Three Sides Water

By Peter Donahue

In Three Sides Water, award-winning author Peter Donahue portrays the lives of three young people who seek meaning in an often violent, insensible world.

Across the dramatic landscape of the Pacific Northwest’s Olympic Peninsula, Donahue’s characters take extraordinary actions to transcend the limitations imposed upon them. Marguerite struggles with the emotional aftermath of sexual assault amid the mysticism and untamed wilderness of the Pacific coast in the 1920s. Avery navigates life as a “juvenile delinquent” while the social and political convulsions of the 1960s transform the world around him. Chris escapes the present-day mill town where he grew up, only to find he must reconcile his true self with the troubling persona he’s taken on.

In his newest work of literary fiction, Donahue distills the raw and vivid world of the Olympic Peninsula into a stunning work that challenges what it means to live life with purpose and integrity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ooligan Press
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781932010992

Peter Donahue

Peter Donahue is the author of the novels Clara and Merritt and Madison House, winner of the 2005 Langum Prize for American Historical Fiction, and the short story collection The Cornelius Arms. He is co-editor of the 2016 edition of the memoir Seven Years on the Pacific Slope and the anthologies Reading Seattle and Reading PortlandColumbia: The Magazine of Northwest History since 2005. He teaches at Wenatchee Valley College at Omak and lives in Winthrop, Washington.

Book preview

TheStepBack_9781947845268_FC_(1).jpg

The Step Back

The Step Back

J.T. Bushnell

Ooligan Press • Portland, OR

The Step Back

© 2020 J.T. Bushnell

ISBN13: 9781947845268

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ooligan Press

Portland State University

Post Office Box 751, Portland, Oregon 97207

503.725.9748

[e-mail]

www.ooliganpress.pdx.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Bushnell, J. T., 1980- author.

Title: The Step Back / J.T. Bushnell.

Description: First edition. | Portland, Oregon : Ooligan Press, Portland State University, 2021. | Identifiers: LCCN 2020033690 (print) | LCCN 2020033691 (ebook) | ISBN 9781947845268 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781947845275 (ebook)

Classification: LCC PS3602.U8434 S74 2021 (print) | LCC PS3602.U8434 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020033690

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020033691

Cover design by Denali Halicki

Interior design by Jennifer Ladwig

References to website URLs were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Ooligan Press is responsible for URLs that have changed or expired since the manuscript was prepared.

Printed in the United States of America

For my brothers

Part 1: London

1

Our dog ran away in May, after the spring rainstorms had raised tall grasses on the foothills and washed the sky so hard and blue that a fly ball might have shattered it. It was the best time of year in San Seguro, California, when the sun cast a broad, gentle radiance that set the Pacific breezes stirring, raising aromas of eucalyptus and broccoli. Concrete patios were warm underfoot, lawns thick. Windows sang with the perfect pitch of light, making the indoors look dim no matter how many lamps were on, and so nobody was surprised that the dog took off. At least I wasn’t. I had spent the afternoon chewing sunflower seeds in the dugout, benched in the third inning after getting the start in left field for being a senior. Now all that stood between me and my future were a few final tests and a long summer playing basketball with my friends. I could hardly take a breath without dreaming of escape.

The dog was a two-year-old that looked like a golden retriever but black. We’d found him only a few weeks earlier in a chamber of cyclone fencing at the animal shelter, whining with the urgency of his affection, tail slapping concrete. My parents and brother had descended upon him, cooing and petting, while I folded my arms. I’d begged for a dog since I could remember, and they allowed it now, right when I was leaving? I couldn’t hold the resentment long, though. At home, the dog put its head in my lap and looked up, tail wagging. He leapt onto my bed and hunkered against me and let out a long, satisfied groan. I tried hard to keep a distance, not wanting to get too attached. I knew I had failed at this when I came home from that final baseball game, anticipating the dog’s tumble down the stairs, his gleeful sneezing, his wild tail whacking shins and doorframes, and felt depressed to find the house quiet, still. The only sounds were the guitar chords leaking from Charlie’s room upstairs.

I dropped my cleats in the laundry room and went to the sliding glass door. I called into the yard, London! My parents—literature professors—had insisted on the name to honor the Californian author whose work had brought them together twenty years earlier, ignoring Charlie’s suggestion, Cobain, and mine, Eckersley. I called again, expecting the dog to come racing in, ears pinned back, but the deck and lawn sat undisturbed under the mild, cloudless sky. A decorative wrought-iron fence delineated our property, posts sunken into dark groundcover that would soon bear tiny strawberries. Beyond that rose the foothills, their grasses lime-colored in the low afternoon light, pitching and rolling for miles like an animal’s fantasyland. I gazed at the slopes, looking for motion.

Upstairs, behind his door, Charlie mumbled the lyrics of whatever song he was strumming. When I knocked, the noise ended, and a moment later the door cracked open. I still expected the short boy I’d grown up with, the shock of blond hair and pudgy face beaming from the family portraits on the mantel and the walls, but the eyes that peered out were level with mine, narrowed with distrust and fear of judgment. His face was slim, a crop of whiteheads texturing the forehead and cheeks. Dark fuzz dirtied his upper lip. He waited for me to say what I wanted.

Where’s London? I asked.

England.

Ha ha. Where really?

He ran away.

Where’s Mom and Dad?

Out looking for him I think.

I pushed the door open further. Why weren’t you at my game?

It was today?

Yeah. I started.

How’d you do?

The answer was that I’d struck out in my one at bat and sent a throw over the second baseman’s head that allowed the other team to score. You would know if you were there, I said. Remember my last basketball game?

Yeah. They should’ve left you in.

Wanna come shoot some hoops?

Okay.

I carried the ball into the driveway and had Charlie work on his post moves—the drop-step, the mini-hook, the face-up, the step-through. I defended him from different positions, and he defeated each one with the appropriate move. Then he defeated them all, one at a time, with his devastating step-back. Each time it was quicker, crisper, higher—the big stride away from the hoop, the explosion upward, the ball cocked high above his head where no defender, including me, could bother it. He didn’t need the move yet, already towering over players his own age, but even now his movements were fluid and purposeful. Off the court he seemed to barely have control of his limbs, but on it he was agile and confident, and I liked to think that these sessions were the reason.

We were about to switch positions when the garage door rumbled open, and I was surprised to discover both cars missing. I had assumed my parents were driving the neighborhood streets together, calling from either window. My father’s Volvo rounded the corner and came up the driveway, the passenger seat empty. After parking he wandered out to join us, squinting at the brightness, sunglasses perched in his hair, which needed trimming—brown wings flared over his ears, the back scraggly. A paunch was cupped at the bottom of his sweater vest like a private little sack. His limp seemed worse than normal, a hitch and swing in his right leg that was the result of some childhood malady I could never remember the name of.

He clapped for the ball. When it came, he gripped it awkwardly and launched it like a shot put, missing everything. Charlie chased it down the driveway.

No luck? I asked.

He closed his eyes and raised his face, as if experiencing the sun for the first time. Dogs have an excellent sense of direction.

My mother came home an hour later. I was in the kitchen, eating chips. She didn’t say anything, just carried her purse to the hallway with her face tipped down. Her steps were brisk, like all her movements lately, though I’d been wondering if this was an illusion created by the weight she’d lost. What hadn’t changed was her stoop, the curled posture of a woman who had spent decades hating her height. Down her back tumbled a mess of black curls as long as I’d ever seen them. Her shoes looked stylish on her slender feet and clicked smartly across the tile until she reached the carpeted bedroom. A few moments later, I heard the bath running.

My father came into the kitchen. I thought he was going to start dinner, but he only crunched a few chips from the bag I offered, then poured himself a clear fizzy drink, the kind he carried to the deck all summer but didn’t normally allow himself on weeknights during the school year. It smelled like paint thinner and pine.

Ever had a taste? he asked casually, squeezing in a lime.

No.

He held out the glass. Want one?

I shook my head, then put away the chips and walked out on weird legs.

Charlie was in the shower. He stayed there a long time, then emerged wearing a towel around his waist and a furtive expression. I passed him on the way in, marveling at the contours of his shoulders and torso. His body looked nearly adult, whereas mine was the same collection of angles it had been in childhood, the skin stretched tight over my chest and ribs, the muscles long and sinewy even after two years of weight lifting. My sharp features, on the other hand, were finally beginning to mellow into an adult’s face. I checked the mirror to reaffirm it—the freckles dimming, chin rounding, eyebrows filling. If it kept on this way, I thought it might even be a handsome face one day, though the moment I turned from the mirror it seemed to rearrange itself into the old patterns—my mouth filling with braces, ears flapping out, cowlick standing up.

London still hadn’t come home by the time the sun went down. I had been going to the sliding door every twenty minutes to call and whistle and clap, my voice cheerful at first, then pleading, then angry. For a few minutes the burnished light slid up the foothills until they wore golden crowns. Then the shadows deepened. The watery-blue sky slipped over a purple horizon, and the first stars came out overhead.

I was starting to worry, but only mildly, because beneath the worry was the belief that life offered only setbacks and lessons, not real peril—you missed a shot so you could make a more important one later, you lost your dog so you could experience the joy of its return. It was hard to believe otherwise when the air felt so mild, when the terrain beyond the house was so familiar and benign. Here was the deck where I’d had my earliest birthday parties, the lawn where I’d hunted Easter eggs, the hills where I’d led Charlie on our expeditions, warning him to stay back from the rattlesnakes I pretended to see so that I could twirl my pocket knife into the dirt. I thought of all the versions of myself I’d left in this landscape, then wondered, as I often did, about the version that lay just beyond its horizon: Who was he?

Ed. My father touched my shoulder. He was holding a fresh drink. We’re having a family meeting.

Good. I slid the door shut. I’m getting worried about London.

In the living room, my mother was on the far end of the sectional sofa, her makeup stripped, blotting at her red eyes with tissues. Charlie sat nearby in sweatpants, watching her fearfully. My father gulped his drink, then ushered me in, and I realized we weren’t there to talk about the dog.

2

That summer I wanted to play basketball all the time, every waking moment, and my teammates—ex-teammates now—mostly obliged. They were almost as eager as I was to get outside, peel off their shirts and let the sun wash their shoulders. We met at this court or that court or drove in a caravan searching for one that was available. Then we played for hours, cutting and jumping, knocking hips, grappling for position, sprinting, colliding, sweating and swearing, slapping fives and arguing about fouls and walking off injuries. It was a sophisticated game, with screens and back-cuts, picks and rolls, box-outs and close-outs, help and rotation, so that whenever a shot went in (or not), and whenever a miss was rebounded (or not), and whenever a ball was blocked or stolen or tipped or recovered (or not), we knew we had all played a role in it, that we had failed or succeeded together.

In this fashion we won and lost, we overcame and were overcome, and then we changed teams and tried again. We kept at it until there was nothing left in our legs, until our throats and lungs ached with fatigue, and then we collapsed into the shade, gape-mouthed, sweat dripping from our chins. We gulped Gatorade, tore at Velcro, yanked laces, tugged off shoes and braces and sweatbands, peeled socks that had been doubled and tripled for blister prevention. Then we sat with our legs splayed, talking and laughing, enjoying the cool air between our toes and the serenity of exhaustion and the last few moments of closeness before we disbanded.

I’d never felt as good on the court as I did that summer. The only time that came close had been the last game of the season, when I’d gotten the start for being a senior. By the time the coach had subbed in the real starters, the score was 7-2 and I’d scored all seven. The first two came when I beat everyone down the court on a fast break, the next two when I tipped in an offensive rebound, the last three on a long-range shot from the top of the key. I still remembered what it felt like, holding my follow-through as the ball splashed through the net and the other coach called timeout. The real starters had skipped over from the scorer’s table to mob and congratulate me, and the crowd had cheered the seniors off the court. When I let myself glance at the bleachers, I saw Charlie there beaming at me, clapping wildly like everyone else.

One day, Russo showed up before a pickup game at the junior high court. He was the coach, a short bald man with razor-burned cheeks and a hard belly that sat in his lap like a curled cat when he squatted to draw up a play. It also forced his legs wide apart when he demonstrated a good defensive squat for a lazy player. Sometimes he made such demonstrations on the sideline during games, tugging at the knees of his slacks, his face crazed. To make substitutions he yanked us from the bench by our jerseys and flung us toward the scorer’s table. At halftime he shouted and stomped and broke clipboards over his knee. Otherwise he was a kind and earnest man who hosted spaghetti feeds and preached to us about family, because that was what he said we should be.

And we were. We helped and tolerated each other the way family would, both on and off the court. We tutored Danny Shea into eligibility. We drove to parties late at night to pull Val Lambright away from the alcohol and marijuana that otherwise might have kept him from graduating, let alone coming to practice. When Andre Dennis had his power turned off we washed cars until we’d raised enough to have it turned back on, and when his mother lost their house, we housed him.

And that was why everyone, as if by agreement, dropped into defensive positions as soon as Russo arrived, slapping the ground to show the depth of our crouches. We shuffled around as if performing old drills, calling encouragement to each other, eyes bulging with mock intensity. Russo loved it. He laughed and teased us with instructions, his face glowing. Then, as if on a whim, he called, Hey, Garrison.

I rose from my defensive stance.

Walk with me, he said.

I followed him off the court and around the corner. We strolled by the aquatic center, where screaming kids flung themselves down the slides, the air pungent with chlorine. Russo clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the sidewalk. I hear your parents are divorcing.

I confirmed it with a tone of world-weary acceptance.

What happened?

My mom moved to Maryland.

Why?

She’s from there.

I mean why’d they split up?

I swabbed my face with a shirtsleeve, not wanting to say the reason. It seemed obscene to discuss it, and anyway, I wasn’t sure it was true. My opinion, I told Russo, is that she probably had an affair.

An affair? What makes you say that?

I shrugged. Things don’t add up.

He was staring at me like he expected more. I shrugged again.

And how do you feel about all of it? he asked.

The truth was that it didn’t seem to have much to do with me. I was leaving. It’s a little weird, I told him, but I don’t care much.

That’s not true, is it?

It’s not worth complaining about. Lots of people have divorced parents.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard on them. Divorce can be tough for kids.

I’m not a kid.

He moved aside for an oncoming pedestrian, then faced me on the sidewalk. Maybe not, he said. But when you’re young, you bring your past with you whether you like it or not. You don’t figure out what to do with it, it can bend your whole life the wrong direction. You get what I’m saying?

I’d been conditioned to take Russo’s advice seriously. When you were heaving from ladder sprints, you had to believe in his counsel of discipline and commitment to line up again and wait for his whistle. But this time I didn’t see how it applied to me.

I appreciate the concern, I told him, but I’m leaving for Berkeley in like a month. The one to worry about is my brother. He’s only thirteen. He’s got a lot of growing up left to do.

Russo seemed to stop himself from saying something, then relented, his voice low and eager. How tall is he now?

My height.

You been working on his post moves?

He’s got them down. I’m going to start him on ball handling. I think he could play the wing.

We looked at each other brightly, excited about this prospect, then started down the sidewalk again. Keep an eye out for him, Russo said. He probably needs your help in all this.

I know. I am.

And let me know if there’s anything I can do.

Thanks, but like I said, it really doesn’t bother me. A long truck was angling itself through the intersection ahead while other cars waited. You want to know what does bother me, though?

He gave me a look like he was all ears.

Our dog ran away, and nobody seems to care. Nobody even looks for him except me. We don’t know if he got hit by a car, or if someone else took him in, or if he’s living in the hills, or what. He could be anywhere. But you ask anyone about it and they look at you like you’re crazy. I lowered my voice and said, That’s what bothers me.

Grief can do funny things to people, he responded. Give them time.

The guys were trying to dunk when we returned. Kyle Andrews swooped in and threw the ball off the back iron. Andre Dennis turned the ball over for a finger roll. Seth Feldman did the Air Jordan pose, barely brushing the bottom of the net, and everyone laughed. When the ball finally careened my way, I carried it to the top of the key. They cleared out of the way for my attempt, but I just held it on my hip. Shoot for teams? I asked, and they all got in line behind me.

***

The only time I couldn’t play basketball, besides the nights I bussed tables at Il Grappa, were Sunday mornings. That was when my mother called. It was an event I had come to dread, but I didn’t know what would happen if I wasn’t there to pick up. It was strange to fill my mother in about my life, and to be filled in about hers. The first part was tense and formal, like going to a dance with a girl you barely knew. I could never think of what to say. Was my old Corolla running okay? How were all my friends doing? Had I read any good books lately? I searched for answers longer than a word or two, but my mind was blank, and peering into it for full sentences was like peering into a bleak arctic desert for something other than ice. My car was fine, my friends were fine, the books I read were fine. Everything was fine, and what more was there to say?

The second part of the call was worse, her monologue about the new life she was establishing in Maryland. She’d adopted a cat, she said, and enumerated all the cute and funny things it had done, then started giving play-by-play commentary of what it was doing right at that moment. She was taking a spin class, she said, and proceeded to describe it in painstaking detail, the instructor and the other spinners and the burn in her legs and everything. It was boring—never in my life had I been so bored—but also, it defied my understanding of her in a way I had trouble tolerating. My mother, allowing cat hair on her Burberry Tartan Straight-Leg Trousers. My mother, sweating in a gym. My mother, roaming a big-box bookstore, wearing an earpiece, asking customers if they were finding everything they needed. My mother, burying her head between some other woman’s legs. I couldn’t even get a picture of her on the other end of the line, standing there in Maryland.

Every once in a while she had to ask if I was still there. I would say yes, and she would continue the monologue. Then one time she got to talking about the things she missed in San Seguro—the kinds of trees, the churros stand on Broad Street, the quality of the sunshine, us boys. When she asked if I was still there, I stayed silent, pivoting the receiver from my mouth and breathing quietly as she said, Ed? Ed? Oh, shoot. Ed? Then she was silent too, and for a couple minutes we listened to the susurrus of the long-distance wire.

Those things didn’t leave, I finally answered.

After my turn was over, I carried the phone to Charlie, and Charlie pressed it to his face, smiling sheepishly like the child he was, already oblivious to my presence. Hi Mom, he would say, voice deep, and by then I would be headed downstairs. Sometimes I could hear him laughing even from the living room, and I would have to go outside to shoot baskets. I often found myself wishing I could call around for a pickup game, but there was no way to do it with the phone tied up, so I just kept spinning myself passes, squaring my feet, driving up and launching the ball from my fingertips and holding the follow-through, trying to stay in the moment, to keep my mind from wandering into places I didn’t want it to go.

When basketball was over, though, or when I was lying in bed at night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers that still speckled my ceiling, my mind went there anyway. I saw my father kissing my mother in the kitchen. I heard the way they signed off from phone calls with a casual, I love you. I remembered Charlie and me bursting into their bedroom on Christmas morning to find their two sleepy smiles on their two adjacent pillows.

And then suddenly I would be