An Ocean in Iowa

  While other children filled in their coloring books, getting praise for staying in between the lines, the Ocean kids could be found painting their driveway, no lines or requirements. “Just paint!” Joan would shout. She’d supply them with water-soluble paints or colored pieces of chalk and turn them loose. On most days, primitive images, oftentimes resembling cave drawings, covered their driveway. They might trace each other, kiddie crime scenes with a rainbow of colors. On an average summer day all three Ocean children would be busy creating.

  But the day of Scotty’s party was not your average day.

  The driveway had been rinsed clean the day before in anticipation of the party guests. A painted sheet hung across the garage door: SCOTTY = 7. A second banner covered the picture window with HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SCOTTY followed by three exclamation points. A cluster of multicolored balloons had been tied to the infamous mailbox, indicating that if you were looking for a party, you had come to the right place.

  The invited guests included Scotty’s best friends of the moment—David Bumgartner and Dan Burkhett. Other about-to-be second graders, Craig Hunt, Richard Hibbs, and Jimmy Lamson, came, too. Even Tom Conway from down the street was invited, at Joan’s insistence, because Tom, Scotty’s least favorite friend of the moment, was a neighbor, and he would see the other kids arriving, Joan said, and it would hurt his feelings. “And we don’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings, do we?”

  Yes, we do, Scotty thought.

  “There is nothing worse,” Joan said, “than deliberate cruelty.”

  So when he opened the front door and found Tom Conway’s chubby face and crooked smile staring at him through the screen, Scotty tried to be nice.

  Tom held up a large square gift-wrapped box. “Happy birthday,” he mumbled. Tom’s gift was wrapped in the peach-colored sports page section of the Des Moines Sunday Register. The box was surprisingly light.

  Scotty shook it but he heard nothing.

  “Invite him in,” Joan whispered to Scotty, who reluctantly ushered his neighbor inside.

  ***

  In the kitchen Claire was mixing a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid. She whispered, “Of course, he would be first.” Claire often seemed to articulate Scotty’s feelings before he even knew he felt them.

  Scotty said, “Yeah,” and extending a paper cup, he waited for Claire to pour.

  “And what do you bet, Scotty, he’ll be the last one here.”

  “Yeah,” said Scotty, looking out the window to the backyard where Tom Conway had gone and sat waiting for the party to begin. Maggie gave him a party hat, but the rubber band broke when he tried to stretch it over his chin.

  Before long the others arrived. Dan Burkhett rode his Schwinn Sting-Ray. He kept telling Scotty how his birthday would be next. “I’m on deck,” he said, “but even better, I’m gonna be eight.” Scotty wished Dan would be quiet. But Dan kept telling anyone who would listen, “On September twenty-ninth, I’ll be eight.”

  Later he was to say, “At my party we’re going to have an actual Mexican piñata…”

  Claire told Scotty to ignore Dan Burkhett. “Maybe he won’t see eight. Maybe he’ll get squashed by a school bus or drown at Holiday Pool. He assumes he’ll turn eight. He doesn’t know for a fact, does he?”

  “Yeah,” Scotty said.

  Claire poured Scotty more Kool-Aid.

  “Yeah,” he said again, a Kool-Aid mustache having formed on his top lip.

  In full swing, Scotty’s party proved to be exceptional. The Judge turned on the sprinkler out back. The boys ran from side to side, leaping over the spraying water, giggling as their swimsuits were drenched. Claire supervised other party games—a game of horseshoes and kickball with old record jackets serving as bases. Later, she led the cleanup of plates and plastic silverware. Maggie took over the Kool-Aid detail and stirred packages of black cherry and lemon-lime into large glass pitchers. Whenever thirsty, the boys ran to the picnic table to get refreshed.

  “A great party,” the Judge said as he entered the house. “Where’s your mom?”

  Scotty shrugged even though he knew.

  The Judge must have known, too, for he opened the basement door and called down.

  “Honey, get up here. It’s time to open presents.”

  ***

  David Bumgartner gave a talking G.I. Joe dressed in an astronaut outfit. With a head of fuzzy red hair and a bristled beard, this G.I. Joe said eight commands at the pull of the miniature dog tag. “Entering lunar orbit” was Scotty’s favorite. Craig Hunt gave a Slinky; Richard Hibbs, a deck of cards; Dan Burkhett, a Matchbox collectors case. “The case stands up,” Dan said proudly, “and it can carry seventy-two cars.” Jimmy Lamson gave Scotty a Peanuts pennant. Scotty held it for all to see. It was bright yellow with Charlie Brown standing alone, the jagged line across his shirt and his one hair in place. In capital letters the following was written: I NEED ALL THE FRIENDS I CAN GET!

  The gift from his family came with a card written in his mother’s hand with the following inscription: “To Scotty, for studying the tiniest movements of life.” Scotty ripped open the package. It was a Power microscope lab set. The box claimed that inside, twelve slides were already prepared for viewing. The lab came with test tubes and a dropper and a three-wing metal cabinet. Scotty said, “Wow.” The other kids looked on, jealous. Except for Dan Burkhett, who said, “I got one that’s better.”

  “But you didn’t open mine,” Tom Conway kept saying.

  Tom had given Scotty the Time Bomb, a black plastic imitation bomb with a red fuse. As the party guests stood in an enthusiastic circle, the Judge twisted the bright red “fuse,” winding it—the bomb began to tick. “Pass it,” the Judge ordered. “But don’t throw it.” As the Time Bomb moved about the circle, faces got tenser; hands moved the Time Bomb along quickly, as if it were on fire.

  When it went bang the first time, David Bumgartner had it in his hands. He fell over onto the grass. Richard Hibbs was next and he dropped into a sitting position. All the best people in the whole world are here, Scotty thought, and they’re all getting blown up.

  Only Jimmy Lamson and Tom Conway were left with Scotty in the circle when the bomb went off in Scotty’s hands. He tucked it close to his stomach, broke from the circle, and in the middle of the yard, he did his best imitation of an actual explosion. He threw the Time Bomb in the air, while adding his own spit-filled sound effects—his arms stretched in opposite directions, he landed in the grass on his stomach with his legs splayed. “Blown to bits,” he announced to his friends as he pushed up on his arms. “Mom!” he called out—he saw she was watching from the back porch. “I was blown to bits.”

  Joan smiled.

  Scotty made a face at her as if to say, No dummy—you don’t understand. “I’m gone, Mom. I’m in little pieces all over the yard.”

  Joan smiled and said, “That’s too bad. I guess you’ll miss the cake.”

  As the other boys ran toward the Ocean house, Scotty walked confidently, because he knew there would be no cake until he blew out the candles.

  Tom Conway picked up the Time Bomb and followed after Scotty, saying, “Better be careful. Otherwise you’ll break it.”

  ***

  From the kitchen the Judge called out, “Scotty, never seen a cake like this!”

  The curtains had been drawn. Joan flipped off the lights and from the kitchen a comet of cake and flames moved toward the dining room where Scotty and his friends sat waiting.

  Everything about the moon-landing cake was unique. It seemed larger than the usual birthday offering (it wasn’t). Lit only by candles, the cake’s craters of frosting appeared even more lifelike. One could imagine it already becoming a kind of benchmark—the cake to which all other cakes would be compared.

  The Judge led the singing. Joan snapped a picture of Scotty staring at it, stunned, his hands holding his head.

  The wax from the seven candles had begun to drip on the frosting.

  “You better hurry,” Maggie said.
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  Joan said, “Make a wish.”

  Scotty thought for a moment.

  “Hurry,” the party guests urged.

  Joan took a second picture as Scotty blew with all his might, his cheeks puffed, putting out the candles.

  Dan Burkhett asked Scotty what he wished for.

  “If you tell, it won’t come true,” Tom Conway said.

  Scotty pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  When Scotty saw the Judge lift the knife, he shouted, “No!”

  The Judge stopped.

  “Don’t! Don’t cut it.”

  The Judge smiled. “There are traditions, Scotty, boys—at birthday parties you eat the cake. It’s what people do.”

  And with that, he brought the knife to the frosting a second time.

  Scotty screamed, “No! Leave it alone!”

  No one wanted to eat the moon.

  And when Joan tried to say as much, the Judge glanced at her, rage in his eyes, a smile pasted on his face.

  Joan turned away.

  Holding the cake knife, the Judge said, “Cakes are meant to be eaten.” Then he methodically cut equal pieces. Once the first piece was put on a plate, it became more cake than moon, and Scotty forgot his objections. He took the cake in his hands. A shaken Joan readied the camera and there was a bright flash when Scotty took the first bite.

  (2)

  He’d been seven for two days and everything had been perfect.

  “And now this,” Scotty said, sitting Indian-style in front of the television.

  “Yes,” Joan said, watching from the sofa. “And now this.”

  The Judge had gone upstairs to wake the girls.

  Scotty touched the screen and said, “They’re already in there.” Smoke billowed out of the rocket. “It’s about to blast off—”

  “Scotty,” Joan said, “those numbers on the TV tell us how long it’ll be. We’ve still got thirty-two minutes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Time for another bowl of cereal if you want.”

  With his eyes fixed on the television screen, Scotty lifted the empty bowl above his head. Joan knew the signal. She took the bowl, went to the kitchen where she poured him more cereal and milk, and put the bowl back in his hands, which had stayed in the air waiting.

  The Judge came downstairs and said with a shrug, “Claire’s in the shower. And Maggie won’t wake up. They don’t seem excited.”

  “Scotty’s excited,” Joan said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  On the television screen, Spiro Agnew sat with other dignitaries on a special platform.

  The Judge sat on the sofa, pointed to the TV, and said, “There’s our Vice President.”

  “Call if something happens,” the Judge said. He stood and went into the kitchen.

  Soon Scotty heard the sharp tones of his father’s voice, the slamming of a cupboard, and he knew it was an argument. He could only hear the Judge’s side because Joan always whispered when she was upset.

  Scotty decided to keep his parents posted. “Twenty-seven minutes,” he shouted. “Twenty-four minutes!” He forgot about what was on TV; only the clock in the corner of the screen held his attention. “Stop fighting,” he wanted to shout, but he only managed to give his updates. “Twenty minutes!”

  At seventeen minutes and counting, the Judge emerged from the kitchen and smiled his fake smile. He touched Scotty on the top of his head and said, “You’re the man in the family while I’m at work. Okay, Scotty?”

  “Okay.”

  The Judge smiled. He walked to the doorway. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he shouted, “Girls! You don’t want to miss history!”

  After the Judge left the house, Joan emerged from the kitchen. She lit a cigarette the moment the Judge’s car started. She smoked three in a row. Before she went back into the kitchen, she told Scotty to call her when it got close.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  He watched her walk away.

  As the blast-off got closer, Scotty felt a sudden distrust for the clock. What if Neil Armstrong or Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin hit the wrong lever and the rocket accidentally took off? It could happen. He’d made this argument the previous day with Tom Conway, whose father was fighting in Vietnam. Tom said, “Mistakes don’t happen in outer space.” Scotty disagreed and threw a stick at him, cutting Tom’s forehead. Tom ran home to tell his mother, who called Joan who spanked Scotty and then kissed him.

  ***

  When Claire, her hair wet from the shower, and Maggie, still in pajamas, thumped down the stairs, Scotty called out, “Mom, it’s close.”

  His sisters plopped down on the sofa. Maggie yawned. Claire cracked her back.

  “Mom, it’s thirty seconds!”

  Claire told Scotty to move as he was blocking the TV.

  “Mom,” Scotty shouted. “It’s almost countdown.”

  At “ten… nine,” he screamed for her.

  At “six… five,” Joan came in the living room from the kitchen and saw Scotty holding his breath.

  “Three… two… one.”

  “Sweetie, breathe.”

  The camera tracked the rocket. It started slowly—smoke and flames—it shot straight up, then it began to veer to the right. As it went higher, it got smaller.

  Scotty shook his head. He couldn’t imagine how they’d get back to earth. “How will they get back?”

  “Getting out of the atmosphere. That’s the tough part,” Claire said. “Once you’re out, you don’t need much fuel.”

  “That’s right,” Joan said. “It’s the getting away.”

  “Yeah,” said Scotty.

  Maggie smirked at Scotty. “What do you know,” she said.

  ***

  Later, after his sisters bicycled to Holiday Pool to swim, Scotty stayed fixed to the television. He wouldn’t relax until the Apollo 11 splashed down, until Neil and Michael and especially Buzz Aldrin were back on earth, safe and sound.

  During an interview with a scientist, Scotty broke away from the TV and headed toward the kitchen. There he saw his mother slouched in a chair, smoking and staring down.

  He moved to the center of the room. His hands contracted into fists. He threw one hand up as the other came down all the while bobbing his head and shaking his left leg, his right, his left, his right.

  “The seven dance,” he said.

  Joan Ocean tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  So Scotty knelt before her, wrapped his arms around her extended legs, and began kissing her white tennis sneakers while she smoked and cried. “Kissing machine,” Scotty said. With his lips, he moved to her ankles, to her knees where he sucked a kneecap—he moved up her thighs. Using her free hand, she pushed on his head to keep him from going any higher. He smooched the air, making his exaggerated version of the kiss sound. But he pressed against her hand; he was strong and determined, and Joan was tired. She gave way and his lips shot for her stomach. When he tried to lift her flowered shirt, she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and shouted, “No! Scotty, no!”

  He froze. The tone in her voice did not sound like his mother. He looked up at her. She didn’t smile. So he turned, ran out of the room, and waited at the top of the stairs for her to come after him. When she didn’t, he ran to his closet and hid. It’ll take hours for her to find me, he decided, and when she does, she’ll say she’s sorry. She’ll feel bad. Then we’ll go downstairs and watch TV, or maybe go for a ride to the Lil’ Red Barn for gum and candy bars, or maybe she’ll take me to the top of Buffalo Road and we’ll speed down the hill with the top down.

  Scotty crouched in his closet.

  So much time passed that Scotty could see it: His hair turned gray, spots formed on his hands, wrinkles cut across his face, and his ears grew big and hairy. I’ll be a skeleton, he thought, if she doesn’t come soon. He stared at his hands, squeezed his eyes open and shut, blinking away the age.

  With no sign that his mother would come for him, Scotty snuck back to the top of the stairs. He co
uld hear Joan talking, but he didn’t hear anyone talking back. Scotty moved down a step at a time until he was at the base of the stairs. He tiptoed down the hall. He peeked around the corner and saw her standing at the kitchen sink, the phone cord stretched to its limit, her back toward him. She spoke softly. She sounded upset. He knew what to do. Quietly opening the basement door, he snuck down the darkened stairs. Light poured in from two small basement windows. He made his way to the far corner of the back room where a second refrigerator stood, humming, almost purring. He pulled at the handle and the light from inside forced him to squint. The cool air washed over his face. He closed his eyes and with his hands located a can and pulled it from its plastic holder.

  He moved fast across the basement floor, bumping into two barstools and a stack of old encyclopedias. She heard me, he thought. But he crept up the stairs slowly, just in case.

  At the top, he cracked the door and saw that his mother had wrapped herself in the phone cord. He watched as she listened, her face in pain. “But,” she said. “What do I do? My paintings don’t make money.”

  She was talking to Liz Conway, he decided. Because this was how she always talked to Liz Conway.

  She unwound herself from the cord with the phone away from her ear. When she freed herself, she put the receiver to her mouth and said a chilly “Easy for you to say.”

  After hanging up, she breathed out a heavy sigh and sat at the kitchen table. Scotty slowly pushed open the basement door. She didn’t hear him. He moved behind her, inches from her head. He lifted the beer can to the heavens, pulled back the tab—it made a click sound—then the whoosh of compressed air releasing—Joan snapped her head in his direction. This she’d heard. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and a smile formed, the look of relief, and she said, “Little love, you just read my mind.”

  (3)

  Joan’s studio was a small apartmentlike space on University Avenue in the neighboring town of Windsor Heights. Located behind a row of stores (Anjo’s Restaurant, Wirtz’s Rexall drugstore, Doug’s Toy World, and a State Farm Insurance office), it was ideal for her purposes.

  “It’s my place to escape,” she liked to say.