Flat Water Tuesday

by Ron Irwin

  “I pulled him in. Jumbo helped me.”

  “Jumbo?”

  Channing interjected again. “John Perry. He was with Ruth Anderson when Robert and Chris reported the accident, Frank.”

  The headmaster shifted in his seat and cleared his throat in an irritated way. The sheriff was running out of time.

  “Okay, Robert, we’re almost done here. I need to be clear about something. Before you ran down to the river, did you actually see the body when it came out the other side of the bridge, carried by the current?”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause, another scratch in his notebook. He looked at me, and then his eyes flickered over to Channing, and I knew damn well what was coming.

  The sheriff finally asked it. “Do you think Connor Payne was alive after he splashed down?”

  Channing exploded. “For the love of God, Frank, what more do you want from this kid?”

  The headmaster stood up and said, “This interview is over, Sheriff. Robert Carrey has more than co-operated with you and needs time now to recover from this very traumatic incident.”

  The sheriff shut his notebook in acquiescence but all four adults continued to look at me.

  I looked back at them, and shook my head.

  32.

  Wadsworth’s interview went pretty much the same as mine. The girl’s dean terminated Ruth’s before it even started. Incoherent and clearly traumatized, she was in no state to be interrogated. Perry spoke briefly to the headmaster and to Channing in the infirmary, but I never found out what he said. Our parents were called and we were all sent home for a week. We missed the race against Exeter. The JV four stood in for us, and lost, but not disgracefully. Ruth and Perry agreed to be questioned in the presence of a lawyer once they were sufficiently recovered, and that was it. Nobody ever asked me for another interview. I spent most of my time at home sleeping. Of course I spoke to my parents about what had happened and they were concerned about me but there was only so much comfort they could provide about the death of someone else’s child.

  Everyone in the school knew what had happened within a day or so. The headmaster made an announcement in chapel—Connor had drowned in a tragic and regrettable accident—but the rumors about us had already flown around. Upon our return, Fenton held a memorial service and Connor’s family attended. They filed into the front of the chapel in dark, well-cut suits and frozen expressions and none could hold my eye when I glanced at each of them from my pew. Were these really the people who loomed so large in his life? They seemed too ordinary. Perfectly groomed and obviously wealthy, yes, but nothing like the monsters of my imagination. There were two parents, each with new deferential partners, and the matriarchal grandmother in ivory and black. They glanced around the chapel discretely and they looked, if anything, perplexed. The only thing I knew for sure was that they clearly had not known their son and grandson.

  Connor was buried in Osterville. We heard about it from Channing. It was a private service.

  We all spent ten days off the water. I had no idea how the others were doing or what they were feeling. We did not contact each other while we were at home, and we did not sit together on the day of the memorial service. Later in the week, I had had enough. I walked down to Middle Dorm and knocked on the window until Mrs. Horeline came to the door and gave me the same look the rest of the teachers had been giving me since my return—a mixture of pity and contempt. I asked if she could get Ruth and she disappeared into the building. I waited on the stairs for a while and finally Ruth came down. She was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt and loafers. She opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight, blinking.

  We didn’t speak to each other right away. Instead, we walked into town, past the Station Shop and the Fox and Fiddle to the diner. We sat at a table, alone, near the window, looking out into the main road of Fenton at the Jeeps and BMWs from the city. We ordered coffee. She drank hers black and I dumped sugar and milk into mine. She was wearing makeup, I realized, just a little. A clear gloss shone on her lips and her cheeks were rosy with a hint of blush. Her dark hair was loose but swept back off her face with a tortoiseshell comb. Her green eyes looked huge, intense, haunted. She was beautiful. Sitting there I could not think of her screaming obscenities at us in the boathouse.

  She had brought a purse with her into town, the first time I’d seen her with one of those as well. She unzipped it, dug around and fished out a piece of paper that she handed to me wordlessly. She watched my face as I read it. It was from Yale, an acceptance letter. I wasn’t sure how to react or what to say. I read it to the end—the words of congratulation, the invitation to come to the school—and then I folded it twice and set it between us.

  “I knew you’d get in. I knew it.”

  “It came today. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Have you heard from Harvard?”

  She waved her hand at the room, dismissing rowing, us, Harvard, everything. “I don’t think I will, Rob. I think I’m going to Yale and I’m allowed to be happy about it.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I have no idea. Really, no idea at all.”

  “The police asked me a bunch of questions.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Have they said anything else to you?”

  “Nope. It doesn’t matter, anyway. We told them what happened.”

  She looked at her coffee, sipped it, looked at the table next to us, at the waitress by the serving counter, then at me. “Did we?”

  “Yes, we did. I did. Whatever I left out, they wouldn’t understand. We’ve got nothing to hide, Ruth. I wouldn’t care if they interviewed me again.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Are you still going to cox the four?”

  “I don’t know. Channing sent me a note. He’s moving Phil Leonsis up from the JV boat into the bow and Wads will move to stroke. Perry will stay at two and you’ll still be the three seat. If that doesn’t work they’ll put you on the stroke seat. I haven’t written Channing back.”

  “You should.”

  She shrugged, looked at me, her eyes different than only a minute ago. “I keep seeing Connor, Carrey. Lying there. You two left us with him, you jerks. Perry had no idea what to do. I didn’t either.”

  “He was gone when I got him out of the water.”

  She thought about that, nodded. “He was. There was nothing we could have done.”

  “Absolutely nothing. And that’s the end of it. You have to believe it and try and put it behind you.” Why did I sound so angry? “I’m going to tell Perry and Wadsworth I want to row again. I want them to row again, too. And I want you to cox us.”

  “That’s a lot of wants, Rob.”

  “We worked hard this year, Ruth. I’ve never been on a faster boat. Connor or no Connor.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. We haven’t rowed without him yet.” Her eyes teared up as she said it and instead of compassion I felt another flash of rage that I swallowed with the last gulp of my coffee.

  “It seems kind of silly now, doesn’t it? This dumb, prep-school thing.”

  I looked around the restaurant quickly, then at her. “That’s not why we have to keep rowing. And you know it.”

  She finished her coffee, looked at the cup and looked at me, set the cup in the saucer. “Have you ever really wanted a drink, Rob?”

  “You mean a real drink? I’ve wanted one pretty badly, sure. But I’ve never needed one, yet.”

  “I think I could really use one right about now.”

  We walked back onto campus, Ruth next to me, close, but we were already separating from each other. I could feel it. That letter in her purse meant that she was free from here in five or six weeks. I studied her and admitted to myself that in the end we had nothing in common except rowing and a secret. And the fact that maybe she knew I’d loved her from the first time I saw her. But that was plenty. When we go
t to her dorm I glanced in the window. Horeline wasn’t at her desk. I took Ruth’s hand and pushed open the door. She pulled away, looked behind her, then back at me. “I think you read my mind, Carrey.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Just be careful with me, okay?”

  * * *

  She hasn’t changed much, I tell myself as we walk toward each other on the long, green expanse of lawn. Put her into the school dress code, give her back that famous leather satchel of hers, and she might be able to pass for eighteen again, at least from a distance. As I neared her I saw the signs of age. Her face had matured, had become, if possible, more beautiful. Her hair, still dark, was swept back from her ears and her eyes were still intense and piercingly green. She’d always been poised, and she came toward me with the confident gait of a woman used to being watched. She looked casually elegant in a black, sleeveless sweater, choker string of pearls, white Bermuda shorts, and flat, black patent sandals. She smiled when she saw me and we hugged, close, her body firm and reedlike in my arms.

  After our embrace she continued to hold onto me, as if to confirm I was really there. Her hands were the hands of an older woman, but they were the same hands, with carefully manicured fingernails now rather than ragged cuticles. It was startling how fine and smooth her skin was. It felt good to see her again.

  When we began to talk, I realized we were doing it while walking away from the rest of the class—the surreptitiousness of the past coming back to us, unconsciously.

  “I’m so glad you made it back, Rob,” she said. “It’s not a bad weekend. I’m handling it.”

  I gave her a sideways look. She shrugged. “I am. You don’t get to do these things too often. I’ll never have a fifteenth reunion again. And I have to say it, the school looks good.”

  “True. I can’t believe how much we hated it back then.”

  “You hate everything at that age. Nothing’s cool.”

  “Have you been here since the start of the activities?”

  “I have. I’ll admit it. It’s mostly been the hard sell on the qualities and growth and values of the school, you know, all that stuff, but I guess if I ever have kids, I’d be happy to send them here.” She smiled again, ruefully. “Although the having kids part is starting to seem less and less likely.”

  It was an opening but I wasn’t sure I was ready to exchange that information yet. Neither of us had good news for the other in that department, it could wait. They’d give us booze soon and we’d get into it then. She looked at me. “Chris Wadsworth didn’t make it. He sent me an e-mail and said there was no way. His wife had a baby ten days ago or something. Or so he claims.”

  “Where is he living?”

  “He’s in Florida. In Tampa. So it’s a plane ride for him, not just a few hours in the car.”

  The school has many quiet nooks. Benches under trees with vantage points into the mountains. I didn’t remember these—when you’re a teenager there’s no time to sit.

  She was half my size, I realized. A very tiny woman. Her voice had a huskiness to it I did not recall. We sat for a few beats in silence, me thinking that I was looking at a woman who had become, essentially, the person she’d envisioned she’d be in high school. I envied that.

  She said, “I have to say one thing, I never saw you going into the film industry.”

  “It’s not really the film industry the way you think of it. It’s documentary film. We’re more highbrow, which means we don’t make much money.”

  “It sounds exciting. I never could see you in a suit, Carrey.”

  “I couldn’t either.”

  “You get to travel all over the world, I guess. That must be something.”

  “It’s better when you’re just out of college, or film school.”

  “Did you go to film school?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Can you see me trying to pass a class in film theory or postmodern cinema? I came into it by mistake. I needed money and I wanted to see the world and a crew was hiring.”

  “Another crew.” She reached into her shorts, pulled out a soft pack of Marlboros, and gave me a guilty look. “Do you mind?”

  “Christ, no.”

  “It’s such a dumb habit. So dumb. I started the minute I got into law school. I’ve quit a few times, naturally. Then I took it up again about six months ago. I think because of the stress of leaving my husband. I’m weak.”

  “I’ve never thought of you as weak.”

  “I’m a lawyer and yet I never realized, at, you know, a kinetic level, the toll of a divorce. It goes on forever. Never get divorced, it truly sucks.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “We got married six years ago. My ex and I knew each other in college. And then he went to business school at Yale and I went to the law school. It seemed like a good fit. It was, for a while.” She lit the cigarette, inhaled, breathed out through her nose tilting her head away from me awkwardly to redirect the smoke. “God, I feel like I’m going to get caught any minute now for smoking on campus.”

  “Twenty hours of work if they bust you.”

  “It’s so worth it.”

  “So will you stay in New York?”

  “Yeah, definitely. He’s the one who has to find a place to live. It won’t be hard. He was one of those people who got hooked up into the dot-com thing and it lasted through the first crash. The second time around he wasn’t so lucky. But he just lost a company and a job—he got to keep the money. Unlike everybody else we knew.”

  “Sounds like a good profile for a documentary.”

  “His name is Walter. He’s a great guy, he really and truly is. He’s wonderful. Even with all the shit we’re in, he’s great.” This sounded rehearsed, polished, as if she’d said it to a few people. Practiced it in front of a mirror.

  I almost asked her what happened, why the marriage blew up, but I didn’t. We weren’t in enough sync yet to trade war stories. Somewhere along the line I’d lost the appetite for bad news and firsthand gossip. I leaned back on the bench and admired her neck. I could count the rise of the vertebrae leading into her sweater.

  She leaned forward, sucked a last gasp from the cigarette and stepped on it, ground it into the grass with the toe of her shoe. “I’m having a weird time. I’m hanging out with people I just do not remember. Isn’t that strange? We spent all that time with only a hundred or so measly people and I have no recollection of some of them. I’m drawing total blanks when people come up to me. They’re older, for one, and that’s depressing because it means I’m older.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I’ve been told that ten times already. I do look my age. I want to look it. I deserve to look it, after what I’ve been through.”

  “What’s it like, in there?” I gestured at the dining hall, where people were filing in now. You could hear good-natured laughter from across the quad. The restrained, polite, adult laughter of people on their way to drinks.

  “Do you know what?” she turned, looked at me, her eyes widening a little, but now she could make a point and be emphatic about it. “We went to school with some interesting people. I thought all the interesting ones would be at Yale. I still see those people, but never really thought my boarding school friends would be as nice. Turns out I was wrong.” She checked her watch, a platinum Cartier, with roman numerals. Last time I’d seen her she was wearing a waterproof digital that was too big for her wrist. “They’re going to serve us drinks. I’m dying for one.”

  It turned out I was, too.

  33.

  The boat still moved fast in the water even after they moved up Leonsis. We were strong, but we arrived to practice like mercenaries, people doing a job. Leonsis coped well in the bow and Wads was a solid stroke who worked really well with Ruth. I rowed in the three seat in front of Perry as I always had, but I was more aware of him now, perhaps because I was no longer so focused on Connor. Perry was stronger than I had thought but he had changed, we all had. He was harder, I suppose. L
ess like the stuffed bear Connor had made him out to be. I watched him rise out of the boat after practice, well over six five, his mass apelike, powerful, and could not see how Connor had found it so easy to treat Perry so badly.

  I remember those last weeks like they were one long practice, the five of us working steadfastly to create a boat that was ever more impressive. Against expectation, we performed well that season, winning four of our remaining six races. But there was a heaviness to the boat we could not rid ourselves of. The feeling of flying, the passion and aggression, the soul of the boat had disappeared with Connor. The fact was, nothing was the same without him. Although we seldom spoke of him, we felt his absence acutely. Rowing was not as exciting for me anymore, it was simply an exhausting sport that demanded a lot of hard work and sacrifice and now offered dubious rewards. I started to look forward to graduation. Walking out of the boathouse with Perry one day, I said to him what we’d all known for a while. “It feels so different.” I didn’t add without Connor, but it hung in the air as if I had.

  He just shrugged. “What did you expect? It’s a tough sport. We’re getting tired. And we’ve been through a lot.”

  I felt the exhaustion more and more, felt the pain in my back and my knees, across my shoulders. At the end of each practice I realized I was leaving blood on the oar handle, and the ripped blisters and ruptures on my palms were taking their toll. I felt as if I were trapped in an old man’s body at the end of the day.

  DeKress showed up one late afternoon just as I was starting the ritual of laying ice on my knees, sitting hunched over my bed, chewing Tylenol. The sour taste of the pills was going right into my blood, and I was waiting for the dull feeling to reach my legs. DeKress told me Channing had called the dean’s office and wanted me to stop by his house before dinner. “He says you have to go, dude.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to a hundred, then got up and pulled on my sweatshirt. I hobbled for the first few steps, feeling my muscles start to widen and warm up again as I walked down the stairs, and then out the door. It was a mile to Channing’s house, at least, so I took it slowly, thinking he’d better have a good reason for calling me. I had a pretty good idea what it was about, though, and it kept me going.