Trial and Error

Forty

Spunky spun Bobby in the tank, whirling him around and around. His shirt tore, and his shorts were dragged down to his knees. Spunky sped up, Bobby spinning so fast his eyes blurred and his sinuses filled with water.

If it were Chanukah, he’d be a human dreidel.

Mr. Grisby blasted his whistle and Spunky let go. The rafters continued twirling above Bobby’s head, looking like wooden horses on a carousel. He choked on the salt water, then upchucked all over himself.

“Who the hell is that?” Cowboy Boots snarled.

“Robert Solomon,” Mr. Grisby said. “You’ve already met his uncle.”

“That lawyer. Oh, shit.”

“How much did you hear, Robert?”

“Nothing.” Bobby treaded water. “Nothing at all.”

“He’s lying,” the big man said. “It’s like a drum in here.”

“Either way,” Grisby said, “he’s seen the dolphins. He’s seen the two of you.”

“I lost my glasses. I can’t see anything. Really, Mr. Grisby.”

Pleading, Bobby knew. Pleading for his life. He didn’t have any other ideas.

“What are you gonna do, Grisby?” the big man said.

Mr. Grisby picked up the two sticks. “One more demo for you to tell your bosses about. It’ll prove the total discipline of my training.”

“How so?”

“The dolphins know Robert. They like him. But properly trained dolphins are one hundred percent obedient. They’re deprived of free will.”

“The Manchurian dolphin?” the big man asked. “That what you saying?”

“Just watch. They’ll do to the boy the same thing they did that dummy.”

“No, Mr. Grisby!” Bobby could picture himself being ripped in two, his intestines spewing out into the water like links of sausage.

Misty circled Bobby, her fin brushing his arms. Spunky made a sound through his blowhole. The same rhythmic beats as before. “Stranger.” But this time, the dolphin turned his beak toward the platform. He pointed toward Mr. Grisby. It took Bobby a moment to figure out the message. He’d gotten it wrong before.

I’m not the stranger. Mr. Grisby has become a stranger to them.

They’re warning me.

Thanks, but it’s a little late.

Bobby put two fingers to his mouth and whistled a singsong: “I love you.”

Mr. Grisby started rattling the sticks together. It was the cue for each dolphin to grab an ankle and begin tearing him apart.

Neither one obeyed. Instead, Misty grabbed Bobby by the shoulder, her mouth gentle, her teeth not even breaking the skin. She held him upright in the water, letting him rest. No more need to keep pedaling to stay afloat.

Grisby banged the sticks again, harder.

Misty held Bobby still, rustling the water with her fluke.

“Goddammit!” Grisby fumed. “Follow orders.” He blew into his whistle. A shrill, piercing sound.

Spunky dived, leaving Misty on the surface, still holding Bobby by the shoulder.

“What the hell’s wrong with you two?” Grisby shouted.

Bobby looked at Misty, heard her click-click. The word “breathe.”

She’s waiting for me. She’s waiting for me to take a deep breath.

Bobby exhaled. He took the deepest breath he could. Then Misty dived, carrying the boy straight to the bottom of the fifteen-foot tank.

Bobby could hear Grisby screaming cuss words as they went under.

Spunky was already there, working his beak on the metal handle of a grated door that led to the spillway. The handle, a sliding bolt, wouldn’t budge. Maybe it was rusted. Maybe the water pressure was just too strong. Despite his great strength, Spunky seemed stymied.

Bobby was running out of breath.

He exhaled a burst, felt his lungs tighten.

Spunky swam backwards, got a running start, swung sideways, and banged his bulk into the steal door, snapping the bolt. He pushed against the door with his beak, swinging it open.

Bobby knew he was drowning.

Misty tightened her grip on Bobby’s shoulder. She carried him through the door and into the spillway. Spunky came behind, nudging at Bobby’s feet. The three of them picked up speed with the flow of the water, and emerged at the bottom of the spillway and into the channel. Misty pulled Bobby to the surface, and the boy felt the night air. He gobbled half a dozen fast breaths and hung on to Misty’s dorsal fin. Behind them, Bobby heard the endless blasts of Mr. Grisby’s whistle.

Steve chugged to a stop under a palm tree a few hundred yards from the channel. They were at the edge of the park. He stood, hunched over, hands on hips, sucking air. Victoria breathed normally. Was she even sweating? An hour on the treadmill each day and singles tennis under the Florida sun will build your endurance.

“You’re not even winded,” Steve said. Sounded peeved.

“You have to learn to pace yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Life’s a marathon. You can’t burn yourself out.”

Steve straightened up and looked around. The channel was quiet. A half-moon gave off a soft glow, and the palm fronds rustled in the warm breeze. He looked past the bend in the channel, toward the quonset building, where light shone through the breezeway.

“Someone’s in there,” he said, pointing.

Before they’d taken two steps, a shrill sound came from the direction of the building. A whistle. One long bleat, followed by numerous short blasts.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

12. Life may be a marathon, but sometimes you have to sprint to save a life.