Salvage

by Duncan Ralston

  "Okay, Howie, I'm sorry about the mess, even though it belongs to someone else—"

  "Ghosts," Howie said without a trace of superstition.

  "Whosever's it is, I'll help you get it into the truck, if you need me to, all right?"

  Howie's face clouded. "I can take care of it myself. You think this is bad, you should wide along with me some day."

  "I bet," Owen said, already itching to go. He felt rude just leaving, but he was losing the day. "So you're good with this?"

  Howie grimaced at the trash. "I'm not gonna like it, but I got it covered."

  "Well, okay. Good luck. And thanks. I'll be down in the water if you change your mind." He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but better to fake civility than skip off like an asshole.

  "Going diving, huh?" Howie said.

  "Yup."

  "I wouldn't get in that water if you paid me." Howie shook his head, his eyes pinched shut. "Not on my life."

  "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

  "Township dump's over on the other side of the lake," Howie said, pointing a gloved finger toward the bay. "Mighta been a pwetty good location when it was still a valley, but not anymore. My dad says the lake went all the way up to the dump 'cause the power company never did a pwoper survey before they flooded, and he should know, 'cause he's on the town council." Howie let this hang, as if it were important. Owen offered an impressed nod, which seemed to please him. "So what do you think happens when it wains?"

  "When it rains?"

  "What'd I just say? Yeesh!" Howie waggled his eyebrows, the gesture reminding Owen of a marionette. "All that garbage juice seeps wight into the gwound water, and I bet you know where that gwound water ends up, don't ya?" He jabbed his grimy gloved finger toward the bay again. "Wight back in the lake!"

  "That is gross."

  "You're damn tooting!" Howie said. "That's why you'll never catch me in Chapel Lake. Not even a stinkin' toe."

  "I don't blame you."

  "Yeah. I'd wather swim in a heap of dirty diapers. And heck, I'm in up to my elbows in wefuse every single day, so put that in your snorkel and smoke it, buddy." Howie laughed at this, a squeaky giggle that shook his whole body.

  Owen grinned back. "I will."

  "Well, all wight then," Howie said, satisfied he'd made his point. He grabbed the closest garbage can and tipped it beside the spill, grunting as he got down on his haunches to scoop raw garbage into it with his gloved hands, his hairy ass crack clearly visible where his T-shirt hitched up above his jeans.

  "You sure you don't need a hand?"

  Howie didn't even look up from his work. "Who's paying who here, huh? Yeesh!"

  "If I find any treasure out there," Owen said, "I'll give you a share."

  "If I find any tweasure in here, don't expect me to share!" Howie said, rolling his eyes. "Tweasure… Good luck with that, buddy." Howie chuckled again, shoving handfuls of wet garbage into the can. "Only thing you'll find in that lake is loon shit, and I should know."

  "I thought you didn't go in the water?"

  "I don't. But my dad pays top dollar for salvage. Let's just say he hasn't had to open his wallet a whole bunch the last few years. He says the lake's all used up. Nothin' out there but loon shit."

  With a whole town under the lake, Owen found it difficult to believe it had been entirely picked clean. But Howie had a point. If no one had brought his father any salvage, chances were pretty good there was nothing to find, unless the divers were keeping it all to themselves.

  "Does your dad dive at all?"

  Howie shook his head and looked up at Owen shrewdly. "Are you cwazy? My dad's afwaid to swim!"

  2

  Owen steadied himself as the dock rocked from the waves of a speedboat out in the main bay, hinges clattering and boards creaking, the old tin boat battering against it and tearing at its hooks.

  Birds called out yooooo-hoo to each other from the brush along the shoreline. Owen recognized the song but not the birds, until they voiced their distinct chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee, reminding him vaguely of those lost early years spent with his mother and father in a home that was now beneath the lake.

  The clattering stopped, and the dock became stable. He'd lugged all his diving equipment down there, meaning to dive right in… but the thought of getting in the water after everything he'd been through the past week, after the dream last night, after what had happened to Lori… now that he stood there ready to go, he hesitated.

  "Stop being a wimp," he told himself, looking down at the impenetrable surface, still as tinted glass. "You heard Howie. Nothing out there but loon shit."

  No ghosts, anyway.

  He kneeled at the end of the dock and prepared the equipment: spitting in his mask and rinsing it out, inflating the buoyancy jacket thingy (he couldn't remember what the store owner had called it), testing each of the deflation valves before strapping it over his chest, snapping on the weight belt, and making sure the release snaps weren't covered by the jacket, lugging on his tank and pony and checking the pressure with the gauge.

  Lori had taught him to swim when they were children, which in turn had helped him overcome his fear of the water. When they were older, she'd managed to convince him to take a scuba course with her at the local community center. The teacher had called him a "natural," but without anything to see underwater, having taken place in a swimming pool, the lessons had been a tad boring. Lori had continued with diving, taking further lessons with her smug friend, Hanson. Owen had let the skill wither, though he hoped it would be like climbing back on a bike.

  When he'd finished checking the equipment, he sat at the edge of the dock with his fins in the water and took a big gulp of fresh air, then bit down on the regulator, breathing in the slight chemical taste of oxygen. Once he was used to the technique and breathing normally again, he slipped into the water.

  He floated in place for a bit, kicking gently as he bobbed in the waves from a boat out in the main bay. Then he released some air from the buoyancy compensator, and slowly sank to the bottom, raising a greenish cloud of silt. A bone-white crayfish skittered backwards away from his fins and hid under a rock.

  His breathing came too quick. He knew it was bad, but as he sank to the bottom, he couldn't stop himself. Blue orbs, he thought. That's what'll get you when you're under. He couldn't decide whether to inflate the jacket or drop the weights, or do neither.

  You're losing it, Owns. Keep it together.

  Thinking in Lori's voice helped him focus. His breathing steadied. He stopped panicking, and kicked out languidly.

  In control again, he twirled around to face the dock. Lumpy pink Styrofoam bobbed under the dock boards, coated with years of algae and dirt, keeping the dock afloat. The lake bottom was sun-bright, and though he hadn't been able to see it from the surface, it was incredibly clear now, aside from the area under the dock's shadow, cold and dark as a cave.

  He stood on a mucky patch of rocks and marveled at what he was seeing. Before him lay a world not many people experienced: the world of the fish, the turtle, the freshwater crustacean. A realm of murky gloom, of muted greens and browns; not colorfully exotic, like tropical diving. Under the lake, the marvels were mainly human, the lost detritus of civilization: old boots and discarded tires; paint-flecked propane tanks and moldering doll heads; faded pop cans and rusted boat motors. He didn't expect to find the treasure from his dream down here, but somewhere out there were the remains of Peace Falls, and the chapel that had given this man-made lake its name. The church itself appeared to be intact, from the photos he'd seen.

  Somewhere his lost childhood awaited him, and he meant to rediscover it. He took his first literal step toward that goal now, raising a cloud of silt with a fin and beginning to walk sluggishly forward, the weight of the water fighting back against him as he stepped under the shadow of the dock.

  It was colder here, as he'd suspected, but the warmth of the water inside his wetsuit kept him from experiencing the sting of it. Things down here hadn't seen
the light of day for God knew how long; no sun-bleached rocks stood out like beacons from the gloom. Another crayfish propelled itself backward over his left fin, hiding under a sleet-gray stone. A fat brown-green bass, or trout—he had no idea how to make the distinction; it could have been a pike for all he knew, though he had an idea pikes were much larger—twisted itself in his direction and floated there, a slick, whiskered gatekeeper scrutinizing this interloper in its turbid domain.

  Hey, George. How's the water? Owen thought. Then he grinned, accidentally sucking a bit of watery sediment in through the exposed sides of his mouth, and he swallowed it with a grimace. He considered that, even if the fish had conscious thought, it likely wouldn't know what water was. For a moment, he'd believed he was able to behave as if he were still on land without consequence, and he'd tasted a mouthful of Howie's loon shit for his ignorance.

  George swished off lazily toward warmer climates, leaving Owen to his business under the dock. If anything had been dropped in the water accidentally, it was more likely to have happened while standing on the dock than anywhere else. Loose change, keys, virtually anything someone might keep in their pocket (aside from a pocketful of dirt, he supposed, snarkily reminding himself of the shameful thing he'd done at Lori's funeral)—he'd find it down here. So he kicked outward with his fin, raising a cloud of silt. He felt like an archeologist, brushing aside centuries of dust to get at his quarry, though anything he'd find under here could only be as old as the lake itself, and Chapel Lake was younger than Owen.

  When the cloud settled, he'd exposed a pile of small stones, and a Royal Crown Cola can so old it had pull tabs yet was entirely undamaged, its reds and whites still as crisp as if it had just come off the line because of its limited contact with the sun. He thought he might be able to make a few bucks from it on the internet, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

  He took another few steps, crouching now as he approached the shore, and kicked out again. The cloud this time rose thick enough so he couldn't see beyond it, with less space to disperse it between the ground and the underside of the dock. A flat, skinny fish with muted rainbow colors twiddled out of the cloud and veered around Owen. When the sediment cleared, a fat, shiny quarter glinted in a crack of light from between the dock boards.

  He bent to fish it out of the muck, and brought it close to see. It wasn't a quarter at all, but a Jamaican ten-dollar coin. Probably only worth a quarter, anyhow—or less—but what it represented was worth more than anything he'd found so far: Lori had been to Jamaica within the last six months. A trip with girlfriends, one of the few they'd been able to coax her into that hadn't been about saving someone less fortunate than herself. A vacation, in other words, with no agenda other than to have some fun in the sun.

  She'd called from the airport hotel when she got back home, told him she'd had a great time with the girls, but couldn't help feeling guilty about all the poor people kept outside the gates of the resort. She'd gone into town on her own, despite warnings from resort staff, and spent a night in some Kingston ghetto with backpackers and locals, getting some "local flavor," as she'd called it—which Owen guessed had meant getting high and dancing to some street band, maybe getting frisky with one of the locals if she'd felt particularly adventurous.

  This coin was a souvenir of that trip, he was sure of it. He imagined it falling out of her macramé coin purse as she opened it, looking for her lighter to fire up a joint while she tanned on the dock. The coin must have clattered across the dock and rolled down between the cracks before she could snatch it back. It had sunk into the muck below, waiting for low tide to reveal it, or to be buried forever.

  Lori held this, he thought excitedly. Maybe even dropped it down here deliberately for me to find. Another link in the chain…

  He found other coins, though no more Jamaican currency. The lakebed was littered with quarters, dimes, nickels, loonies, toonies and pennies. He plucked each of them up and tucked them into his fanny pack. Might as well collect 'em all, he thought. Probably won't waste much time down here again, when there's a whole town of ruins out in the lake.

  A long, sleek fish, green and spotted, with a beak full of sharp, tiny teeth, drifted toward him. His knee-jerk reaction was to wriggle out of its way. It looked just big and mean enough to take a decent chunk out of his arm. But he breathed in, then out, thinking it through. Nothing in the water meant him any harm, save for some mindlessly dangerous bacteria. The animals down here were more afraid of him than he was of them, if they felt fear at all. He summoned up his courage, then reached out and grazed the fish's back with gloved fingers as it floated by. It didn't react at all to his touch, only swam by until it vanished in a pool of dark.

  Surfacing, Owen spat out the regulator and took a breath of real air. He was so relieved his first experience had gone well that he decided to get right out on the lake.

  3

  The water was choppy, wind whipping up froth across the lake and bending trees on the mainland. Waves curled over the side of the boat, splashing him, the bow of the ugly purple and green monster rising up spastically as it ascended before slamming down heavily on the other side. If he hadn't already been wearing his wetsuit, he would have been drenched in seconds. By the time he reached the church, the inside of the boat was covered with several inches of scummy water.

  Only a few die-hard water skiers and Jet Skiers were out today, bouncing crazily over the pounding waves. A sailboat on big yellow pontoons leaned nearly vertical as it slashed across the lake, sails pregnant with wind. One hardy kayaker fought against the current. It was hard not to feel bad for the guy, every one or two paddles forward he was pushed back two boat-lengths on the next wave. Owen didn't see a single canoe, and figured that was probably for the best.

  The second he hit the chop on the main bay, the urge to turn the boat around and go back was strong. The weather was a bad omen. He could already see plenty of silt and foam and reeds churned up underwater as he slowed the boat down to navigate the waves, worried he might tip it. But he fought the urge to give up, telling himself that, down near the bottom where the town lay, it was likely just as still and silent as the grave, and so he continued on against the current.

  Out near the church steeple, intermittently visible above the waves, a large dock in the shape of an E had been anchored, most likely for divers to moor their boats. Several boats flopped and banged against big bumpers fixed to the dock. Since the boats were empty, he assumed the divers must be diving under the turmoil, all except a single woman trying to get into her flippers, her attempts rocked by the heavy waves.

  Owen's first try at parking was thwarted by a simple beginner's mistake: forgetting that the handle of the motor needed to be pushed in the direction opposite the way he wanted to go. Consequently, he swung out wide, missing the dock by ten feet or more. The woman on the dock seemed to shake her head, though it could easily have been directed at her misbehaving flippers, or an unintentional motion caused by the waves. He brought the boat around again in a wide arc, then slipped it into the space between an expensive inboard bow rider and a tin boat like his, painted yellow and black like a giant wasp flecked with rust. The bow slammed into the dock, screeching as the waves dragged it along the side. He cut the motor and reached out to snag one of the bumpers before the boat could whip away from the dock again. Then he latched it quickly to the cleats and got out, feeling impressed with the job he'd done.

  "Nice work," the woman said. She'd finally managed to get her flippers on and was sitting at the edge of the dock, riding the waves like a woman on a bucking bronco.

  "First time," Owen said.

  "No shit." She wore a wetsuit, skin-tight, with a full cap and face mask. She could have been anyone. Her voice had a distinct rasp to it he would have recalled if he'd heard it before, which added to her edgy tone. "There's nothing down there," she assured him. "No hay tesoro." Off his questioning look, she explained testily, "No treasure. If you're looking for salvage, you're gonna be leaving d
isappointed."

  He eyed her with suspicion. "What makes you think I'm looking for treasure?"

  Her expression softened momentarily; then she reapplied her scowl with renewed vigor. "Why else would you be here? You drive up from the city with your brand new certifications and fancy gear to pick the old girl clean."

  "I don't have a certificate," he said. It seemed like the only way to distinguish himself from the rest of them without confessing his true motive, from the people in the speedboat and the big fancy fishing boat on the other side of the dock whom she'd already judged as harshly.

  She gaped at him behind her mask for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Oh, that's perfect!" she said, still laughing. He thought he caught her mutter, "Golden boy doesn't even know how to swim," but he couldn't be sure, since it seemed unlikely for her to call him 'golden boy' when they'd only just met.

  "I know how to swim," he shot back.

  "We'll see," she said, and bit down on her regulator. Without another word, she slipped into the chop.

  "Yeah, we will see." The comeback felt pathetic as he'd said it, but the woman hadn't heard it anyhow, having already dropped beneath the waves.

  Owen hurried to prep his equipment, hoping to meet her down there and prove to her he knew what he was doing—though, frankly, he was nervous about the weather, and the lack of visibility it likely would have stirred up underwater. He spat in the mask and rinsed it clean. It squeaked as he worked it over the dive cap. He bit the regulator, flipped his legs over the edge of the dock, fins splashing in and out of the water as the dock rose and fell. It wouldn't be an easy dive, as it had been back at Hordyke House. He regretted not having had the time to learn from an instructor, even if it had come down to Lori's friend, whatever his name was—the white suburban kid who'd dressed like a yogi at her wake.

  So stupid, he scolded himself. They'll use my death as a lesson to wannabe divers.

  He muttered, "Fuck it," and pushed off feet-first, finding himself underneath the waves before he could change his mind.