Chapter Ten #2
“Let’s do this,” I’m saying as we both release our hands from my chair, directing our attention to the coins in our fingers.
Matthew looks at his closely, “This nickel is a 1989 nickel. Very lucky number.” Then, looking at me and back to the fountain, he closes his eyes, breathes a deep breath like he’s making an actual first-place wish, and chucks the nickel into the water.
The sploosh of coin on water soothes the soul a little bit, and we both seem to notice.
I mimic his movements, searching the dime in my hand for the mint year. I feel his stare as I close my eyes, take a deep breath and pretend to make a first-place wish, but mostly I can’t stop thinking about mustard. “This dime was made in 1937. Lucky 37,” I say chucking my coin into the water.
This time I can’t hear the sploosh over Matthew’s gasping.
“1937?” He’s standing, chair sliding back, moving toward the rail.
“That’s a 1937 dime?” He’s turning to me, horror stretched across his face.
“Did you get a good look at it? Was it a mercury dime?” He’s gasping for air, leaning strongly over the rail looking at where the coin hit the water, the ripples still marking the center.
“It said 1937. That’s all I saw.” I’m now standing too, following Matthew to the edge.
“That could be a mercury dime.” He’s almost distraught and keeps turning from me to the spiraling ripples in the water.
Suddenly, he’s pulling off his shoes, chucking them haphazardly under our table, and his socks soon follow. He freezes suddenly as a realization hits him, then he turns to me, “I’m going to get it. Do you mind?”
I’m wordless, breathing hard, and my arms are gesturing randomly. “Um, sure. From the water?”
“Yeah. I have to know,” he turns to the water and then lurches back toward me, “but I don’t want to ruin your wish. Are you okay with that?”
I can hardly speak. “Sure. Um. No worries. You’re going in the fountain?”
Without a word, his belt is undone and his pants are sliding down his legs. He’s climbing over the railing in his black boxer briefs and button down shirt and leaps into the water below, which comes up to his knees, but splashes onto the clothing he is wearing.
I become a mouth breather, watching him wade through the fountain, avoiding the pillars of bubbling water, heading toward the spot that holds my dime. He bends over, digging through the water which nearly reaches his shoulder, soaking the short sleeve of his shirt.
“What’s so important about this dime?” I’m screaming across the water. I’m suddenly aware of the few people at tables, watching the underwear man digging through the fountain.
“It could be a mercury dime,” as he speaks, he doesn’t stop feeling the bottom, occasionally pulling up something to inspect, and then returning it to the water.
“Any dime made between 1916 and 1945 was a mercury dime.” He’s breathing heavily, “I need your help. Come help me find it. It has a picture of lady liberty with a helmet. People thought it looked like the Roman god Mercury. Come help me!”
“Help you?” I blurt, “I’m not getting in the fountain.”
Suddenly he stands bolt upright, his boxer briefs and wet shirt clinging to his body. I’m pretty sure I’m making eye contact only. “I dare you.” He stares at me. “I dare you to jump in the fountain and help me.” Then his tone softens and he almost pleads, “I need your help.”
A dare? What, am I twelve?
I guess so, because my core turns to marble and there is not any chance that I’m not getting in that water.
I start taking off my shoes without breaking eye contact and he smiles so big the water illuminates his teeth in ripply waves.
By the time I’m boxer-briefing over the rail, he’s splashing his arms, nearly shoulder-deep, in the water again.
I also took off my polo, so the splashing water is making my tank-top a bit transparent.
“It’s deeper than it looks,” I’m saying.
And cold. The fall weather isn’t much help and my legs are breaking out in goosebumps. Matthew looks up at me beaming, saying, “Thanks.”
As committed as I was in getting in the fountain, I find I’m not as committed to the search as he is.
I reach through the deeper-than-it-should-be water and pick up a coin or two, throwing them back.
I suddenly have this feeling like I’m stealing, and maybe not just coins, but people’s hopes and wishes.
I see something sparkly in the water a few feet away, make my way there and grab it.
It’s a ring! It looks cheap and rusty from the water, but I’m seriously excited and when I raise it up to show Matthew, I inadvertently splash the back of his shirt with a big stream.
“Sorry,” I’m saying, “I found a rusty ring.”
He stands up, curling his back as if he’s trying to escape the cold wetness of his shirt. Then, he looks at me with an expression that I can’t quite place, until he reaches down in the water and sends a giant splash my way.
I gasp as the chill soaks the front of my shirt and I try a similar escape-from-the-coldness move which fails tremendously.
He’s laughing and moving slowly against his frigid shirt.
Before we know it, the water is flying. Defensively, we’re moving away from each other, ducking behind the bubbling pillars, laughing hysterically, making mock sounds of anger.
Without warning, my bare foot lands on something metal and slick, maybe a drain cover, and I go down, full body under.
The cold blast shocks the breath out of me.
When I get my head above water, Matthew is bellowing hysterically and trudging through the waves toward me.
I half-stand, trying to find footing. Matthew arrives, laughing so hard he can’t form words and throws out a hand for support.
I’m laughing too, and my undershirt is sticking to my heaving chest, fully transparent now.
I eye his hand, starting to grab it, when something possesses me I can’t explain.
I stand fully, grab him in a cold bear hug and tackle him through the bubbling pillar, falling into the water beyond.
The instant he’s under, the world becomes one big chaos of swinging arms and white bubbles and flailing legs.
Our heads appear above the water for a second before I’m fully standing. We both are breathless and laughing.
“It is deeper than it looks,” he says, spitting water back into the pond.
“And colder,” I say, extending a trembling arm, still heaving hysterically.