Cave Writes

In the backyard of my father’s apartment, our pool was wasting away.
Returning to nature would be more appropriate.
Where blue pool floors brightly shined from neighboring houses, murky green hardly
peeked beneath a gray skin of scum and algae clumps. The water sat dankly still, apart
from the minor incursions of tadpoles and turtles.
The air smelled sour. Matcha green earthy notes mingled heavy with foul fermentation.
The cesspool, a result of my father’s neglect, continued to flourish. It’s almost
impressive to achieve such biodiversity in so small a time. Maybe all sterile water
yearns to hold life again.
My father was a businessman. Clean shaven, primly dressed, spick and span, quick to
smile and given to laughter. Our pool was blue once too.
A business partner declared bankruptcy. Entwined in a bad deal, my father’s new
company toppled long before any of its debts were cleared.
Smooth chin gave way to stubble, to tumbleweed growth. Pants to slacks to shorts.
Eyes filled with some new emotion stuck to my back. A sentiment showing resignation.
A brow-set sorrow, striving to strangle that despair and leave progress in its place. Even
if that progress didn’t involve his children.
What can you do as a child? When you see your father savoring a tomato, smothered in
salt? When he’s so out of a job he’s looking for work in other cities, in other states?
You can clean the pool.
The pool scoop was an adult’s tool. Eight feet in length, its polished silver body had long
been overtaken by dust and patchwork rustication. Flakey, orange metal crunched and
fell like piecey autumn leaves under my grip. Hefting the unwieldy rod was a struggle.
An accidental smack to the white paneled house sent my heart racing, but a look
through our rickety screen door showed a hunched back, scrolling through rentals in a
state away from here.
I shuffled towards the middle for better control. From an outside view, the tiny child and
his comically large net must’ve looked ridiculous, but my heart was filled with pride.
Pride for the service I was paying to my forlorn father. Hope that it would be enough.
Straining forearms twisted, plunging the net and breaking the top layer of scum with a
flat smack. Skimming the pool took a huge effort. Working my way through the algae
and collecting more and more muck felt rewarding. The exposed water looked black and
unending, somewhat dampening my estimated progress. Waves of mold and earth and
growth invaded my nose. I desperately wanted to back away. To drop the stick and
enter the house, but I wasn’t just doing this for me.
Resolutely, I lifted the scoop’s tip. Reentering it further in and slicing another line. The
large net was quite full. I’d have to empty it.
Upon lifting, I found the water was deceptive. In open air, the tool was almost
unliftable… No, I could do it. Small knuckles flared white and a great heave threw the
organic mass to the pool’s side, spattering sloppily onto the yellowing lawn.
Two distinct lines stood starkly visible, but algae slowly spread to the empty space. I
had enough time to make out many rapid movements beneath the surface. Hundreds of
dark slivers retreating from the carved light.
Eyeing my algae pile and comparing it to the large pool, I worried that my task may
prove impossible. I’d hardly made a dent in the growth. Nature seemed a difficult beast
to tame.
The sun stood high in the sky. Swiping sweat from my brow, I hoisted the rod once
again. I’d need to go faster, gather more.
Almost manically, I slashed line after line in the pool. The algae was visibly thinning. My
marks stood longer and the spread seemed to weaken. I was winning against the
growth. In a frenzy, shapes beneath the water darted back and forth. Maybe they
welcomed the sun’s intrusion? Maybe they’d been trapped under the algae as well,
thirsting for some light?
I was doing a great service. To the water’s inhabitants, to my father, and to myself. I
loved my father’s laugh. His bushy face and graying hair looked alien to me. Unnatural
and unwelcome. I loved my father but neither of us seemed thrilled about what he’d
become.
Maybe that’s why he hardly smiled anymore. Just like the water dwellers, he didn’t
appreciate the growth: the copper nest that had overtaken his jaw. My father likely
couldn’t do anything to stop the spread. Powerless to machinations beyond control, his
beard grew wild and impeded his light.
I had to do all I could to help my father. Although these small creatures were powerless,
I could clear the algae and bring light. It was my responsibility.
Chest swelling with pride, I swept with renewed vigor. The algae seemed to disappear
under my care. The thick layer of scum had reduced in height, and handling the scoop
had become easier. I was able to make four, five passes before emptying the net, and
my progress only increased from there. My father would be so proud!
I turned my head, hoping that he’d been watching my efforts and appreciated having
such a dutiful son.
The torque of my body carried the scoop as well.
A metallic smack vibrated through the stick.
A second passed before a tremendous force crashed into my back, slamming my head
and taking me down. Down, down, and into the pool.
I gasp. Horrific. Wretched. No sight, no time to try to see. Turbulent, dizzying, and
horrible. Swirling and gasping. No air but water. Not water but liquid. Everywhere.
Chunks and weeds and spidery webs and tangles and crying and screaming but more
water invading and not seeing but blackness and bubbles and tears. Slicing limbs and
flailing and crying. No air but gasping. Breathing water but choking. Trying to wrench my
way up but I retch water and where is up? The darkness stretches. Slamming and
scratching. Hitting something. A wall! A wrench! An iron grip around my wrist. Yanked
hard enough to hurt. Light explodes and I gasp and I cry and I retch and I’m hugged and
I’m standing and the shadow is gone from my father’s face and he’s panicking and
asking if I’m okay and I cry and I’m brought inside to the shower.
I’m brought inside to the shower and he blasts the water and it sprays cold but warms
and I’m regaining my breath and I retch and I’m soaked and the water comes down
dirty. The water looks brown in the bath and lumps fall and fall and fall. Hundreds of
black lumps splatter into the yellowed-white bath into the brownish-green water and
crack and the creature’s die.
Tadpole blood is reddish-green. Like copper. Like rust. Like a rusticated pool rod that
sent a screen door falling into my back and copper like the spirals in my dad’s beard
and black like the tadpole corpses collecting and blocking the drain. Collecting but not
swimming. Piling because they’re dead and I cry.
My father moved away that month. The following renters drained the pool before
cleaning it.
When I close my eyes, a thousand inky tadpole corpses float by. Dark but definable
against the blackness. Sometimes, I want to scream, but I’m choked by the algae.
Silenced by the dark that I’m helpless to prevent.