. He harbored anger toward his parents—not just about the swimming, but also about what he saw as his mother’s disciplinary excess and his father’s lack of intervention. The decades since then have given him a new perspective: “As I’ve gotten older I feel like they were just trying to do what they thought was best. My mother tried to let us live the lives we wanted within reason. Yeah, we had to help out around the house, but somebody had to. She had enough responsibility. On the one hand was the iron fist and on the other was a boy who needed control and structure because he was wildfire.”
That winter, not yet a teenager, Anthony started running off for short periods, often absconding through his bedroom window. It was nothing dramatic—he usually went to his friend’s house or wandered through an undeveloped scrubland area nearby called “The Wash.” He sometimes found sanctuary in a treehouse that he and his friends had built. On the day before Christmas Eve one year, he took his winter jacket, a blanket, and a flashlight, and headed out. He didn’t return until the next day.
The sky looks like the lox we used to have for breakfast before Dad got laid off. Against it, the tree looks haunted. The birds are still chirping but not as much as before. I hurry and am soon climbing up the tree. One of the footholds is shaky. We have to fix that. I climb onto the platform. The scrap chain-link fence around the perimeter of the platform comforts me. I feel safer behind it.
I make a bed with the various blankets scattered around and lie on it with my back propped up against the fence. The rollout carpets provide some softness and warmth against the wood. I zip my jacket up all the way. Outside it’s silent and dark except for the hum of the highway. It’s ominous. I learned ominous from Man from Mundania. Or was it Heaven Cent?
I don’t have those two books anymore. Mom made me return them. That was bad. Anthony, where did you get these? And me not knowing what to say. Tell me, Anthony, where? And me telling her I stole them. And then all the yelling and screaming. I couldn’t take it. So to avoid Mom’s advance I ran outside to the backyard, circling the pool. And she was red and shaking. Jack, do something about this, would you? Just do something! But Dad had never gotten involved before that, so I didn’t expect him to actually reach for me as I circled by. He didn’t cuff me that hard but my nose opened up because I get nose bleeds so easily and blood sprayed all over my shirt and splattered and dripped all over the concrete patio. And I looked up at Dad with eyes as shocked as his as I cupped my hand under my nose, the blood blossoming and pooling in my palm. And Dad stood there stunned, his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say. He had never once spanked me before that, and I knew by his eyes that this would be the last time. But even after that Mom still made me take the books back to the store. And my ears were so hot and I just wanted to run away. And the manager looked so serious while writing my name and address on a little card, saying if I ever did anything like that again she would report me to the police.
I tried to explain to Mom that I’d read all the other Xanth books so many times and none of the libraries had those two. And I couldn’t buy them because I didn’t even have pocket money anymore. I just wanted to read them. She said that was no excuse. And after that Mom even took away my books because that was the ultimate punishment. But that didn’t last long because she felt bad and she likes to see me read.
The stars come out. I try to imagine which ones exist and which don’t because some stars can be gone but you still see them because the speed of light is super slow compared to how far away they are. So some of the stars I see aren’t even there anymore. It’s like somebody filmed the sky thousands or millions of years ago and now I’m watching it. Like looking into a crystal ball except into the past, not the future.
I get nervous thinking about what will happen tomorrow so I take out my flashlight and The Source of Magic. I’ve read it before. But I know it will make me feel better. And it does. Because soon I’m no longer Anthony in Mundania. I’m Bink in Xanth.
I read half the book. It’s getting cold. I put the book down and throw the rest of the blankets over me and lie flat on my back. I stare up at the sky through the tree. The branches look scary without their leaves. Ominous. But at least there’s no yelling here. No arguments. No punishments. Just me and the tree and the stars. The stars from now and the stars from before.
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5. Michael Phelps also started swimming at age seven as a backstroker, although in his case it was because he was afraid to put his face in the water. Return to text
6. Sherry and Jack also diverge ideologically in other areas. To take one exchange:
Jack: Nothing wrong with having a relationship with that spiritual entity up there.
Sherry: There is no spiritual entity up there.
Jack: There is a universal knowledge out there you have to plug into time to time.
Sherry: I don’t believe in that nonsense. Return to text
4.
A Nervous Condition
Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called Man!
Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we are!
—Charles Dickens
F-f-f-feel like-a l-l-l-lightnin’ hit my b-b-brains . . .
—Willie Dixon, “Nervous”
One morning after Anthony had entered junior high, he and his brother Derek were on the couch watching Saturday cartoons. His mother walked into the den and right away noticed something out of the ordinary. Anthony’s eyes were rapidly blinking. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen this. On occasion it had happened before, but only for a few seconds. Since he’d recently been prescribed glasses, she’d always assumed it was an ophthalmological issue related to his nearsightedness. This time, however, it seemed more pronounced and longer lasting. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked. He knew something was off but didn’t know what. Not wanting to interrupt the cartoon, he shrugged it off. The blinking soon passed, and they both forgot the incident.
A few weeks later, Sherry received a call from the pool. They told her to come immediately.