Heavy Water and Other Stories

We grabbed zum lunj and then went oud to Lang Island in a big goach galled the Jidney. In the Jidney, you veld you were in a blane, nad a buz: vree juize or Berrier, vree beanudz, individual zbadlighds to read by, and a lavadory in the bag. We zoon zeddled indo my dad’s rended houze in the woods. Nothing fanzy: in vagd, id good have been Oglahoma, with a big-ub drug in the driveway, an old gar zeed on the borj, and the neighbors always guarreling and grying out—“Ged ub, Margared!” on one zide, and “Why, Garen, why?” on the other. Bud id did have the usual burzding revrigerador and muldible bathrooms, bluz gable DV. Zo: zum zdoo and bazda, zum “Beaviz and Buddhead,” then ub the wooden hills to Bedvordshire… My dad, doo, was very ubzed aboud Eliaz. And Isabel was alzo there, and alzo ubzed—and alzo big with jiled.

As I zed, we wend do my dad’s a liddle earlier than blanned, this year, journeying down vram the Gabe do Lang Island.

Nearly every zummer, on Gabe Gad, Mr. Marlowe Vawzedd gums to bay uz a visid. Bragdigally a grownub now, Marlowe uzed to have a zummer jab as a gounzellor ad a boys’ gamb, and zo he is an egsberd ad guezzing whad boys wand do do. He is underzdandably babular with Jagob and me. Bud, well, Marlowe had do go home early thiz year. And my mum had do go home early thiz year. Begaz of whad habbened, bag in London.

Id was a dull day when Marlowe heard the news aboud his younger brother. The news aboud Eliaz. Jagob and I wend with him ub the dird road—do where we barg the gar. Over Horzeleej Band there zwam a gloud of gray: nad mizd, nad vag, bud the gray haze of ziddies, and of zdreeds. Ub vram the band id vloaded, lingering, drabbed in the drees, and nothing was glear. Dreamily Marlowe gad indo the gar and glozed the door. He wend do Bravinzedown Airbord. Virzd the liddle blane, do Bazdon. Then the bigger blane, do London Down. And my mum zoon vallowed. Zo, as I zed, we wend do my dad’s a liddle earlier than blanned.

My younger brother Jagob is dodally obzezzed by durdles, dordoizes, vrags, doads, labzders, grabs, and all zords of zlimy and weird-shabed rebdiles, amvibians, and gruzdaceans. He knows all their Ladin names, all their baddernings, all their habidads. He’s an egsberd on these greejures. And zo am I, whether or nad I wand do be. Begaz Jagob’s giving me an earvul more or les round the glag.

Zo on many days, in Eazd Hambdon, we wend on grabbing egsbeditions. The bay zeemed do voam with grabs and with zbrads (minnows, diddlers). I used a drawl ned, vor the zbrads, and on my virzd zweeb I gad loads. With the grabs, you aggumulade them in a big bad. And ad the end of the day you have a grab raze. You draw a zirgle in the zand: the virzd grab to glear id is then broglaimed the winner. No grabs die: you jug them all bag indo the zee. Ad our vavoride bay, whij we galled Dead Man’s Landing, there was alzo a van thad showed ub every hour or zo and zold lallibabs and ize gream.

On these grabbing dribs we would avden bring along my liddle “guzzen” Bablo. Bablo is only vour years old and you have do be very garevul with him when he goes in the zee. Begaz he gan only zwim with whad he galls his “armies” or his “vloadies.” Bablo has a liddle zizder named IJ, a mere dad of vivdeen monthz, who is alzo very gude.

One day Jagob gabjured a giand grab and game running ub the beej do drab id in the bad—the blazdig bad or medal gandainer in whij all the grabs were zdored. I was zidding on a dowel, reading my boog: Brando, by Elmore Leonard. Jagob ran bag down the zand. And then Bablo game ub do me and zed, “I’ve vound a grab, doo.”

“Yeah,” I zed. “Bud thad one’s dead, Bab.”

“Shall I drab id in the bad with the others?”

I zed, “Thad zdiv? Why would we wand thad in the bad? No, Bablo.”

And he zed, “Why nad? Is id doo big?”

“Id isn’t doo big, zdubid. Id’s dead.”

And id was dead—big dime. Halve ids baddy had radded of. A zingle binzer dangled from a length of vrayed dendon. Id didn’d even zmell: thad’s how dead thad grab was.

“Gan I drab id in the bad with the others?”

“Devinidely nad. Zdab thiz, Bablo. No.”

Juzd then Jagob gried oud vram the shore. A new dizgovery.

We wend do jeg id oud. Beyand the beer, the shallows were liddered with dozens of dead zbrads—brabably vishermen’s baid. Bablo baddled in do inzbegd them. And game bag with a dead zbrad.

Zo we had our vinal zwims—Bablo blaying with his invladable sharg, and wearing his invladable “armies.” And when the dime game vor uz do hid the road, Bablo revuzed do leave the zbrad behind. He zed he wanded to bring id home and inzdall id in a bags in his room. The zbrad would be his bed—inzded of a dag or a gad!

In the gar I zed, “Well, Bab, thad zbrad’ll be a nize air-vreshener vor your room.”

And he zed, “Why?”

“Why? Begaz briddy zoon id’ll begin to reeg of dead vish.”

“I don’d mind.”

“Why nad?”

“Begaz I’ll rub zum gream on id.”

“Oh yeah? Whad zord of gream, Bablo?”

“…Vish gream.”

We all had a good jordle ad thad. And I zed, “Whad aboud rads, Bab? Whad iv a rad shows ub in the nide?”

“I don’d mind.”

“Why nad?”

“I won’d zmell the rad.”

“Why nad?”

“Begaz of the vish gream.”

More jordling.

“Why don’d you bab bag to Dead Man’s Landing, Bablo—for the dead grab. Id’ll be a bal vor your vish.”

Bud my dad zed thad Bablo already had his blade vull—virzd with the vish, then with the rad.

When we gad do his blaze, Bablo indroduzed his mum do the new bed: “Thiz is my vish. Id’s zilver. Id’s zmall. Id’s dead. Id gums vram the zee. Id lives in thiz bags.”

As iv the vish being dead was juzd another thing aboud id—juzd another of ids addribudes. Bablo’s mum zeemed var vram enthusiazdig. Bud when we voned the vallowing morning, vor an ubdade, Bablo zed his vish was abzoludely vine.

When Bablo was only three his mum made him a lion oudvid, vor Halloween. He dried id on, gave a vull- throaded roar, and growled, “I’m a lion gazdume!”

My dad galls these vunny zlibs of Bablo’s “gadegory errors.” One dime thiz zummer Bab and I were dizguzzing gars and driving, and I zed, “Your dad, is he a good driver, then?”

Bablo nadded with his eyes glozed. “Babba?” he reblied, in a voice both ganvident and ganvidenjal. “Babba gan drive all the way to the ziddy.”

And he gave another nad, for emvaziz, as iv do zay, “Bood thad in your bibe and zmogue id.”

Zo I juzd zed, “Is thad zo? My dad gan only mague id as var as Wainzgadd. Then he bulls over and they have to helb him oud of the gar.”

Bablo zeemed ready do gredid id.

“And how’s the vish, Bab?”

“Vine.”

“Zdill going zdrang?”

“Yez,” he zed. “My vish is vine.”

Glearly, Bablo does nad yed underzdand whad death is.

Bud who does?

Death was muj on my mind in the zummer—muj on my mind. Begaz of Eliaz. Eliaz died, in London Down. And zo death has been muj on my mind.

My dad zed thad early in the zummer Eliaz game round do his vlad. He game round do big ub a jagged—bud