Hot

My dad comes dragging in from tennis about the time I fall through the door. I have just forfeited Round Two with Tee. The mercury is pushing past 100 degrees. Humidity tightens its straightjacket around our tempers. We each down a tall glass of ice water then wobble into the shallow end of the pool.

“I started to get worried out on the court,” my dad says, wiping the sweat off his flushed face. “I might have pushed it a little too hard.”

“Yeah?”

I ease down in the deep and let him regale me with his tale of near heat-stroke on the scorching clay.

Two days of attempted diplomacy with Tee about our parenting agreement have pushed my interest in speech to its limit. It has also sent my self-control to the outer reaches. Tee and I made admirable progress during Round One, which took up most of Saturday. We gained momentum by tackling the less contentious issues first. We scored a deuce and called it a day. Sunday, we found out we were on an entirely different court. This one was made of tinder and flint.

In the pool, my dad goes on. “I just kept at it against the backboard, but I was starting to wonder if maybe it was too much.”

“That’s the problem with heat stroke, you know,” I say. “Your ability to judge the degree of damage is impaired by the damage you are doing.”

“That’s true. But!” My father is kicking around the deep end of the pool now, smiling big, pleased with his toughness. “But I have a way to know. Never fails. One thing tells me if I’ve pushed it past the limit out there.”

This man loves the buildup. He won’t tell me if I don’t ask. “Okay, Williams. What’s the one thing?”

He grabs the edge of the pool and stands up tall for effect. “It’s the stumble.”

---

Tee and I tried to move with care. We left the hardest issue for last – not the wisest choice, perhaps. At hour three on day two, we shined our torches on the question of college funding. Our emergency buckets were already dry. Emotion’s slow burn caught a bright wind. In an instant, we were popping and sparking. Righteous indignation, replaying old narratives, blaming, self-doubting. Higher and higher.  I was impulsive. Then I was confused. Tee was quiet. Then he was bitter.

In the ensuing conflagration I could not quiet my foolish tongue.  I cursed it even as it skewered Tee. We were still dancing around the topic at hand, but the words were losing their reference points, were turning to smoke and ash. The heat scorched the fertile earth we had tilled with care the day before.

Then I heard a sentence come out of my mouth I never imagined myself saying to someone I care about. It was hurtful and pointless, and I saw Tee lean away from the sting of it.

---

In the pool, I turn a lazy circle. “The stumble, huh?”

“Yep, the stumble. That’s when I know.”

---

Seeing the blow to Tee, my overheated brain licked at the door, threatening to spew words even more combustible than the ones before. On the other side, a tiny trickle of cool calm remained. It made itself known. It urged me to my feet. Even though Tee and I had driven in the same car to this public meeting place, even though we had intended to work through the weekend, that cool trickle called me to follow it. I collected my computer, packed away my half-eaten lunch, and stuffed my papers into my satchel. All of this I did while I continued to say things Tee does not need to hear from me, things about our marriage that have nothing to do with now. A fixation with ancient history compelled me to climb further in even as floor was giving way under me.

“I have to go,” I said, ungluing myself. Tears began to mix with the spill of blazing words. “I’m sorry to walk away from this, and I do want to keep at it, but right now, I am saying things you don’t deserve to hear.” I was still talking over my shoulder as I moved towards the exit, unable to stop my voice. “I have to cool down before I make it any worse.” Without a ride, I walked out into the 100 degree heat. I wandered for 30 minutes under the unrelenting sun until my mother found me and whisked me home.

---

My father has gotten hold of a frosty Sam Adams. As he bobs in the shallow end, he takes a swig. “It’s that stumble,” he goes on. “When I start tripping over my own feet going after the ball, I know something isn’t working right, and it’s time to get myself off that court.”

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. “Every time.”

I doubt that. I smirk and shake my head. The blue ripples roll on past.

Aren’t the emotional embers hot enough on their own? Slipping and giving voice to the uglier side of the story only fuels the flames. Anyone foolish enough to believe firing anger at an ex will relieve the pressure learns soon enough. The blowback may be worse than the blaze.

The challenge lies in knowing when your judgment is impaired.  Gauges break under intense heat. The flood of responses burns out the circuitry. Until you stumble, until you actually see the hot earth speeding toward your face, you may not realize the danger you are in.

That’s when you calmly, firmly, set down the racket and walk off the court. Find yourself a tall glass of ice water, immerse yourself in the aquamarine. Cool your way back to your better self.