Description
His father, nearly naked, was in the pool, treading water. Harold was standing shivering on the wet tile edge, suspended above the abysmal odor of chlorine, hypnotized by the bright, lapping agitation of this great volume of unnaturally blue-green water.
His mother, in a black bathing suit that made her flesh appear very white, was off in a corner of his mind. His father was asking him to jump. "C'mon, Hassy, jump," he was saying, in his mild, encouraging voice. "It'll be all right. Jump right into my hands."
The words echoed in the flat acoustics of the water and tile and sunlight, heightening Harold's sense of exposure, his awareness of his own white skin.
Then the blue-green water was all around him, dense and churning, and when he tried to take a breath a fist was shoved into his throat.
He saw his own bubbles rising in front of his face, a multitude of them, rising as he sank; he sank it seemed for a very long time, until something located him in the darkening element and seized him by the arm. . . .
