“And do you really love me, Ava-Rose? This isn’t a dream?”
Like a little girl Ava-Rose laughed, and hugged Terence tight, and covered his face with warm, damp, percussive kisses. “Could be it is a dream,” she said in a husky whisper, “—except if it is we’re in it together, all cuddly.”
Ava-Rose my darling.
Ava-Rose have mercy!
When at last they left Ava-Rose’s room to come downstairs, hours had passed, and it was dusk. Everyone was outside in the back yard, setting up picnic things. There was a happy bustle of activity; a ringing sound of voices and laughter; the sharp odor of grilling meat made Terence’s mouth water. How drained and ravenous love-making with Ava-Rose had left him!
The air was still warm and rather stagnant. Though stirred now and then by a light, thin breeze from the river.
The family was celebrating Labor Day, Ava-Rose explained—“Only just a little late.”
Ava-Rose had slipped on a flimsy wraparound smock that came only to her knees; the fabric was near-transparent, and inside it her pale breasts seemed to float. Her long legs were bare, and so were her feet. She had removed all her jewelry, except for her numerous rings, and had not put it back on; her hair cascaded in a damp tangle down her back. (She and Terence had quickly showered together upstairs.) Her arm linked tightly through his, Ava-Rose led her lover into the midst of the Renfrews. Whispering in his ear, “Now don’t you be shy, Terence. Everyone here is your friend.”
And so indeed, to Terence Greene’s dazed delight, it seemed.
There came Lily Pancoke to greet him, and to introduce him to her grown daughter Flossie; there came pretty, longhaired Donna, a girl of perhaps sixteen in low-slung jeans and a tiny halter top, who greeted Terence with a wet, giggly peck of a kiss on his mouth; there came Cap’n-Uncle Riff, his beard trimmed, in a blood-smeared white apron and a tall chef’s hat, a giant pronged fork in hand—“Glad to have you aboard again, son.” And there was a face Terence had not seen, nor even thought of, in over a year—belonging to the neighbor woman Ronnie Reuben, who had given testimony against T. W. Binder! And there was Corky Reuben, Ronnie’s spouse. And others, new faces and new names. “Real nice to meet ya, Doctor!” “Real honored, Doctor!” Terence’s hand was shaken numerous times. Buster leapt up to kiss him, trailing his long floppy tongue against Terence’s face. Holly Mae Loomis gave Terence an enormous catsup-leaking hamburger to eat, and Chick gave Terence a brimming glass of Cap’n-Uncle’s Chimney Point Stout. Randy Lee, bare-chested still, and, like Ava-Rose and most of the younger people, barefoot, brought a paper plate heaped with potato salad, coleslaw, pickled beets, Waldorf salad. In the din of voices Randy Lee’s was too soft for Terence to hear, so the two stepped off to the side, into the taller grass. Randy Lee said, blushing, “Just wanted to say it ain’t no business of mine, for sure, but I’m real glad you’re back with Ava-Rose, Doctor. Poor gal missed you.”
Terence said warmly, “Well, I missed Ava-Rose. I missed all of you.”
Hearing her name, Ava-Rose broke off chatting with Lily Pancoke’s daughter, and came over to Terence and Randy Lee, slipping a proprietary arm around Terence’s waist; and fondly, though a bit roughly, poked her handsome longhaired cousin in the belly button. “You, Randy Lee! Don’t you be telling tales on me, or I’ll tell a tale or two on you.”
Darling the parrot made everyone duck for cover as, shrieking and flapping his clipped wings, he attacked the picnic table, coming away with some of the meat gripped in his talons.
Children Terence had never seen before ran and larked about, playing hide-and-seek.
A brilliant glowering moon rose above the highest peak of the old house. Terence blinked and smiled upward.
Never so happy. Never in my life.
He was not drunk but yes he was intoxicated, you could say he was mildly intoxicated, Cap’n-Uncle’s home-brewed stout went quickly to his head, Ava-Rose’s kisses left him giddy and breathless, I want to live I want to live forever please have mercy. One of the girls—was it Donna?—or someone else, slightly plumper, with more developed breasts—ran over and tugged at Terence’s hand, there was dancing, loud rockabilly music and laughing shrieking careening dancing, even Holly Mae with her arm in a sling, stomping about in innocent abandon. Chick, mischievous as a little boy, tossed a string of sparklers high up into a willow tree, and the pinwheels of blazing light and the pop! pop! pop! made everyone gape.
“Lord save us, I thought it was gunfire!”—Lily Pancoke stood swaying, frightened, her hand pressed against her breast.
The rockabilly music was deafening. Had Terence Greene ever danced like this before in his life? He stumbled, and righted himself; he kicked off his shoes, and danced in his stocking feet; then pulled off his socks to dance barefoot, like the young people. His heart leapt in his chest.
Ava-Rose was his partner now, breathless, giggling, her lovely face glowing with exertion. Terence must have done something comical and touching, for Ava-Rose stopped to seize his face between her hands and kiss him full on the lips. A talcumy-musky scent rose from her armpits.
Near by, comely Randy Lee Turcoe danced alone, wriggling his shoulders, vigorously shaking his hips and pelvis. He seemed not to mind that he was dancing alone, or was he jealous of Terence Greene and his cousin?—eyeing them through his long lashes, even as he spun indifferently away, head flung back and long black hair flying.
The women were taking away dirtied paper plates, food scraps. Buster was greedily devouring something that had fallen underfoot, and the fluffy white angora cat pussyfooted her way across the picnic table, her elegant plume of a tail erect.
Cap’n-Uncle Riff, his chef’s cap removed, stood tall and mock-somber beneath the bright moon. As all gathered around, he lifted a toast to Terence Greene and Ava-Rose; and all joined in.
“Children—a long and happy life! Blessings.”
“Thank you, Cap’n-Uncle.” Terence, deeply moved, raised his glass in turn to the old man, and drank thirstily. How the dark, tart, potent brew burned, going down! Ava-Rose snuggled in the crook of Terence’s arm, and had a sip of the stout. Yes it was strong.
Darling the parrot, on a high perch of a nearby tree, flapped his clipped-looking wings and squawked—“Beeyyyt peeze! Beeeyyyt PEEZE!”
It was late. Though the night air was balmy and humid, with a metallic undertaste. The moon had shifted in the sky.
A midnight swim!—at once the cry was taken up by the younger Renfrews. Yes, yes! A swim off the Point!
It was a short breathless hike to the river. Terence did well to keep pace with the others, his arm around Ava-Rose’s waist and Ava-Rose’s arm around his waist. Stumbling a bit. Wincing. Damn!—the soles of his feet were so tender, it was hard for him to walk barefoot like the others in the rutted, pebbly lane.
The lane led downhill, at first gradually, then steeply. Through a tunnel of low-hanging branches and scrubby bushes, to the riverbank—and how wide the Delaware River, seen from this perspective, as Terence Greene had never seen it before, on foot, in fact barefoot, in a state of excitation bordering on euphoria. How wide, how beautiful!—how splendid by moonlight! Terence stared entranced.
Strange how, on the Pennsylvania shore, so few lights glittered. The land was curiously massed, dark. As if sparsely populated. Except for the rippling-swift current of the river, all was still.
A pewter-radiance fell over, or seemed to lift from, all surfaces. Except the massive old railroad bridge that spanned the river a quarter-mile to the left: The bridge was lightless, sheerly black, and its shadow floated and bobbed in the water sheerly black.
They were to swim as it seemed they frequently swam—all save Ava-Rose’s friend Dr. Greene—from the straggly spit of land called the Point to the first concrete abutment beneath the bridge, where there was a ledge. Terence had a vague sense of the distance—“Hell, it’s nothing. I swim three times that at the pool.”
Except: hadn’t so much happiness left him giddy, light
headed.
Except: Why am I here, who are these people, these strangers?
Shy about stripping in front of the young people, shy about swimming naked, they laughed at him, fond and teasing-playful as children, as his own children years ago, Ava-Rose whispered in his ear she was embarrassed too, but—“‘Even shame shall be taken from you, at the last.’”
There was much hilarity. Terence’s laughter rose with the others’. Chick, drunk or seeming-drunk, tore off his black T-shirt and waved it like a flag. “Whooee! Gonna beat y’all!”
Randy Lee had only jeans to strip—beneath, he was naked and pale as something prized out of its shell. The tender white of his buttocks contrasted sharply with his tanned back.
Bravely, laughing and biting her lower lip, Ava-Rose undid the sash of her flimsy shift, and removed the shift, and let it slip from her fingertips onto a rock. Terence, who was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, could not bear to look at her, she was so beautiful.
And Randy Lee, with his perfectly proportioned body, his near-hairless chest, his chiseled-looking St. John the Baptist face—so beautiful.
Don’t look.
Something hotly acidic rose in Terence’s throat, he feared he might vomit. But he swallowed it quickly down.
Giggling wildly like children, Ava-Rose and Randy Lee competed helping Terence out of his clothes. Tugging off his trousers. His boxer shorts. So it was decided, yes he would swim with the rest.
The tip of Chimney Point had no beach, nor even sand. It was just rocks, large rocks, pocked and pitted rocks, rocks covered in slimy moss, and a scattering of pebbles. Styrofoam debris bobbed trapped against the rocks close to shore.
The waves were languid, and foamy. Except when choppy and urgent.
There was no wind. Except every fifth wave slapped against Terence’s ankles hard enough to sting.
He smelled something faintly sulphurous. A near-imperceptible breeze, hardly more than a restless stirring of the air, touched his overheated face and body—his torso, stomach, pubic area, narrow muscular thighs. He shivered in anticipation and dread. Yes but you can still turn back.
Wondering where, off the Point, what remained of Eldrick Gill lay at the bottom of the river, undiscovered.
Wild-eyed Donna and another girl who’d been shyly shielding their breasts cried, “Oh hell—c’mon!” and waded out into the water splashing and squealing.
Chick, so big and fatty-muscled he seemed more naked than the others, had clambered out onto a jutting rock, showing off as, with a yodel, he dived into the river—surfacing some yards out, head slick as a seal’s, swimming with wide flailing powerful strokes.
Ava-Rose gripped Terence’s right hand, and Randy Lee gripped his left hand, urging him out. The slapping dark ill-smelling water rose to their knees, then to their thighs. Ava-Rose squealed, “Oh Lord!—it’s cold!” and Randy Lee chided, “Nah, it’s warm, ain’t it, Doctor?”
Terence said, “It’s—perfect.”
The three of them pushed out and began to swim, at first keeping abreast of one another like coordinated swimmers. Then, Randy Lee began to swim away, and Ava-Rose with her slightly flurried butterfly stroke pulled away, and Terence, despite his exertions, began to fall behind. The river was surprisingly cold, in contrast to the muggy air; the waves were rough, choppy and dense, as if made of a different substance from that of the chlorinated aqua-bright water of the Queenston Athletic Club. Terence tasted panic, for his body was somehow not his own; it was a stranger’s clumsy body, swimming poorly, with an uncharacteristic desperation, fingers spread ineffectually so that water slipped through, yes and this body was leaden, belly stuffed hideously with food and bloated with liquid, shoulder muscles cramped as if he hadn’t exercised for months. Yes, but you can still turn back: it isn’t too late, you can save yourself. But Terence Greene could not give up, could not bear to shame himself in the company of the young Renfrews.
Nor even call after them, sputtering and gasping, begging—Ava-Rose! Randy Lee! Wait!
The others, five or six of them, or more, swam splashing gaily ahead through rippling moonlight into the shadow of the bridge. Terence, blinking water from his eyes, trying to clear his clotted vision, could only vaguely make out the pale bodies several yards ahead of him in the water, their bare kicking feet, their swordlike muscular legs, swift-flashing arms. If only he could be like them, if he could be one of them! His lungs were strained nearly to bursting. His heart pounded in desperation to send oxygen to his brain. Swimming for my life, I will not turn back. She’d left him once, abandoned him to an empty, jeering world, Hettie’s boy! Hettie’s boy! many years ago when he’d been a small child and helpless and lacking a voice and this time he would not surrender her, he would clutch at her, keep her, oh God he loved her so, loved her far more than his own life, for what was his life, without her? And now it was too late to turn back and there was a comfort, a relief, in that, in the knowledge that it was too late to turn back, he’d come too far to turn back. The oily waves slapped, nudged, mauled: How like human fists. Swimming for my life through moonlight like broken pieces of crockery, swallowing water, choking, unable to breathe except through his mouth, his breath like torn strips of cloth, legs heavy and shoulder muscles cramping as if it was a stranger’s body in which he was trapped, doomed. Yet his senses remained alert, sharpened. Seeing ahead the agile swimming figures in the treacherous water as they passed swiftly into the shadow of the bridge, their flashing white feet, legs easing from him—Help me! Don’t leave me! Wait!
Then, somehow, it happened. Terence’s desperation, his death-terror, pumped adrenaline to his heart, oxygen to his brain. For suddenly he began to swim with more efficiency and assurance; the frantic strokes of his arms, the thrashing of his legs, seemed to release strength. Yes! like this! this! He was stubborn, even in his exhaustion. He would not give up, sink. He would not drown. As the others reached the abutment about twenty feet ahead, Terence came up doggedly from behind, knocked about by the choppy water but swimming as he’d been taught, as his Uncle Frank had taught him, head erect, maintain your rhythm, don’t breathe through your mouth, don’t panic, look straight ahead and don’t shut your eyes. Swallowing more of the dank poisonous water and choking at its vileness but—he would not give up!
Ava-Rose, her slender body streaming water, climbed laughing and breathless up onto the part-crumbled concrete ledge, assisted by Randy Lee; a call from Terence drew their attention, as if they’d forgotten him, and they turned to stare in a kind of perplexity at him, struggling in the water. And now all the Renfrews, lined up on the ledge below the bridge, were staring at Terence Greene there in the river. Their Renfrew faces glimmering pale in the deep shadow of the bridge.
Unbelievably, Terence had managed to swim to the very foot of the abutment, where rusted pipes like giant nails jutted out treacherously into the lapping water.
Terence choked, gasped—“Ava-Rose, give me a hand?”
Reaching up desperately, his entire arm trembling, toward the staring young woman. His breath came in shudders. His jaws were clenched in a smile. So very tired, so much more tired than ever he’d been in his life, yet at such a moment Terence was able to smile. He’d surprised these people, yes and he had more surprises for them, they would see.
“Ava-Rose, help me! I love you.”
Across Ava-Rose’s inscrutable face, sleek with river water, a quicksilver expression flitted. And Ava-Rose impetuously laughed, “Why, Ter-ence, what a good swimmer you are!”—extending her hand to his, helping the exhausted man to crawl up onto the ledge at her feet.
About the Author
Joyce Carol Oates was born in Lockport, New York. After graduating from high school, she attended Syracuse University and then earned her master of arts from the University of Wisconsin–Madison before becoming a full-time writer. In 1963, she published her first book, the short story collection By the North Gate, and in 1964, when she was twenty-six years old, her first novel, With Shuddering Fall.
Oates has written over forty works, many of which have won awards, including the National Book Award for them (1969), two O. Henry Awards, four Bram Stoker Awards, a World Fantasy Award, the National Humanities Medal, the Norman Mailer Prize for Lifetime Achievement, and the Stone Award for Lifetime Literary Achievement. Black Water (1992), What I Lived For (1994), Blonde (2000), and Lovely, Dark, Deep (2014) were Pulitzer Prize finalists, and her 1996 novel We Were the Mulvaneys was a New York Times bestseller. Under the pen names Rosamond Smith and Lauren Kelly, she published eleven psychological suspense novels, including Snake Eyes (1992), Double Delight (1997), and Starr Bright Will Be with You Soon (1999). While writing and publishing books, Oates taught at the University of Windsor in Canada from 1968 to 1978, and then moved to New Jersey, where she currently teaches in Princeton University’s creative writing program as the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of the Humanities. She also teaches creative writing courses at New York University, Stanford University, and the University of California, Berkeley.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by The Ontario Review
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4515-5
This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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