by Rice, Luanne
She swam out from the shore, straight into the patch of diamond sunlight. The mountain lake felt smooth and cold, clean as dawn. Thunder stayed closer to land, paddling back and forth along the edge. When May turned, to look at her house and barns and rose garden, she saw her husband walking down the path.
She waved, but he didn’t wave back. When he came upon the pile of her clothes, he picked them up and held them against his chest. She watched him looking around, moving his head from side to side as if trying to see where she had gone. At the sight of Martin, Thunder waddled into shallow water, and Martin hauled him out. Martin’s shoulders were tense, and he never stopped scanning the lake.
“May!” he called.
“I’m out here,” May called back.
He nodded, and she saw him relax. He was barefoot, but now he undid his shorts and pulled his shirt over his head. May watched him place all the clothes on the steps of the gazebo. Standing there in his jockey shorts, he looked like a marble statue. The sun glistened on his skin, showing every scar, every muscle, every flat surface. He walked down to the edge, standing very still for a few seconds.
He dove in, and May thrilled with excitement watching him swim out. Could it be considered skinny-dipping if they were wearing their underwear? She opened her arms to embrace him, as he swam toward her. He grabbed her with such ferocity, it took her breath away.
“I couldn’t see you,” he said into her neck. “I found your clothes, and I saw the dog, but I couldn’t see you.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said, stunned by the intensity in his voice. “Thunder was stuck, and when I helped him I decided to swim.”
Martin nodded. She felt him moving his head, and then he let her go and backed away, treading water. They were face to face, swimming in the sunlight. She tried to read the look in his eyes: It was filled with confusion, relief, and something else.
“You couldn’t see me?” she asked.
“No.”
“I was right here.” They were just fifteen yards out; surely she should have been easily spotted from shore.
“The sun was in my eyes,” he said.
She nodded, feeling something like relief herself. But relieved of what? They swam in a patch of glare, making her squint and look away from the sun. Martin brushed her bare leg with his own, and she drifted into his arms. They kissed, ducking beneath the surface. When they came up, they heard Thunder barking. He let out a long, joyful yip, and Martin said into May’s ear, “He’s happy to be alive.”
As they kissed, the sun passed behind a tall pine tree, momentarily throwing the entire lake into shade. May shivered, holding her husband closer until the shade passed and the sun burst out again.
Thunder bayed, welcoming the sun back. Martin and May stopped kissing to look over. He had climbed the gazebo steps, and he circled once before stretching and settling down for a postswim nap on the pile of clean clothes.
“He’s in trouble,” May said.
“For what?” Martin asked.
May stared into her husband’s eyes. He was smiling in the direction of the old dog’s heartfelt call, staring straight at the gazebo. She felt suddenly cold in spite of the sun, and she found herself thinking of those last few seconds of the last game.
Martin couldn’t see.
Chapter 20
IN THE YARD, OVERLOOKING THE lake and the mountains, were two old white chairs. Their cushions, faded by time and weather, had once been dark blue. May set the low table between them with rolls, butter, a bunch of grapes, a pitcher of juice, and coffee. After rinsing off in the outside shower, Martin sat down beside her for breakfast by the lake.
As they ate, May stared out over the lake. A heron fished the shallows, walking on yellow stick legs through the tall grass. A lone moose stood amid lily pads, his antlers glistening in the sun. When May pointed to him and Martin didn’t get excited, her heart fell.
“I’m worried about your eyes,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not seeing things.”
“Like what?”
“Like Thunder rolling all over our things this morning. Like that moose.”
“I see it.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“May,” he said, touching her arm. “I’m not as young as I used to be. I’ve taken a few hits to the head, you know? The day’s coming when I might need glasses. Believe me, that’s doom for a hockey player, and I don’t want to face it.”
“You’ve talked to the team doctor?”
He nodded. “You think they let me get away with anything physical? If I have a symptom, they send me for X rays. All I need is the summer off, to heal. It’s beautiful out. We’re alone together. Just enjoy it. Okay?”
“Okay.” Unconvinced, May tried to eat her roll. She wasn’t hungry anymore, so she broke it into crumbs and threw them on the ground. A flock of sparrows darted down from the trees, eating hungrily.
She had brought the blue diary outside with her, to read over the summer’s entries and write a letter to Dr. Whitpen. Worried about Martin, she found an outlet filling two pages with accounts of the last weeks.
“What’s that?” Martin asked, looking over.
“A letter to Dr. Whitpen.”
“Seems like you have a lot to say to him.”
“Even when I want to resist, staying in touch with him has always been important to me. I guess I think having a psychologist overseeing Kylie’s case, even from far away, is the best thing.”
Martin gave her a long look, as if he had just understood something. He reached across the space between their chairs and took her hand.
“It must have been hard for you, going through that all alone.”
“Well, I had Tobin and Aunt Enid.”
“I hate her father for abandoning her,” Martin said. “Does she ever talk about him?”
May shook her head. “No. She used to dream about him sometimes, telling me he’d come to take her riding, out for ice cream, things like that. But then we took that walk in the wildlife preserve and everything shifted.”
“Shifted how?”
“All her dreams were about dead people.”
“And that’s when you started taking her to Dr. Whitpen?”
May nodded. “It seemed more unusual to have her dreaming of ghosts than of Gordon taking her for ice cream. Though I’m not sure why. Gordon spending time with her is far-fetched.”
“Think she’ll ever want to see him?” Martin asked.
“Yes,” May said. “Probably. When she’s older.”
Martin shook his head hard. “We’ll have to talk her out of that. Move to another country if necessary.”
“That’s not how I see it, Martin,” she said quietly. “Someday Kylie will want to make the connection. And I’ll support her totally. No matter what I feel for him, I want Kylie to know her father.”
“I want to raise her,” Martin said. “Help me be a good father to her.”
“Just take care of yourself,” May told him.
“What do you mean?” Martin asked.
“That’s the example I want her to have.” May was staring down at the blue notebook. “I take her to Dr. Whitpen because I think he can help. And I’d like you to see someone because I’m worried about your eyes.”
Martin nodded, but he pulled his hand out of May’s. He resumed staring across the lake, through the golden haze of pollen and morning light, at the heron and moose she knew he couldn’t see.
That night, after her parents had gone to bed, Kylie couldn’t sleep. The moon was nearly full, and it spun a silver web through the pine trees, down the mountain trails, onto the lake itself. Kylie had pressure inside her chest, the feeling of Christmas mornings mixed with how she felt when a storm was coming. She tiptoed downstairs, Thunder thumping along behind her.
Very quietly, she walked into the dining room. There was a big closet beside the chimney, deep and dark. Kylie had discovered it last summer, when they h
ad first come to Lac Vert. The door blended into the wainscoting. If you didn’t know it was there, it would be easy to miss.
Turning the small brass latch, Kylie let herself inside. It smelled dry and musty, and her heart was pounding as she felt overhead for the long string that switched on the light. Thunder was waiting outside, afraid to come in.
Kylie turned on the light. She felt different in this closet than she did anywhere else in the house. Family secrets were hidden here, and if there were any ghosts or angels at Lac Vert, this was where they lived. Blinking at the bare lightbulb, Kylie was sure she saw the flash of some filmy white wings.
“Natalie?” she whispered.
But she heard only Thunder sniffing the air, his breath heavy and labored as if the whole thing was too much for him. Kylie looked around. Spiderwebs hung in every corner, shifting gently in the air.
Kylie thought of Richard Perry. She pictured him all the time, hanging from the tree branch, his dead body swinging in the wind. His knobby bones had been pure white, the tatters of his clothes and skin and muscles brownish gray. Kylie had looked up at his body, seen a man begging to be cut down. His lips had moved, his eyes wild with despair.
The police had come. While answering their questions, Kylie had kept an eye on Richard Perry’s body. Police officers had finished taking their pictures. She had watched the medical examiner approach the tree, decide the best way to proceed, raise a ladder and shinny out on the limb. Wielding huge clippers, the man had cut right through the thick rope, and a team of people had caught the body from below.
“Thank you,” Kylie had heard the man cry. “Thank you for setting me free.”
Kylie had come in here to look for something. She had heard her mother asking Martin about an old picture, and Kylie knew where it was. One rainy day last summer, exploring the house, she had found a bunch of things someone had hidden away. A silver baby cup, a toy carriage, a pile of children’s books, and a cross-stitch picture.
Climbing up the shelves, using them as the rungs of a ladder, Kylie reached the top shelf. There, pushed toward the back, she found the frame. Inching her fingers along the boards, she caught hold and pulled it forward. Holding it under her arm, she jumped back down.
The glass was covered with thick dust. Kylie brushed it off, to stare at the picture inside. The background was cloth, white muslin that had yellowed like the antique wedding dresses in the Bridal Barn. Pulled tight, the cloth had been embroidered with tiny x’s, all done in pretty blue thread, the x’s adding up to a picture of two baby animals: a lamb and a leopard, sleeping together.
Around the outside was a message. Last year, Kylie had been just starting to read, but this year the words flowed easily: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard lie down with the kid, and a little child shall lead them.”
Kylie didn’t know what that meant, so she read it again. With dust still on the glass, she wiped it more carefully. Beneath the dust was another substance, sparkling like tiny bits of mica. It was all over her fingers, making them shine with iridescence.
Her heart was beating. She had the feeling something was about to happen, that Natalie was about to appear. She could feel her presence in this hidden room, and somehow she knew the shiny matter was proof of her existence.
“Natalie,” Kylie begged. “Let me see you.”
Thunder whined outside the door, begging Kylie to come out.
“I know you’re here,” Kylie said. She stared at the picture again, reading the message over and over. Natalie had wanted her to find it. Kylie was positive. She had been fast asleep, and something in her dreams had told her to come downstairs and search for this old picture.
“Are you the little child?” she asked out loud.
You are, she heard. Bring them together.
Kylie wheeled around. No one had spoken.
A rustle overhead made her look up, and she saw a phalanx of bats roosting in the rafters, watching her from their upside-down positions. Kylie shivered with fear, and Thunder started to bay. Suddenly Kylie heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Kylie?” she heard her mother call.
“Natalie’s here, I know she is,” Kylie cried.
“She’s dreaming again,” she heard Martin say. “Sleepwalking.”
“Natalie,” Kylie whispered, letting her mother lift her into her arms.
But the presence was gone. Thunder had stopped baying and was gazing with great peace and comfort at the open window. His fur was glossier than Kylie had seen it, and his eyes were bright.
Her mother carried her over to the window. They stood there together, breathing the fresh air, and Kylie felt the intensity leave her, as if the last moments had been a dream. The hills rose majestically all around the lake. Kylie saw how the moonlight danced through the trees, struck the silver rock, rounded the soft knolls. It looked alive, magical.
“You’re safe,” her mother whispered. “You’re awake now. I’m right here with you.”
“I saved him, didn’t I?” Kylie wept. “That man, hanging in the tree. I did what he asked….”
“You did, honey,” her mother said, her eyes wild. Kylie knew she was going to go upstairs and write in that blue book, probably call Dr. Whitpen in the morning, and the thought made her so sad she started to cry harder.
“What have you got there?” Martin asked, reaching for the frame Kylie held under her arm. He wiped his hand across the glass, and Kylie saw that his fingertips were covered with sparkles. It glittered like diamond chips, like moondust, and suddenly Kylie realized it had come from angel’s tears.
“The cross-stitch picture,” her mother said.
“My mother did this when I was born. I put it away…”
“Why did you put it away?” Kylie asked.
“Because it reminded me of Natalie,” Martin said. “ ‘And a little child shall lead them.’ She did, too. She led us all.”
“She’s still leading us.” Kylie knew she had to get Martin to understand that time was short, that he had to see his father. Natalie had drawn Kylie into the closet, to give her messages: the picture, the sparkles. But now it was up to Kylie: You’re the child; bring them together.
“Something’s going to happen,” Kylie whispered.
“Let’s all go to bed,” her mother said. “It’s very late.”
“That’s a good idea.” Martin was frowning at the picture.
Kylie didn’t reply. She just gazed long and hard into his blue eyes, brushing his lips with her fingertips as she kissed his forehead. When she drew back, she saw that she had left silver flecks on his lips, that her fingertips had transferred Natalie’s tears onto his skin.
Serge couldn’t sleep. Some idiots down the hall were trying to kill each other, screaming as if they were being torn to shreds. He clapped his pillow over his head, but the ungodly noise penetrated even through the hard foam. Sitting up, he checked his watch: two A.M.
Giving up on sleep, he sat on the edge of his bunk, his head in his hands. He had a dry mouth and a pounding heart; he felt as if he had a hangover, but he hadn’t had a drink in some years. Vices had stopped working for him the day his granddaughter died.
His eyes burned. Someone was smoking close by, and it wasn’t a cigarette. The prison walls smelled of drugs and piss and loneliness and death. Serge’s cell walls stank of greed and guilt and selfishness and a lifetime without word from his son. Down the hall the screaming got worse, and Serge realized it wasn’t just a standard prison fight.
“Hey,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Shut up,” someone yelled back.
“Help,” Serge called. “Guard, help!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“You want some yourself? Keep out of it!”
“Help!” Serge yelled. “Jesus Christ, help!”
Time passed, the minutes ticking by on his wristwatch. Although he couldn’t see a window anywhere, he felt a blast of fresh air blow through his cell. It sent shivers down his spine a
nd made the hair on his arms stand straight up. It felt like arctic air, straight from Canada, and it smelled like the pines of Lac Vert.
Maybe someone was dead. Serge had been religious as a child, and wondering whether a man had just died in the fight down the hall, he crossed himself. Footsteps came running, then more. He could hear the guards talking, calling for more help. Stretchers were brought; after a few minutes, they were carried away.
Huddling on his bunk, watching them pass by, Serge tried to see who it was. Sheets covered the bodies, so he couldn’t tell whether they were alive or dead. But he caught a glimpse of one man’s shaved skull.
“Tino,” he said, then called it louder: “Tino!”
The guards carried him past without a word.
“Hey!” Serge yelled. “Is he all right? Is the kid okay?”
No one responded.
Serge thought of Tino’s children, and something made him sink to his knees. He hadn’t prayed in years, but he remembered the words. He said them by rote: Our Father…
When he was done, he reached under his bed. Pulling out the box of paper and pens, he placed one sheet in front of him. The blank space was daunting, as if there weren’t enough words available to say what he needed to say.
The scent of pine was stronger than that of prison, and he found himself thinking of a small boy and a green lake, of ancient hills and twisting trails. He thought of black ice and hockey sticks, and he thought of Martin.
It was the ultimate defeat to lose in Game 7 in the championship playoffs, to have the puck stolen right off the end of your stick. On the other hand, what did winning actually mean? Serge had possessed the Cup three times in his lifetime, saw it sitting on a table in his own home, slept with the thing beside his bed. And what the hell did that matter now?
What mattered: Inside the box was a picture of Natalie, a picture of Martin, and the blurry newspaper photo of May and Kylie. Serge spread them on the rumpled bed before him. Still on his knees, he thought of Tino and his children. Clearing his throat, as if he were trying to speak instead of write, Serge formed the words:
“Dear Martin…”