Under the Water

by Paul Pen

  She saw Simon trembling near the bedside table on Frank’s side. His face was wrinkled up like a giant crying baby. The most terrible scream imaginable should have come from that mouth, but Simon made no sound—he was surrounded by a horrifying bubble of silence. Grace didn’t understand why the boy was holding a toy pistol in his hands. She dreamed up absurd theories for how he’d managed to make a gunshot sound with his mouth as realistic as the one that had echoed around the house, or for what he’d used to make the hole in the wall that looked just like it had been made by a bullet. Any absurd theory was better than accepting that what he was holding was a real weapon. Or that what was spattering the sheets, the lamp, and her tub of hand cream on the bedside table was her son’s blood. And not a fine crimson film glazing a wound on his knee, or two drops emerging from his forearm after a nurse’s pinprick for a test, but a wasteful jet of pure life that made Grace dizzy. All that blood at once smelled like the loss of a child.

  Frank’s reaction was very different. He didn’t seem surprised by the vision of the gun.

  “How did you find it?”

  He scolded Simon before attending to him, taking the weapon from his hands and stuffing it into the drawer like someone hiding a secret. The boy later explained to them that he’d found it in Dad’s bedside table while searching for Audrey’s ferrets, that he’d been hearing noises in the house at night for weeks and he’d wanted to surprise his sister. But at that moment, Simon didn’t respond to the question. He didn’t react to any stimuli. Frank examined his disfigured face. With trembling fingers, he tried opening the eyelids from which blood was flowing. He snapped them back with a cry of pain, though he wasn’t the one injured.

  He told Grace to call 911.

  She obeyed but remained absent, without fully reacting until, in the intensive care unit at the hospital, the doctor confirmed to them that Simon would lose an eye. The bullet hadn’t touched the boy, but the weapon’s recoil had split his eyebrow and hit his eyeball with enough force to rupture it. Though the doctor didn’t use an analogy, Grace thought of an egg cracking. And of her boy’s beautiful iris, his pupil, spilling like yolk as they cracked, the miracle of sight reduced to a useless blob. The doctor tried to ease their concerns, explaining that Simon was very young and would become accustomed to living with a single eye. Before leaving, he informed them that they could go in to see him in a few hours.

  “Why was there a gun in the house?”

  Grace asked the question to nobody in particular, her attention fixed on the green band painted onto the hospital floor, blurry through her tears. She was incapable of looking at her husband.

  “For security, honey. In case someone was breaking in.”

  “Now you think someone was?” She wiped mucus from her top lip. “It was you who tried to tell me there wasn’t. You said it was those damn ferrets. In the walls.”

  “I couldn’t be sure. What if it was someone?”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me you’d bought a gun?” Grace sniffed. “You’re totally against guns, Frank. You always have been.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, I didn’t . . . I don’t know what to say, honey. I guess it was a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  She repeated the word in a slobbery whisper, two syllables that couldn’t begin to express the impact Frank’s negligence would have—forever—on Simon’s life.

  “Your son.” Grace summoned up the courage to look him in the face. “Your son has lost an eye because of you.”

  Frank walked off without saying anything. He left her there, standing on the green line. She thought he must have gone down to the cafeteria, or out into the hospital garden. But when she finally went to look for him, she couldn’t find him anywhere. She called his cell phone repeatedly, letting it ring at least thirty times—the plucking in Jewel’s song would be playing over and over on his handset—but there was no answer. Grace sent a text message to Audrey, asking if Dad had returned home. He wasn’t there, why would he be, her daughter replied. And then she became worried. Maybe she’d been too harsh, her accusation too hurtful. Now Frank would feel too ashamed to return, too guilty to be near her, near Simon. She imagined him wandering the city’s streets, unable to face the consequences of his misguided decision to obtain a weapon. A weapon that, at the end of the day, he had bought to protect them. His intention had been good. He had certainly never thought their son would blow his eye out.

  Feeling increasingly bad, Grace dialed Frank’s number again, resolved now to apologize for what she’d said. To promise him she would manage to forgive him for his carelessness. Listening to the endless ringing, Grace vowed to herself that she would never blame Frank for the incident again—anger never led to anything good. It was going to be tough, she knew, but it was what any woman would do for the husband she loved. And it was also what a devoted mother would do for her son. The two of them had to be more united than ever to support Simon, the real victim in all this. All her calls ended in disconnection signals, for the tenth time, the twentieth time.

  Frank returned hours later without having answered his phone and with no wish to talk, ask for forgiveness, or accept apologies. He arrived just as the doctor came out to give them permission to go into the ICU and see Simon.

  The smile the boy greeted them with, holding a hand up for a high five, instantly wiped away any negative feelings, any concern other than their son’s well-being.

  It was the next morning when Frank first proposed the idea of leaving Seattle. He argued that they’d have to move, that much was certain, because he couldn’t continue to live in the house with the hole from the bullet that cost his son an eye. And that if they were going to move, they could turn the change into a new start for the family. Far away from all the bad things that were happening to them this year in Seattle. It was as if the city were telling them to leave, so the smart thing to do was listen. To go. He would request a transfer, and Grace, with her computers, could work anywhere. He asked the company to move him while Simon was still in the ICU. Ten days later, they informed him there was a vacancy in Boston, an opportunity that would also mean a promotion for him. The universe was usually good to Frank—it always seemed to conspire in his favor. They would still have to wait until Simon finished the first phase of his treatment, for his wounds to heal and so they could take the correct measurements for his artificial eye, but the process could be completed in Boston. The doctor asked for three weeks to finish his work with Simon before transferring the case to the new hospital.

  That was how the RV’s maiden voyage, the big trip they’d been postponing for over a year, ended up turning into the family’s permanent move to the other side of the country. Sometimes, Grace laid the blame for everything that had happened to them on the motor home, claiming it was cursed, but she soon accepted that this was nothing but an absurd superstition. Perhaps there were enchanted houses, but who’d ever heard of a cursed motor home?

  Nonetheless, the superstition wouldn’t go away, and, as if the motor home really did attract disaster, here the four of them were, stuck out on the most deserted road in Idaho after hitting a poor, innocent woman. Fortunately, if everything went well, Earl and Mara would reach the highway soon and call someone. Grace guessed they’d receive assistance before nightfall.

  She finished setting the table for lunch while Frank and Simon planned construction of a second tower on the castle. The boy improved his new perception of distances with each day. A week after the gun went off, while he was still in the hospital, Simon asked them, and especially his father, not to feel guilty for what happened. That it was his fault for going in the drawer without permission and for wanting to see whether the pistol was real. At the age of nine, Simon had had the integrity to accept the consequences of his actions in order to ease his father’s suffering. That was how brave he’d been. How generous. How honest. As Frank had just said, being honest is a very good thing to want to be. And the boy was learning these values from his father. Grace wa
s proud of her husband, of their marriage, and of their great teamwork bringing up their children.

  She looked up and breathed in the aroma of the pine trees, of the sun warming the earth, of the still-damp flowers in the shade. A feeling of well-being, of good fortune and hope for the future, ran through her. They were a beautiful family beginning a new chapter in their lives. Things had gone badly for so long, and now it was time for their luck to change.

  From this moment on, everything would be better.

  Grace knew it.

  She could feel it.

  28.

  It hurt Mara to swallow.

  Her panting had dried her throat until it felt as if it were full of sand.

  Sticky sweat covered her skin.

  The moisture under her armpits and on her back made her clothes exude the smell of Grace’s fabric softener. She walked several miles before her sweat neutralized the nauseating aroma of whatever it was supposed to be—jasmine, sea breeze, or tropical sunset—that came from the material.

  “Marital Betrayal,” whispered Mara with a smile.

  She imagined the label on a softener with that name, hundreds of bottles filling the shelves of a supermarket where thousands of deceived wives would buy it.

  When she could no longer bear the length of Grace’s jeans, she stuck the knifepoint in the denim, above the knee. Remnants of the knife’s blood-and-grit paste had dried in the heat. They came off like scabs now. Mara cut around her leg, ignoring the pricking pains. She repeated the process on the other leg. After two paces in her new shorts, she heard an explosion in the distance. Black smoke rose toward the sky. She wondered whether it had been such a good idea to pull the old man out of the truck.

  The pain from a sudden stitch stabbed at her side.

  But she didn’t slow down.

  She wanted to reach the motor home as quickly as possible.

  She wanted to put things right.

  29.

  Standing on the road with her eyes closed, Grace let the last rays of sun play across her face. Frank had been watching her for a while without her knowing, appreciating the beauty of her gold-lacquered features. He saw the exact moment the sunlight evaporated, when the shadows on her face disappeared. She opened her eyes as if waking from a dream. Finding Frank’s eyes, she smiled. She held out a hand, inviting him to contemplate the surrounding landscape with her.

  “How I love this time of day,” she said, indicating the sky, the forest. “The sun hides, and it takes its shadows with it, but its light stays. It’s at this moment the world shows us its loveliest color. Its true colors.”

  She rested her head on Frank’s shoulder. He stroked her cheek; it was still warm.

  “Every moment’s lovely with you,” he whispered to his wife.

  They both took a deep breath.

  “So, how long’s this going to take?” Audrey yelled through the motor-home door. “You said they’d come before night and it’s almost dark.”

  Grace checked her wristwatch. She showed it to Frank.

  “They are taking a while,” she whispered to him. Then she yelled to Audrey. “Honey, first they had to get there—it’s a long way—then call, explain where we are, that we need replacement tires, then AAA has to get here . . . it all takes time.”

  From his fortress, Simon shouted that he didn’t mind waiting. He liked it here and preferred not to leave the castle half built.

  “That’s the spirit, Gizmo,” said Frank. “And it’s just us at last, the four of us as a family. As it should’ve been. Now that we’ve gotten rid of her—I admit I didn’t like that woman at all. The fewer strangers around my kids in an isolated place, the better.”

  “You guys are always afraid of everything.” Audrey got down from the RV. “Your generation is too sexist, racist, homophobic, and easily scared. People are good, generally. And especially women.”

  “And saying that isn’t sexist?” asked Frank.

  “Of course not.”

  Frank looked at his wife for support, but she shook her head, advising him not to try to make sense of adolescent impertinence.

  “You all know what we’re going to do to make the wait more bearable?” With her promising tone, Grace caught the attention of the three of them. “Hot dogs!”

  Simon ran toward them with his arms in the air. He ran around his parents, around Audrey, who stopped him by grabbing his head. She wasn’t going to join the celebration until she’d made sure they would all enjoy the feast.

  “Yes, honey, yes,” Grace replied before her daughter had even asked the question. “I brought veggie dogs, too.”

  They had dinner at the same table where they’d had breakfast and lunch. The tablecloth was covered in crumbs when they finished, and it was almost night. A single frankfurter survived on one of the paper plates Grace had taken out, the other plates now dirty with ketchup, mustard, and crispy fried onions.

  “I’m liking this, not having cell phones,” said Frank. “Did you notice how much we talked during dinner?”

  It surprised him to realize that their previous dinner, at Danielle’s, had taken place just twenty-four hours earlier. It felt as if a lot more time had passed.

  “Shut up, Dad, don’t even joke about it.” Audrey was still chewing her hot dog.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “My sense of adventure?” she repeated, incredulous.

  “Frank, I wouldn’t call running a woman over an adventure,” Grace corrected him.

  “Sorry, but being out in the middle of nowhere, eating delicious hot dogs with my wife and kids, that’s what I call an adventure. I’ve already forgotten about the unwelcome guest,” he said, as if he really believed it. “And with this dinner, I’ve confirmed my theory that ketchup tastes better outdoors.”

  He mopped the plate with a piece of bread, stuck it in his mouth, and groaned with pleasure.

  “I liked the woman,” said Simon, “and I liked Earl even more. See how I’m going to lead a normal life even though I’m missing an eye? He was driving with no hands—unbelievable!”

  “By the way”—Audrey leaned forward with her elbows on the table and lowered her voice—“what do you think he was saying about being a victim of sexual abuse? What do you think they did to him?”

  “Audrey,” Grace complained. “Please.”

  “Mom, I’m a young adult who can understand conversations in code now. I just want to kno—”

  “Audrey, be quiet. I’m serious.”

  “OK, OK . . .”

  She bit into her hot dog. Simon took the opportunity to take a jab at his sister.

  “Yeah, shut up, Audrey.”

  “You shut up. You didn’t even get it.”

  When she pointed at her brother with the hot dog, she splashed his face with ketchup. It went on the patch as well. Simon felt the material, checking the severity of the disaster. Suddenly serious, he took it off, revealing the hole in his face. Frank looked away to avoid seeing the wound, and Grace squeezed his knee under the table. Then Simon sucked the blob of sauce from the patch and, with a mischievous smile, picked up the ketchup bottle. He squirted a jet onto his sister’s hair.

  “Now we’re even.”

  “Even? More like you’re dead.”

  She counterattacked with mustard, covering Simon’s face in yellow spots. He stuck his hand in the bag of fried onions and threw a fistful at her as if it were grapeshot.

  “Kids, stop!” yelled Frank.

  They both halted, about to squeeze their respective bottles again. That was when Grace threw two slices of dill pickle at him.

  “Tell me you didn’t just do that.”

  “It wasn’t her,” Audrey lied. “It was me.”

  The blob of mustard she fired onto his nose sparked off the battle.

  “Everyone get Dad!” urged Simon.

  Spurts of both sauces, handfuls of crispy onions, and more pickles rained on Frank. He tried to offer resistance, but there were no weapons left on the t
able. He could only try to defend himself with an empty plate he used as a shield, though it was inadequate protection against the barrage of ingredients. Frank could hear his family laughing, and he ended up bellowing with laughter, too.

  “All right, all right, that’s enough, stop. Stop!”

  He raised his hands, surrendering. A couple more splashes landed on his face before the attack ceased. Simon looked at him with a hand over his mouth, while Audrey and Grace contained laughter that escaped through their noses. Frank examined his hands, arms, T-shirt. He felt his forehead, cheeks, jaw. There wasn’t an inch of clean material or skin.

  “Just wait till we’re stuck out here for days and you remember all the food you wasted throwing it at your own father.”

  He blinked to alleviate the mustard sting in his eye.

  “Shut up, Dad, we’re not going to be here for days.”

  “Of course we aren’t,” Grace assured Audrey. “They must be about to turn up.”

  She looked down the road as if AAA would arrive right then.

  “Right now, I’m going to turn on the boiler, because what I really need is a shower.” Frank got up with his hands held high, without touching anything. “And this polo shirt can go straight in the trash.”

  “You’d better not touch anything in that state,” said Grace as she also got up. “Go straight to the bathroom. I’ll turn on the boiler.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  He guessed from his wife’s expression that she had no idea, but she had no intention of admitting it.

  “Do you think she doesn’t know because she’s a woman?” Audrey cut in. “Because us girls don’t know anything about motors, right? Dad, honestly . . .”