I went to the pool every morning this summer. Just like clockwork, Frank got there too. He always rolled up on his maroon Harley dressed in a ratty tan hat with an orange bandanna that struggled to cover up his neck. He wore two shirts, one on top of the other. All this garb kept the morning sun from sneaking in as he attended to his pool chores. He was magical in keeping the water pristine.
When Frank smiled, he had no front teeth, but I smiled back ignoring his gap. It was the drawn-out scar that moved along the left side of his face which interested me. I asked him about it once. He said, “My dad. It was a long time ago.”
I kicked forward through my routine. “What do you mean?”
Frank pushed the vacuum up and then down, sucking in the items that drown the night before. “He didn’t like me much.”
“Okay, but how did he give you a scar on your face like that?” I turned to side stroke so I could see him.
“My dad was an electrical engineer always trying to find work away from home. When he got back, he took it out on me. Pounded on me, fought me like a beat down dog ‘till he got new work and left.”
“That sucks. What about the scar?” I backstroked towards the deep end; I knew I was pressing him. He moved to check the chlorine.
I watched him hold the plastic tester up at the sky, squinting to make sure it was just right. Frank was devoted to perfection. “He never beat my mom until after one trip. I came in on it.”
I turned over and floated on my stomach making a butterfly pattern with my body.
Frank stopped skimming for bugs. He sat on a patio chair to grab a smoke and a sip of coffee gone cold. “He was beating on her in the kitchen. She was crying. I got him off her and told her to go somewhere.”
He took a few hits off his cigarette. His head moved up to watch the smoke curl around the summer heat. “I was big then, maybe sixteen.”
“Hm.” I hung onto the pool side near to where he sat. Frank was 48 now and I recognized, just by his living conditions, he had a rough life.
Frank stamped out his cigarette. “The asshole grabbed a knife from the counter. I ducked when he swung, but he went low. He got me right here.” With one finger he motioned along his scar as if he was remembering his father and how much he hated him.
We never talked about his scar again. We only talked around current events while we went through our morning routines. Then, one day Frank didn’t show up and the pool wasn’t manicured.
A few days went by, I still didn’t know what happened to Frank. By the end of the week, on top of the water dead bugs floated in perpetual circles and on the bottom lay large pieces that sunk through time.
Frank never came back. My guess was he’d gotten himself in trouble. The pool sat there looking damaged and scarred from the shallow end to the deep end for the rest of the summer.