“Yeah!” Carrier yelped, and the associates began shaking their butts and doing the butter-churn dance, their generation’s reflexive response to any bit of good news, such as Justin Timberlake was single again.
But this time, Bennie joined in.
An hour later Bennie was celebrating Rosato-style, rowing along in a single shell, letting the sights and sounds of the Schuylkill River seep into her bones and soul. She was back to her usual routine of rowing after work every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning, and it always felt so good being back in the groove, getting away from courtrooms, clients, and twins. She breathed in the earthy smells of the water, an organic cocktail of muck, minnows, and goose poop, and took another languid stroke, leaning back after dropping her blade into the green-gray water. The late-afternoon sun warmed her sweaty face and shoulders, bare in her white tank.
Sunlight glimmered gold on the tiny ripples of the river, making a gilt edge to the scalloped chop of the waves, as if they were the baroque frame to its glorious natural landscape. On both banks of the river, towering oaks, maples, and cherry trees showed off their new green leaves, reaching into a cobalt blue sky filled with transparent wisps of white clouds, like cotton candy pulled apart by the too-eager hands of children. The grass covering the riverbanks had sprouted a kelly hue, its slender blades weak with youth. Canada geese called in the sky, their honking echoing even in the middle of the river, conducted along the water’s smooth surface as surely as an electrical current, if not quite as scientifically.
Psshlp, splashed Bennie’s oars, cutting the water and spraying cold water onto the bow deck of her boat, a yellow Empacher. Her boat was twenty-seven feet of beautiful, weighing only thirty pounds; the German-made shell was the favorite of elite rowers, and Bennie had scored hers used. She was too skilled a rower to make such a messy splash, but she wasn’t worrying much about her technique today. She was trying to unwind. Get a good mood flowing and forget Linette and Alice. Maybe even her father. And rowing was working its magic, at least by the time she was stroking her way back to the boathouse. She had rowed the seven-mile circuit to the verdigris-colored Falls Bridge and back, but it had taken only two miles for Bennie to feel like herself again.
Psshlp. She leaned back in the hard wooden seat of the scull, pulled the oars into her lower ribs with all her might, and feathered their black rubber handles and pushed them out quickly. A breeze wafted across the water, carrying a chilly undercurrent of winter past and the fresh green gust of spring establishing itself. Bennie breathed it in, let it fill her lungs, and took another powerful stroke. Her thighs ached from the effort, and blood hardened her quads. A rush of good feeling suffused her, flowing like oxygen-rich blood, and she felt almost euphoric. Rowing wasn’t a sport, it was a religion.
Psshlp. She looked downriver, where the trees on the banks were giving way to the first edifice of the ten Victorian boathouses that lined Boathouse Row, and to the brick lighthouse known as Sedgeley. The lighthouse marked the place where Turtle Rock lurked just under the Schuylkill’s surface, a hazard in a time past, when steamboats cruised down the river. To Bennie, Sedgeley meant that it was time to leave her fugue state and pay attention. The rowing traffic could be dicey going into the boathouses. At any given time, there could be as many as fifty boats on the river, and today, singles, fours, and plenty of school eights were jockeying to get in and get the boats put away by dark. The expressway could be safer; at least if you got out of your lane there, you didn’t go over a waterfall.
Bennie stopped rowing, letting her scull coast toward Sedgeley on its own momentum, trailing the tips of her oars in the water to slow her down. There were four other boats on the water, three college eights and a crew from Father Judge High School, heading back toward the boathouses. She decided to let the eights row past her—Penn with its familiar red-and-blue oars, then Drexel and St. Joe, all with coaches shouting from skiffs alongside. She relaxed over her oar handles, dangling her callused hands and listening to her breathing return to normal.
She wiped sweat from her forehead while she waited, and looked around. The dappled grass on the riverbank was dotted now with people who’d ditched work early to take advantage of the unseasonably warm stretch of weather. Cyclists in baby hats with turned-up brims biked on the asphalt paths, their skintight jerseys vivid splotches of color, and runners trotted on the dirt jogging paths, test-driving new running shoes, in telltale white. Lovers smooched on bedspreads, and students tossed cloth Frisbees to mutts in bandannas.
Bennie liked that people liked the river, and watched the dogs as they fetched their well-loved balls and toys. One black-and-white mutt was an aerial genius, leaping to snag his Frisbee in midarc. A tiny Jack Russell shot after a Nerf football twice his size and as soon as he had captured his prey, plopped down to gnaw it to pieces. A big golden retriever chased a formerly lime green tennis ball, thrown by a man in a red Phillies cap. The dog reminded Bennie of Bear, who was a sucker for a tennis ball, especially a muddy tennis ball. The man was throwing the ball in a bad direction, though. Beyond the bike and jogging paths lay Kelly Drive, on the east side of the river, filled with rush-hour traffic. Instead of tossing the ball away from traffic like everybody else, the man in the cap was tossing it toward traffic.
Bennie frowned like a worried mother. The ball bounced short of traffic, but she would never take a chance like that, not with Kelly Drive so close. The River Drives were the fastest way out of town, and at the end of the day, as now, they were crazy. People drove way too fast, hell-bent on getting home. Still the man tossed the ball toward the street, and the dog went gamely after it, his tongue flying. Bennie shook her head. Golden retrievers were the dumb blonds of the dog world.
“Five, four, three, two, one!” a coxswain shouted through her megaphone, and the high school crew rowed past, their young heads shaved for macho effect. Bennie took up her oars to steady her scull, but she couldn’t stop watching the man in the baseball cap on the grass. She loved goldens, and the dog reminded her so much of Bear. His pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth in single-minded pursuit of the ball, and he wouldn’t drop the ball once he’d retrieved it. Like Bear, the dog danced away once he brought it back, prolonging the tease.
Psshlp. Bennie took a stroke, rowing a little closer to the bank. The man pulled the ball from the dog’s mouth and threw it toward traffic again. She rowed past on her way to the boathouse, annoyed. Why would anybody do that? Was the man an idiot? She watched the dog streak toward traffic after the ball, almost upending a jogger on the dirt path. She half considered yelling at the guy from her boat, but it wasn’t her business, and she had to get rowing. Other boats were waiting to come in. Still.
Her boat drifted closer to the bank, bobbing on the residual wake, and she rowed a steady course. Closer to the bank she could see the dog’s coat, also glossy like Bear’s. It was a cinnamon shade considered unfashionable by most golden fans, who preferred the lighter shades, but Bennie loved Bear’s coat. It caught the light like this one’s, glowing red as an Irish setter’s in the sun. The man in the cap threw the ball and the dog dashed after it, but a runner caught the tennis ball before it reached the drive. The runner tossed it back and yelled something Bennie couldn’t hear. Probably telling the idiot not to throw it that way. Good.
Psshlp. Bennie had to get going. Three more college eights were rowing toward her, heavyweight crews power-stroking in an impromptu regatta before they reached Sedgeley, their coaches urging them. She took another stroke, but she kept an eye on the jerk in the cap. No sooner had the jogger turned his back than the man threw the ball toward traffic again. But this time the force of the throw caused his baseball cap to fall off. A pile of curly blond hair tumbled to his shoulders.
Bennie did a double take. The hair was way too long for a man’s. It was a woman’s, and in the next instant, the woman turned toward the river, looked at Bennie, and waved right at her. Bennie, stricken, recognized the woman instantly.
It was
Alice.
Bennie froze over her oars, then grabbed the handles before the water’s force drove them into her waist. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t process it. It was Alice, taunting her. And it was Bear. It was Bennie’s own dog racing into traffic after the ball, his pink tongue flying!
“No! Bear! No!” Bennie screamed at the top of her lungs. She dropped her oars, and stood up in the boat, pitching it violently to the right. How had Alice gotten Bear? She was going to kill him! It was impossible to stand in a single, and the boat wobbled dangerously.
“Bear! No! Come!” she yelled, making a megaphone of her hands. Alice was running away, toward the parking lot. She had thrown the tennis ball one last time and it was bouncing on the asphalt of the jogging path, then into the fast lane. Bear bolted after the ball, straight toward traffic.
Suddenly everything was happening at once. The college eights were racing toward Bennie, unable to stop. They hadn’t calculated on her stopping dead in the water. Bennie’s boat was rolling like a log. She was going to capsize. She gripped the quick release on her sneakers and plunged into the cold water just as the boat went over.
She began swimming frantically toward shore, a straight-ahead breaststroke. The water was freezing and filled with debris. It tasted like filth but she spit it out. She would never make it in time to save him. Bear would run right in front of the cars. No, please. No! She hiccuped with fright and swam as hard as she could, stroke after stroke, barely taking a breath. Her eyes stung. A stick scratched her cheek. She kicked something slimy from her ankle. She came up for air and heard people shouting. Screaming.
Bennie blinked sludge from her eyes and realized why.
She was swimming directly in the path of the college eights. And they were heading straight for her.
Oh my God.
16
Look ahead, eight! Look ahead!” rowers screamed from the other boats, but the eights rushed toward Bennie, unstoppable. A heavy eight weighed a ton and gathered the momentum of an express train. She swam for her life.
The rowers tried frantically to brake, jamming their oars in the water, spraying water like fountains from both sides. “Hold water! Hold water!” their coxswains screamed and steered but it was no use. One boat’s rudder flapped uselessly back and forth. Its lead wire must have been broken by the sudden strain. Bennie could see the point of the boat. Racing at her like a spear.
No! She swam harder. Her lungs felt as if they’d burst. The lead eight was coming right at her, the boyish bowman twisting his trunk around to see her in their path. Bennie saw the terror in his young eyes. She couldn’t get out of the way in time. She was going to get run over.
She gulped a final breath of air and dove down deep into the mud and shit, heading for the river bottom. Her chest felt as if it would explode. In the next second, she could feel the powerful current of the eight moving like a whale over her head.
Please, no. Bennie had to stay down long enough for the eight to pass. She couldn’t get hit by the boat, the oars, or the riggers. She’d be killed. She leaked precious air from her mouth so she’d stay down. She flailed her arms to get lower, but it was too dark to see anything. Suddenly a wave of water hit her, sending her tumbling end over end in the cold and blackness, like a crumpled paper in a hurricane. Her mouth opened and she took in gulp after gulp of river water. She couldn’t breathe. Her nostrils bubbled with water. She felt a bolt of mortal fear. She was going to drown.
But then she saw sunlight, up and to her right. She was sideways. The boat had passed. Out of air, Bennie kicked futility for the surface. She couldn’t make it. She’d never make it. She had nothing left. Her arms ached; her legs gave up. She hiccuped water, gagging. She felt herself lose consciousness.
I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not with Alice still alive. And Bear.
Bennie’s hands reached for the surface. Her legs kicked with their last effort. She went blindly toward the light, and in the next second broke the water’s surface and bobbed into the sunlight, gagging and coughing.
“Wait, wait, there!” she heard a coach yelling, but she was coughing too hard to hear more. She vomited gritty river water and tried to stay afloat.
Bear. She wiped her eyes with cold and trembling hands. She torqued in the water toward the riverbank and saw it through bleary eyes. Please, God. Let him be alive.
A crowd formed suddenly on the bank where Bear had been chasing the tennis ball. Traffic stood at a standstill. People jumped out of their cars. The joggers stopped running. The cyclists leapt from their bikes.
The skiff motored closer, and Bennie felt her tears flowing with the river.
She ran soaking and out of breath toward the fringe of the crowd, ignoring the stares and shock of the onlookers. She couldn’t see through the crowd to Bear. Dirty spittle covered her chin, and her hair dripped with filthy water. Mud caked her shins, and her socks were soaked. Maybe Bear could still be saved. Maybe if she got him to a vet in time. The vet school at Penn wasn’t far way.
“Bear!” she yelled, staggering her way to the front of the crowd, which was breaking suddenly into wild applause. The cyclists in their tiny hats, the runners with the white sneaks, and the lovers and the students were clapping. Bennie felt new tears come to her eyes.
“Bear?” she asked with hope, and as the crowd parted she saw that one of the runners, a huge, well-built man, was carrying her unhappy golden from the path of certain death. It was Bear! Alive! Well! And with a tennis ball in his mouth! The hunky runner set the squirming golden down on the grass.
“Bear!” Bennie shouted with joy, and the startled dog turned, spotted her, and rushed toward her, jumping up on her with soft, gritty paws. Not that she minded. “Bear!” she cried again, smooshing her wet face into his furry one and coming away with hairy cheeks.
“Yeah!” “Way to go, buddy!” “Great job!” shouted the crowd, and the runner waved them off modestly. Bennie reached him just as people began climbing back in their cars, breaking up the gaper block that had stopped traffic on the drive. The cyclists returned to their bikes, the runners to their jogging, and the lovers to their necking.
“Yes, thank you so much for saving my dog,” Bennie said to the runner with a rush of gratitude, but oddly, he wasn’t smiling.
“No problem,” he said tersely. His largish mouth made a businesslike line, and his eyes, large, round, and brown, had gone flinty in the sunlight. He looked to be about Bennie’s age, in dark blue gym shorts that read NAVY in yellow letters. A thick white T-shirt hung loose on his broad, muscled chest, and his well-defined biceps were slick with sweat.
An older woman in a blue sweat suit and Reeboks was wagging a red-polished finger at Bennie. “Honey, if that’s your dog, you owe this man a reward! He just risked his life for that animal! He ran right into the street, stopped traffic with his hands, and scooped up that dog like he was a newborn baby!”
“No, please,” the jogger said modestly, but the older woman cut him off.
“Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it! He risked his life!” She turned to the man. “You should get a medal!” She reached for the man’s hand and shook it firmly, then turned again to Bennie. “He deserves a reward for what he did, you hear me? He could have been killed! He carried your dog out of the street and ran with him!”
“You ran with my dog?” Bennie looked up at the man, incredulous. Bear weighed over a hundred pounds, all of it peanut butter. It took a crane to lift him onto her bed. “You picked him up and ran with him?”
“Yes, it was amazing!” the older woman repeated. “He’s a real hero!”
“Please, no!” The jogger dismissed it with a modest wave. “It wasn’t anything.”
“You’re a real hero! A real hero!” the woman said again as she power-walked off, and Bennie felt overwhelmed.
“Thank you again, so much,” she said. Bear pawed her soggy socks to get her to throw the ball into traffic again, and she scratched his head with happiness. “Did yo
u really run into traffic to save him?”
“Nah, I was going after the ball.”
Bennie laughed. “No, how did you do it? You stopped the traffic and grabbed him? And how did you pick him up?”
“It wasn’t hard,” he answered offhandedly. He was huge, at least six three, and his physique explained how he had bench-pressed a golden retriever.
“I do owe you, that lady was right.” Bennie was about to offer the man a reward, but she didn’t think he took Visa. “I’m a little strapped right now, but there must be something I can do for you in return. You need some free legal advice? Somebody you want to sue? I can make life hell for your enemies.”
“There is something.” The jogger’s eyes narrowed, and Bennie realized he was angry with her. “Learn a lesson. Take better care of your dog. Don’t play fetch near the street.”
Oh, no. “No, that wasn’t me throwing the ball,” Bennie said. She shook her head and grimy droplets flew off, but the man’s lips were glued skeptically together.
“Sure it was, I saw you. I told you to stop throwing the ball, and you told me to go fuck myself.”
Eek. “No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t say that. I used to say stuff like that, but I’m on a curse diet.” Sort of. “You saw my twin sister. My crazy twin sister, who was trying to kill my dog.”
“What?” The runner leaned over, frowning in disbelief. His hair was dark and thick, and he pushed lanky bangs from his eyes.
“My twin was the one throwing the ball. She cursed you out. I was out rowing, in that boat.” Bennie gestured at the river behind her, and the runner peered past her shoulder.
“What boat?”
“My boat.” Bennie turned, but there was no boat floating on the water where she had abandoned hers. She glanced downriver, but her boat wasn’t there, either. Oops. She turned back to the man and tried to explain. “Well, I had a boat, but it sank. I know I sound like I’m lying, but I’m not. People can always tell when I’m lying.”
Dead Ringer Page 15