Swan Dive

Benjamin's chum Henry flew from his crib this afternoon while both boys were in the care of the nanny. The nanny was with B. in the other room and thus did not see the sequence of events that produced the plunge, so whether it was provoked by boredom, anxiety, or clumsiness is anyone's guess. But whatever the motives, the nanny swears that there was a thud, followed by a shriek (or was it a shriek, followed by a thud?) and that the crib, which not five minutes ago had held sweet baby Henry securely behind padded bars, now lay empty, while the floor, which not five minutes ago had lain empty, now held screeching baby Henry, newly initiated into the ways of the world, unharmed but pissed and anxious to make sure everyone knew it.

Zoogle, meanwhile? Who knows, there are no reports. As fire-engines roared, crowds swelled, and the wail of thwarted animal filled the air, he probably just slipped into his usual low level hysterics, I imagine, though the Amazing Plummeting Henry was too engaging to allow confirmation of this theory. This afternoon he seemed happy. We played Twist the Whisker with Ezekiel the Cat, chewed on a few plastic scoopy things, exchanged a volley of old man style emphysimic howls (Zoogle's latest addition to his ever growing repertoire of odd sounds.) He ate cold green pea mush for dinner, bathed with his usual soddening ardour, soldiered through a dull tale about Pliney the Pig, and dozed off quietly in his crib. I forgot to lift the safety wall. He did not seem to be traumatized.

Both boys are fine, then: it was a minor incident, one of many, I'm sure, that will puncture our children's life and slowly pepper our hair with gray. But though on a rational level it is easy to understand that hard knocks are an inevitable part of life, on the level of raw, visceral image, the picture of the Baby Swan Dive continues to haunt me. Accidents happen. But I can't help thinking about D., my colleague many years ago at the American School in Bilbao. He was ten years my senior, a hard drinking, hard working, writer-teacher-hellraiser type who happened to be a single dad to a beautiful 10 year old boy. That boy took a swan dive too. His happened to be from a 4th story window, carelessly left open by some construction workers. And neither the knowledge that accidents happen nor sincere friendship with the father helped me find any words at the wake.

I just finished reading "A River Runs Through It", by Norman MacClean. It's a lean, well-crafted piece that reminds me of how much I love good storytelling. It's a story about the West, about drinking, fishing, and the challenges of family. It's a story about losing something beautiful. Is there nothing else you can tell me? the old preacher keeps asking, years after the body of his boy Paul had been found beaten to death in an alley. Yes, says Norman, most of the bones in his hand were crushed. Which hand? asks the father, as if knowing his son went out fighting could ease the burden of his absence. It's a sad, pathetic question. And that old preacher, that pottering old figure who tends his garden, drifts from his wife, reads and tries to remember, he has rooted himself in my imagination. He was beautiful, the old man would say, helpless, rubbing his hands in his hair, staring at nothing. A sad, ragged canvass with its central image ripped out.

I worry that I worry too much.