by CJ Hauser
Do you see? Esther said.
See what? the students said.
The thaw is coming, Esther said. Look.
The children looked.
We walked all the way up here to look at a motherfucking lake? a boy said.
A hole in a lake, the crying girl said miserably.
But one of the boys, the only one wearing boots, was staring at the hole in the lake like it might save his life. He was a sickly kid, hacking with bronchitis all winter, Esther now remembered. He was the only one who looked at her, radiant, and nodded. Justin, she remembered, his name was Justin.
For Esther, Justin was enough. Fuck the rest of them. Just this one kid.
As they headed back down the slope, the children grumbled that she’d lost her mind and they were going to tell their parents about this. They heard the bell ring from the schoolyard. They were running late, but they were almost back.
But then, Justin, her beacon of hope, fell and went sliding down the slope. He would have been fine had the stream not been at the bottom. Had the stream top not partially frozen over and his leg not broken the ice crust when he hit. His boot plunged into the water of the tributary stream, the heavy coldness filling it, and he yelled. It was the first real noise she’d heard out of him all year. He was pulling and pulling to get his boot off, but the weight of the water was too much and the suction of it was keeping him in. The water must have been freezing.
Justin, calm down, Esther said. We can get you out if you stay calm.
Help him! one of the other boys yelled.
He’s going to be fine, Esther said. Just let me empty his boot out. When she’d got him free, she saw that the crust of ice had cut his leg. Just a little, but there was blood. She poured the freezing stream water from his boot; there was more than she’d expected. Justin cried when she returned his wet, empty boot and told him he needed to put it on. We’ll be back soon, and you’ll be fine, Esther said. We’ll get you warmed up in the nurse’s office.
They returned to the school building twenty minutes late.
Justin was fine. He was sick for a week, but Esther didn’t believe that could really have been a result of the boot incident anyway. Justin’s mother turned out to be less reticent than he was. She called the office and told them Esther had death marched those children in the snow in the middle of winter.
People can go outside in winter, Esther said. It’s not toxic outside, it’s just cold. But at the end of the year, it was made clear that perhaps Esther’s time for retirement had come. They had been wanting to cancel Environmental Biology for years.
That summer, at a board meeting for the New York Audubon Society, Esther was slated to present in her capacity as chief scientist. Her presentation concerned the work of a group of scientists studying a population of undowny buffleheads in the Gulf, whose research she thought might be applicable to their own local species of duck. A study was in order, Esther claimed, and she hoped the board would greenlight the project so it could be determined whether northern species closely related to the undowny bufflehead might also be showing evidence of backward speciation.
After some awkward laughter at what the other board members assumed to be a joke, Esther suggested that this was a bellwether that should not be ignored. It was the beginning of the end.
The board members stopped laughing. Esther was fired the next morning and moved to Leap’s three months later.
* * *
——————·
It’s because of all these kids and their video games, Esther said. They never go outside anymore. They can’t identify a tree for shit. Every year, they have less and less to do with the world outside. Their bodies don’t even look the same. Pale skinny kids wearing shorts in winter. Soft fat kids bringing me notes saying why they didn’t have to go outside. Allergies. Suddenly everyone has allergies and they want me to teach environmental science without ever going out of doors at all. I don’t know what our natural habitat is anymore.
My students all have allergies, Elsa said.
Esther sighed. Of course they do, she said.
Do you ever see Duck Number Twelve? Nolan asked, and ignored Elsa when she whipped around to glare at him.
Twelve? Oh, the banding, Esther said. That was your father’s thing.
No one else has been banding the ducks? Elsa said. At all?
Esther blew air. Before she could answer, the children heard the flapping of wings. One of the buffleheads came and landed in the plastic kiddie pool on Esther’s deck, splashing a little.
One of your friends? Nolan asked.
Shhh! Esther said. She hunched over and gestured for Elsa and Nolan to follow her. They crept as she did, suddenly feeling like disciples.
They stood at the periphery of the baby pool, and the duck tensed like he was going to fly away. They remained still, and eventually the bird began paddling around in the water, his webbed feet tocking rhythmically like a toy’s, clearly visible against the pattern of beach balls on the neon baby pool’s bottom.
Do you see? Esther said.
See what? Nolan said.
The water, look.
Nolan and Elsa watched, unsure what they were looking for.
The water, Esther repeated.
Nolan squinted. Behind the duck he saw a pearling in the water. There were beads forming on the surface in its wake. Oils, separating from water, warping and bending and beading away.
Esther lunged at the duck and grabbed him around the middle. He quacked vociferously, but Esther lifted him, shaking the creature so water dripped from his tail and back into the pool. The duck was unbanded, Elsa noted. Not one of their father’s ducks. Though what difference would it make if it was?
Esther inspected the water, the duck, and then violently threw him over the railing. Elsa squeaked, but the duck picked up flight and took off, honking.
Jesus Christ, Elsa said. Did you need to do that?
What is that? Nolan asked. In the water?
Oils mostly. Waterproofing. That’s what keeps their feather down from getting wet. They’re losing it. Shedding it every swim. Esther pulled a plastic flacon with a rubber stopper from her pocket and dipped it into the water, collecting the duck oil. She plugged the flacon and handed it to Nolan.
Elsa rolled her eyes. For a minute, she’d started to believe Esther was sane because Elsa’s students also seemed soft and strange these days. What had happened to all the paste eaters and bug collectors? Gone. At show-and-tell, students brought in handheld games and princess franchise merchandise. So, yes, Elsa saw what Esther saw, but it had nothing to do with evolution, or ducks. It had to with Elsa, failing at her job. Because what business did she have telling her students this world would provide them the safety and happiness and love that Elsa knew probably wasn’t waiting for them at all? Her job had started to feel like lying, and the lies Elsa told the children were the same lies she’d believed when she was small, before Ian left and Nolan came. Elsa had been promised the world was otherwise, and sometimes, she thought that if she’d only been told better truths at the outset, she could have been ready for every rotten thing that came later.
Nolan lifted the flacon. Inside, the oil beaded in the water. He turned the tube over and the golden beads drifted to the surface.
Why are they losing the oil? Nolan asked.
Esther said, My analyses have been inconclusive. I think we’ve lost our biological imperative to adapt to environments. Living the way we have for so long, it’s stopped impacting selection. We’re no longer good at adapting to things in the natural world because it’s too hard to tell which parts are real anymore—as she said this, she gestured to the baby pool—so we don’t know what to adapt to.
You’re saying this is happening to us? Nolan asked, lifting the vial.
I don’t know what it is we’re losing, Esther said, but
it’s got to be worse than this.
Nolan looked mind-blown as he handed the vial back to Esther.
Esther, Elsa said. Our father, was he depressed? The police said his death was an accident but—
Oh no, honey, Esther said. Ian wouldn’t have killed himself. It wasn’t in his nature.
It’s just that you seem to think everything is going so wrong and I wondered if he—
Esther shook her head. None of us would be on this island if we had the nerve to just kill ourselves.
She turned the flacon over and watched the oil droplets migrate, pushing past one another to the other end of the tube.
He was such a brilliant man.
* * *
——————·
On the hike back, they were quiet. It was nearing three o’clock and the ground steamed. Nolan stopped to catch his breath, bracing his hands against his thighs. Elsa snapped a hair elastic around her wrist, watching him.
I wish you’d stop talking about Dad killing himself, Nolan said. You’re upsetting people.
Everyone who lives here is already totally and deeply upset, Nolan. Dad was obviously some kind of upset too. He wouldn’t have been here if he hadn’t become the kind of weird misanthrope who believes ducks are spelling out doom and millennials are ruining the species with video games and—
Actually, so far it seems like everyone thought he was just a wonderful guy, Nolan said. Which frankly is weirder than hearing he was suicidal.
Elsa sighed. She could smell her own body. Her armpits, her cunt, the oil in her hair. She would have to go swimming again or try the showers in the Lobby. Yes, it was weirder, but that didn’t mean he didn’t do it. What Elsa wanted to say was that she was never surprised when someone killed himself. She was only surprised by her own animal perseverance day after day. What Nolan was failing to understand was how much their father had been lugging around with him for so long because of them. How there was no way Ian didn’t blame himself. How it was a miracle he had lasted this long.
What she said was, Just because Ian seemed happy doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have killed himself.
Jesus Christ, Nolan said. Okay but, like, what was that in the water? There was something in the water.
Are you that stupid? Elsa said. It could be anything! Boat diesel the duck swam through or natural oils from a plant. I mean, I don’t even know for a fact that all ducks don’t go around leaking oil all the time. What the hell do I know about ducks?
There was that David Attenborough segment about the undownys from the Reversalists’ website, Nolan said. He’s not a Reversalist.
Wasn’t that special called On the Fringe?
But it’s true they’re less waterproof, Nolan said, pointing at Elsa like he’d caught her. We saw that duck drying himself on the porch.
That’s not how evolution works, Nolan! If the ducks were actually going backward, they would just be born with feathers that were less and less waterproofed every generation, Elsa said. They wouldn’t be actively leaking their oils into Esther’s kiddie pool.
Nolan shoved his hands in his pockets.
How are you the child of scientists?
I don’t know, Nolan said. I don’t know why I’m not like them.
Maybe that’s for the best, Elsa said, and started walking again. Nolan hustled after her. There are other ways to be.
Other than brilliant?
* * *
——————·
They arrived back at Shack Seven. The water along the shore was scattered with small fallen leaves.
I’m getting in, Elsa said. I’m dying.
Before she’d even unbuttoned her shorts, Nolan had pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his shoes. He dove into the shallow water, and it was clear enough that Elsa could see the whole form of him, hands pointed out in front, black hair streaming behind, shorts waterlogged, as he shot through the weak tide, graceful in spite of himself.
Nolan seemed, to Elsa, a picture of normalcy and health. He wasn’t brilliant, but he was fine. Wasn’t he? Every moment they were together, she could not help but watch to see if he was okay, and for every moment he was, Elsa wanted to run away before she had a chance to learn otherwise. She let Jinx out, and the dog raced along the shore, peeing on the reeds.
Elsa’s pink tiger was tied to one of the shack stilts with a nylon cord. She undid the knot, undressed to her suit, and waded with the raft into the water. She hugged the tiger to her chest, her legs paddling, her back warm in the sun.
Nolan swam toward her underwater, trailing silver bubbles from his nose that ran behind him in chains. He broke the surface just next to her, and his eyebrows were mussed. She reached out from the float and straightened them, one at a time, with her finger.
Nolan grabbed on to the tiger float and hung from the other side. Just tell me once that you’re one hundred percent certain Dad killed himself, and I’ll stop asking, he said.
She could feel how badly he needed her to tell him some kind of lie about their father, but Elsa was done with that. She wanted out of the business of comforting half-truths.
Underneath the float, Nolan tangled his legs with Elsa’s. Their shins knocked and then Nolan caught her legs between his like a vise. He squeezed and Elsa felt an unwelcome clutch at the base of her stomach.
They stared at each other across the float. There was so much that was not allowed that the island seemed willing to permit. Things underwater. Things offshore.
Elsa stretched her legs and made to pull them free, but Nolan clamped on to her again.
Elsa said, The alternative is that he went swimming in a storm.
But at least if it were an accident he still believed in his research, Nolan said.
I guess, Elsa said. Nolan’s knee was pressed hard against her thigh and she was lightheaded. This island was a ruse. It was a way of pretending the world was other than it was.
Stop, Elsa said.
Nolan released her legs. He drifted from the float and burbled water. If he still believed in his research, he had a good reason to leave us, to come here, Nolan said.
Elsa’s float began to drift away in the current. She kicked away from him.
Nolan grabbed the tiger paw and pulled her back.
This matters, Nolan said. Please don’t pretend not to care.
I’m just trying to be realistic, Elsa said. She pinched the plastic seam of the float.
You said you’d help.
There were two fat brown fish metronoming in the water beneath Elsa, unworried by their feet. She pointed her toe at them, and they adjusted course.
I just don’t know what to do about it, Nolan. I feel like you want me to take care of things, but this whole situation is fucking weird. I don’t understand what you want from these people. I don’t understand what you want from me.
The what was hard to pin down. Nolan felt as if there was something Elsa had of his, and he wanted it back. Some long-missing something that she had stolen from him and which would be returned only if Nolan could name it. His sister’s shoulders were burned, a red saddle across their breadth, and he stood up on the sandy bottom and pressed her sunburn, dragging a line across her shoulders with his finger and watching the skin turn white, then flush.
He looked so morose that Elsa actually felt sorry for him.
She said, Honestly, the thing that really bothers me is the clothes.
Nolan had thought of this too but was surprised that Elsa had. It felt like a private detail only he would notice.
Their father’s clothes had been left in a bundle the size of a baby on the beach. The clothes were rumpled together, and there was a kind of horror in this for the children that was not unlike what the sight of a damaged body would have prompted. Because Ian Grey would never have left his clothes that way. He was a man who believed that
everything had its place and should be returned to it. He trained the children to always put away their things. A pair of underwear left on the bathroom floor, a book crooked open across a chair’s arm, any object not properly returned to its place was, to Ian, like a sentence left half-complete, trailing off in ellipses. If Ian had gone swimming, he would have folded his clothes. They would have found them stacked neatly on the beach.
I didn’t think you’d remember that about him.
The sun was sinking toward the waterline, its orange-popsicle color bleeding across the clouds like a stain. I remember, Elsa said. As well as you, anyway. She lifted herself up on her elbows. The float wobbled.
When Elsa remembered Ian, she remembered him in her childhood living room, at the farmhouse, playing the Steinway. Nothing solemn. Scott Joplin, maybe. He would do the jaunty little head bob he did when he thought he was playing especially well. Elsa remembered sitting on the floor, next to his non-pedal foot, and pressing her ear against his leg as he played. That piano was long gone. Gone like the farmhouse. Gone like Ian. Maybe it didn’t matter if he’d drowned or killed himself. Her father had been taken from her over and over again, and Elsa was tired of coming up with new ways to suffer in his absence.
* * *
——————·
That night, they made no pretenses about the sleeping bag and slept cupped like shells in their father’s bed. They’d been sleeping an hour when Elsa heard a noise at the door. The handle jiggling.
You just have to lift it while you do that, she heard a voice say. No, you have to stick it in, then lift it so it will catch.
Nolan sat up, awake. He looked at her.
Hello? Elsa said.
Is someone in there? the voice said.
Shut up, just get the lock, the other voice said.
Yes, someone is in here! Elsa shouted. Nolan wished Elsa wouldn’t shout. He wished they had said nothing and could hide.