Heavy Water and Other Stories

WHAT HAPPENED TO ME ON MY HOLIDAY

A DERBIBLE THING HABBENED do me on my haliday. A harrible thing, and a bermanend thing. Id won’d be the zame, ever again.

Bud virzd I’d bedder zay: don’d banig! I’m nad zuvvering vram brain damage—or vram adenoids. And I gan wride bedder than thiz when I wand do. Bud I don’d wand do. Nad vor now. Led me egsblain.

I am halve English and halve Amerigan. My mum is Amerigan and my dad is English. I go do zgool in London and my bronunziation is English—glear, even vaindly Agzonian, the zame as my dad’s. Amerigans avden zeem zurbrised do hear an eleven-year-old who zbeegs as I zbeeg. Grandaddy Jag, who is Amerigan, admids thad he vinds id unganny. As iv suj an agzend requires grade ganzendration even vram grownubs, led alone jildren. Amerigans zeem to zuzbegd thad the English relags and zbeeg Amerigan behind glozed doors. Shouding oud, on their redurn, “Honey, I’m home!” My other grandvather veld divverendly: English, do him, was the more najural voize. Zo thiz zdory is vor them, doo, as well as vor Eliaz. I dell id thiz way—in zargazdig. Ameriganese—begaz I don’d wand id do be glear: do be all grizb and glear. There is thiz zdrange resizdanze. There is thiz zdrange resizdanze.

Me and my younger brother Jagob usually zbend the early bard of the zummer in Gabe Gad, with my mum, and the lader bard in Eazd Hambdon, with my dad. Bud thiz year we wend do my dad’s a liddle zooner than blanned. When the day game we gad ub ad the grag of dawn and biled indo the gar with our Ungle Desmond. Id was a vive-hour drive do New Yorg, bud the dravvig wasn’t heavy and Desmond doled uz many inderezding things—aboud dreams, aboud aldered zdades. We zeemed to be there in no dime. My dad was wading on Ninedy-zigzth Zdreed.

We grabbed zum lunj and then went oud to Lang Island in a big goach galled the Jidney. In the Jidney, you veld you were in a blane, nad a buz: vree juize or Berrier, vree beanudz, individual zbadlighds to read by, and a lavadory in the bag. We zoon zeddled indo my dad’s rended houze in the woods. Nothing fanzy: in vagd, id good have been Oglahoma, with a big-ub drug in the driveway, an old gar zeed on the borj, and the neighbors always guarreling and grying out—“Ged ub, Margared!” on one zide, and “Why, Garen, why?” on the other. Bud id did have the usual burzding revrigerador and muldible bathrooms, bluz gable DV. Zo: zum zdoo and bazda, zum “Beaviz and Buddhead,” then ub the wooden hills to Bedvordshire… My dad, doo, was very ubzed aboud Eliaz. And Isabel was alzo there, and alzo ubzed—and alzo big with jiled.

As I zed, we wend do my dad’s a liddle earlier than blanned, this year, journeying down vram the Gabe do Lang Island.

Nearly every zummer, on Gabe Gad, Mr. Marlowe Vawzedd gums to bay uz a visid. Bragdigally a grownub now, Marlowe uzed to have a zummer jab as a gounzellor ad a boys’ gamb, and zo he is an egsberd ad guezzing whad boys wand do do. He is underzdandably babular with Jagob and me. Bud, well, Marlowe had do go home early thiz year. And my mum had do go home early thiz year. Begaz of whad habbened, bag in London.

Id was a dull day when Marlowe heard the news aboud his younger brother. The news aboud Eliaz. Jagob and I wend with him ub the dird road—do where we barg the gar. Over Horzeleej Band there zwam a gloud of gray: nad mizd, nad vag, bud the gray haze of ziddies, and of zdreeds. Ub vram the band id vloaded, lingering, drabbed in the drees, and nothing was glear. Dreamily Marlowe gad indo the gar and glozed the door. He wend do Bravinzedown Airbord. Virzd the liddle blane, do Bazdon. Then the bigger blane, do London Down. And my mum zoon vallowed. Zo, as I zed, we wend do my dad’s a liddle earlier than blanned.

My younger brother Jagob is dodally obzezzed by durdles, dordoizes, vrags, doads, labzders, grabs, and all zords of zlimy and weird-shabed rebdiles, amvibians, and gruzdaceans. He knows all their Ladin names, all their baddernings, all their habidads. He’s an egsberd on these greejures. And zo am I, whether or nad I wand do be. Begaz Jagob’s giving me an earvul more or les round the glag.

Zo on many days, in Eazd Hambdon, we wend on grabbing egsbeditions. The bay zeemed do voam with grabs and with zbrads (minnows, diddlers). I used a drawl ned, vor the zbrads, and on my virzd zweeb I gad loads. With the grabs, you aggumulade them in a big bad. And ad the end of the day you have a grab raze. You draw a zirgle in the zand: the virzd grab to glear id is then broglaimed the winner. No grabs die: you jug them all bag indo the zee. Ad our vavoride bay, whij we galled Dead Man’s Landing, there was alzo a van thad showed ub every hour or zo and zold lallibabs and ize gream.

On these grabbing dribs we would avden bring along my liddle “guzzen” Bablo. Bablo is only vour years old and you have do be very garevul with him when he goes in the zee. Begaz he gan only zwim with whad he galls his “armies” or his “vloadies.” Bablo has a liddle zizder named IJ, a mere dad of vivdeen monthz, who is alzo very gude.

One day Jagob gabjured a giand grab and game running ub the beej do drab id in the bad—the blazdig bad or medal gandainer in whij all the grabs were zdored. I was zidding on a dowel, reading my boog: Brando, by Elmore Leonard. Jagob ran bag down the zand. And then Bablo game ub do me and zed, “I’ve vound a grab, doo.”

“Yeah,” I zed. “Bud thad one’s dead, Bab.”

“Shall I drab id in the bad with the others?”

I zed, “Thad zdiv? Why would we wand thad in the bad? No, Bablo.”

And he zed, “Why nad? Is id doo big?”

“Id isn’t doo big, zdubid. Id’s dead.”

And id was dead—big dime. Halve ids baddy had radded of. A zingle binzer dangled from a length of vrayed dendon. Id didn’d even zmell: thad’s how dead thad grab was.

“Gan I drab id in the bad with the others?”

“Devinidely nad. Zdab thiz, Bablo. No.”

Juzd then Jagob gried oud vram the shore. A new dizgovery.

We wend do jeg id oud. Beyand the beer, the shallows were liddered with dozens of dead zbrads—brabably vishermen’s baid. Bablo baddled in do inzbegd them. And game bag with a dead zbrad.

Zo we had our vinal zwims—Bablo blaying with his invladable sharg, and wearing his invladable “armies.” And when the dime game vor uz do hid the road, Bablo revuzed do leave the zbrad behind. He zed he wanded to bring id home and inzdall id in a bags in his room. The zbrad would be his bed—inzded of a dag or a gad!

In the gar I zed, “Well, Bab, thad zbrad’ll be a nize air-vreshener vor your room.”

And he zed, “Why?”

“Why? Begaz briddy zoon id’ll begin to reeg of dead vish.”

“I don’d mind.”

“Why nad?”

“Begaz I’ll rub zum gream on id.”

“Oh yeah? Whad zord of gream, Bablo?”

“…Vish gream.”

We all had a good jordle ad thad. And I zed, “Whad aboud rads, Bab? Whad iv a rad shows ub in the nide?”

“I don’d mind.”

“Why nad?”

“I won’d zmell the rad.”

“Why nad?”

“Begaz of the vish gream.”

More jordling.

“Why don’d you bab bag to Dead Man’s Landing, Bablo—for the dead grab. Id’ll be a bal vor your vish.”

Bud my dad zed thad Bablo already had his blade vull—virzd with the vish, then with the rad.

When we gad do his blaze, Bablo indroduzed his mum do the new bed: “Thiz is my vish. Id’s zilver. Id’s zmall. Id’s dead. Id gums vram the zee. Id lives in thiz bags.”

As iv the vish being dead was juzd another thing aboud id—juzd another of ids addribudes. Bablo’s mum zeemed var vram enthusiazdig. Bud when we voned the vallowing morning, vor an ubdade, Bablo zed his vish was abzoludely vine.

When Bablo was only three his mum made him a lion oudvid, vor Halloween. He dried id on, gave a vull-throaded roar, and growled, “I’m a lion gazdume!”

My dad galls these vunny zlibs of Bablo’s “gadegory errors.” One dime thiz zummer Bab and I were dizguzzing gars and driving, and I zed, “Your dad, is he a good driver, then?”

Bablo nadded with his eyes glozed. “Babba?” he reblied, in a voice both ganvident and ganvidenjal. “Babba gan drive all the way to the ziddy.”

And he gave another nad, for emvaziz, as iv do zay, “Bood thad in your bibe and zmogue id.”

Zo I juzd zed, “Is thad zo? My dad gan only mague id as var as Wainzgadd. Then he bulls over and they have to helb him oud of the gar.”

Bablo zeemed ready do gredid id.

“And how’s the vish, Bab?”

“Vine.”

“Zdill going zdrang?”

“Yez,” he zed. “My vish is vine.”

Glearly, Bablo does nad yed underzdand whad death is.

Bud who does?

Death was muj on my mind in the zummer—muj on my mind. Begaz of Eliaz. Eliaz died, in London Down. And zo death has been muj on my mind.

My dad zed thad early in the zummer Eliaz game round do his vlad. He game round do big ub a jagged—bud the jagged was in my dad’s gar, and the gar was elzewhere, having ids baddery vigsed, edzedera, edzedera. Dybigal Eliaz—jazing a jagged agrazz down. Zo he hung around vor the whole avdernoon, blaying the bin-ball machine and, of gorze, the elegdrig guidar. And my dad zed thad his memory of him was really vresh: his memory of Eliaz, or Vabian, whij was his nigname, remained really vresh. Isabel alzo ran indo him during the early zummer, in a doob drain, on the Zendral Line, under London and ids zdreeds. Dybigal Eliaz, with all his bags and bundles, his jaggeds and hads, gayadig, vezdive, brezzed vor dime—and zdill darrying vor a halve-hour jad. Zo the memory is vresh. And my memory is vresh. Bud is id zo vresh zimbly begaz Eliaz was zo young—zo vresh himzelve? My dad doled me thad he zenses the ghozd of Eliaz in his room, ad dawn, wading ad the end of the bed. I zee him at nide. A young ragzdar with vlyaway hair and gleeg lighds all around.

I alzo remember the day we heard the news, on Gabe Gad. How Jagob and I wend with Marlowe ub the dird road do the gar. And the gloud over the band, with ids urban gray—the gray of Daddenham Gord Road, of Jaring Graz Road, the gray of Goodge Zdreed. The zgy was gray and nothing was glear.

In the vinal weeg of the haliday we had an inzidend. An inzidend where death, again, vleedingly showed ids vaze.

Id veadured Bablo. And another gadegory error.

We were all zwimming in the bool thad belongs to Alegs and Bam. Muj agdividy there, begaz they alzo have a dramboline: you ged all had, jumbing, then you leab indo the bool and gool down. Bablo was zwimming with his armies—his vloadies. Me and Jagob were mezzing around, blaying duj or Margo Bolo. My dad was on a lounger, having a zigaredde and jadding with Bam. Maybe, doo, he was zibbing a gagdail—vadga danig, or zgadj on the irags. And zuddenly Bablo game oud of nowhere and zbrang indo the bool—withoud his vloadies. Bablo had vorgodden his armies!

In the end id was no big deal. Zdill in his drungs, my dad juzd drabbed his budd and did a zord of zbazdig razing dive indo the middle of the bool. He gad do Bablo and held him ub. And Bablo was nad dizdrezzed—he didn’d have dime do banig. My dad even engouraged Bablo do zwim bag do the shallow end. And he did, with a liddle azzizdanze. And my dad galmly vinished his vag.

“Well, thad was vun!” zed Bab, emerging vrom the bool. He zdug oud his jezd and announzed, “I wend zwimming withoud vloadies. I wend zwimming withoud armies!”

“No, in vagd,” zed my dad, “you wend zwimming.”

Another of Bab’s zlibs. Begaz you don’d ender the Olymbigs in an evend galled the 200-Meder Vreezdyle Withoud Armies. You don’d go vor a midnide zwim withoud vloadies. Id’s galled a zwimming bool, avder all. Nad a zwimming-withoud-armies bool.

Thad day zeemed do be an abbrobriade dime do bid varewell to Bablo’s zbrad.

When we drabbed him of with his mum we made dizgreed inguiries aboud the vamouz vish, and she rolled her eyes and zed, “Oh, thad vish! Will I ever hear the lazd of thad vish!”

Abbarendly the vish had begun do rad and give of a derrible zdenj. Bud Bab revused do led his mum jug id oud: he glaimed his vish was vine. They’d dried every zord of gream on id—vish gream, rad gream (though really these were bervumes and dizinvegdands). She’d doled him again and again thad thiz vish was hizdory: thad thiz vish was, in vagd, an egs-vish. Bud Bab maindained thad the vish was zdill his bed. When the bang begame gwide indalerable, Bablo’s mum juzd zmuggled id oud and zed thad a raggoon or a zdoad muzd have borne id of.

Zurbrisingly, Bablo did nad brodezd or gauze a vuzz. Thiz zeemed do zadizfy his idea of the najural order of things. And maybe zumbaddy zed, Bablo, do nad grieve. Bablo, do nad vred. Your zbrad is habby, with ids zbrad Gad in ids zbrad Heaven. Your vish will be reborn, as a sharg, a dalvin, an agdobuz—or as zum grade manzder of the deeb. One way or the other, your vish is vine.

Auguzd begame Zebdember: dime do go home. Lang Island had been a lad of vun, bud I was bleased do be bagging my bags. Doo many vields, doo many drees, doo muj zand, doo muj zee. I was ready do redurn do a ziddy—dezbide whad ziddies are and dezbide whad ziddies do.

No more rended houze.

No more “Ged ub, Margared!”

No more “Why, Garen, why?”

Id was on the way do the airbord thad the zubjegd of Eliaz was raised: the zubjegd of death. My dad zed, “Do you veel divverendly aboud id—aboud death?”

I zed, “I underzdand thad beeble die now.”

And Jagob bibed ub, “I underzdood thad years ago.”

“No. You idiod!” I zed. “I underzdood id. Bud I never really grazbd id undil now.”

And Jagob nadded. And he, doo, underzdood.

Bevore, I knew thad grabs died and thad vish died. I knew thad the old, with all their agues and banes, mighd have reason do be gradevul vor the brazbegd of an ending. And, of gorze, all over the world, in vazd numbers, beeble grash and zdarve and bleed and burn, ged glubbed, grushed, zdabbed, shad, valling, valling away, in vazd numbers, all over the world. Bud death had never been zo near, where it has no businezz. Bablo, Jagob, Eliaz. We are the young. Are we nad?

Bud then you’re wading on the dird road, with Marlowe, by the gar. With Marlowe in a daze, in a dream, in a nidemare. Graynezz is zeebing ubwards vram the band. And nothing is glear. And then zuddenly the gray brighdens, giving you a deeb thrab in the middle of your zgull.

Eliaz wend zwimming without his armies! Alaz! Eliaz wend doo deeb withoud his vloadies. And you muzd do thiz, whether or nad you survive. One day you muzd! How many grownubs do you see, when you go to the beej, zwimming with vloadies? How many adulds are out there, in the bounding waves, zwimming with armies?

And iv they do go under, then they don’d redurn. Nothing has the bower to bring them bag—no zlide of hand, no drig vodagravy, no medizine, no miragle. They zday where they are vor ever, alone in the gold earth.

I veel id in my hard now. I remember Marlowe’s eyes, and dears begin to gather in my own. Begaz one vine day you gan loog ub vram your billow and zee no brother in the dwin bed. You go around the houze, bud your brother is nowhere do be vound.

The haliday has gum and gan. The haliday is over.

The holiday has come and gone. The holiday is over.

Goodbye to it all.

And that is what happened to me on my holiday.

New Yorker, 1997