he’s not down at the beach. What the hell happened here? Where’s the goddamn lake?”
“Butch and Marie are gone,” said Stan, pointing a quivering finger toward the empty lake. “I’m sorry, they were swept away.”
“No!” cried Myra Goobash. “Not my Butchie! Why didn’t you save him?”
“I don’t believe you,” shouted Stan’s father. “Did you go look for him? Did you actually see him disappear? My God, he’s a strong swimmer. He could be out there!”
“No, he couldn’t,” said Jada from behind Stan. He turned to see that she’d thrown on a flowered blouse over her bikini top and sundress. “We did watch the two of them as they were swept away, along with about a thousand others. They’re dead all right. They got sucked down into that hole!”
Sol’s eyes grew large and he bared his teeth. He lowered his shoulders, spread his arms and charged ahead. “Bastard!” he cried, just before he tackled Stan.
Stan was so stunned that he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t fight back; couldn’t fight back, not against his father. He wound up on the hallway floor, pinned to his back. Hot tears fell from his father’s eyes and they landed on Stan’s bare chest. Sol Goobash began slapping him, using both hands, hard blows in rapid succession.
“Sol, stop it!” cried Stan’s mother. “You’re going to kill him!”
“Why couldn’t it have been you?” Sol screamed, angrily, putting more muscle into each slap. “You were always jealous of Butchie!”
Something inside of Stan let go and his hands shot up into the air. He roared in anger and grabbed his father by the wrists. Using a technique he had been taught in wrestling, he pulled his dad forward and at the same time he arched his back. Sol let out an indignant grunt and suddenly the roles were reversed. Stan glared down at his father and drew back his fist. “Butch got himself killed!” he screamed.
Stan never saw his mother as she rushed behind him and reared back with her purse. She was a big, stout woman with meaty arms and was no stranger to hitting her son. Myra’s heavy purse was the size of a backpack and it slammed against the side of Stan’s head like a city bus. He heard a deafening thud and everything went black.
He woke up on the front lawn. Jada sat next to him with a cold washcloth and she stared down at him with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry, Stan,” she whispered. “How do you feel?”
Stan’s vision was blurry and his head felt as if it were about to split open. “How… get… out here?” he asked, stumbling over his words with a thick tongue.
“Your mom and dad dragged you down the stairs. They’re crazy, I couldn’t stop them. Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
Stan struggled into a sitting position and rubbed the side of his head. He then felt the lumps on the back of his head. “No, he said. “I… think I’ll live. What… did they say?”
“I’m sorry, but they want you to leave. They want you to leave now. I packed your bag and have it sitting next to your car. I think its best. I’m going to stay here with them. They need me.”
Stan stared at her, incredulously. “They need you? What about me? You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t look at me like that. You don’t understand.”
Stan forced himself to his feet and he stumbled around like a punch-drunk fighter. He shook his head and turned toward the driveway. “No, I understand perfectly,” he said. “You can have them. The three of you deserve each other.”
“Stan… Please.”
Stan waved her away and began walking to his car. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He stooped over to pick up his bag and when he stood, he pointed at the garage. “I’m going to change out of my suit and then I’ll be leaving. You can tell them if they have a problem with that, they can call the police. I’ll be happy to give them my side of the story.”
“Don’t be like this.”
“Go to hell,” Stan growled. He walked to the side door and walked into the steamy garage. He unzipped his bag and rifled through his clothes. He quickly slipped out of his trunks and changed into jeans and a white cotton t-shirt. He sat down on the Polaris and held his aching head. After it had cleared, Stan slipped on a pair of white socks and his tennis shoes.
The garage stank of mildew and he was sweating by the time he had finished. He stared up at the shelves, at all of his things that he would be leaving behind, perhaps forever. His diving and camping gear, the Polaris ATV, his snow skis and parachutes; things he had paid top dollar for. Like the rest of the Goobash clan, Stan loved to skydive. His parachutes, his primary and secondary, had been custom made for him. He decided not to leave them behind. The heat was stifling and he got up and slapped the button for the automatic garage door opener. The evening light spilled into the garage and the fresh air revived him. He picked up both parachutes and his duffel bag and headed toward the door.
Mike McMahon, father to the young boys he and Jada had rescued, was waiting in the driveway. The two of them had known each other since childhood and were good friends. Mike was tall and lanky with a long face and short black hair. “Hey,” he said, nodding to Stan. “I want to thank you for saving my boys. I know that probably sounds weak, but I don’t know what else to say. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Stan. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
Mike nodded. “I’m really sorry about Marie and Butch. I talked to your mom and dad. Try not to read too much into what they did or said. They’re grieving.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I think so. Did you hear? The Great Lakes are gone, every last one of them. There is a big hole in each of them, just like the one out there. What the hell is happening? Some people are saying the Chinese are behind it, what do you think?”
Stan merely shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Mike gave him an odd look and pointed to his parachutes. “You’re not thinking of jumping into that hole, are you? Are you out of your mind?”
Stan stared blankly at Mike, but he said nothing. He thought about that. What did he have to return home to? What did he have to lose? “What if those people are still alive?” he asked. Somebody has to do it.”
“Dear God, don’t even think about it, Stan, okay? You’re scaring me. The National Guard has that thing sealed up tighter than a drum. You can’t get anywhere near it. You’ll get arrested, maybe even shot.”
Stan was already rummaging the shelves for supplies. He found an old backpack and began to fill it with things he might need. He found his waterproof flashlight, first aid kit, and the tiny CO2 dingy that he had salvaged from a sunken pleasure boat. He continued gathering supplies until he was satisfied. He felt a sudden rush of sadness as he stared at Butch’s and Marie’s wetsuits hanging on their hooks, just above their oxygen tanks. Stan shook his head and turned to face Mike. “I’m going to change into my wetsuit. I’m going to shut the overhead door. Would you give me a minute?”
“You’re out of your mind,” said Mike, shaking his head, emphatically. “Don’t do this, Stan, its suicide.”
“And how long are we going to live without water?” Stan asked. “Somebody has to get to the bottom of this. It might as well be me.”
Mike continued shaking his head as he walked outside. Stan slapped the button for the automatic door opener and the aluminum door began to close. Quickly, Stan changed out of his fresh clothes and into his wetsuit. He rolled his jeans and t-shirt up tight and stuffed them into the backpack, adding his tennis shoes and socks. He quickly strapped on both of his chutes as he began to sweat. The last thing to put on was his diving mask and Stan groaned as the strap pressed against the lumps on the back of his head.
“Stan?” Jada asked from the side door. “What the hell are you doing? Your folks are on their way out.”
Stan ignored her and walked over and sat down on his Polaris. He thumbed the ignition.
His parents suddenly appeared behind Jada, screaming and waving their arms. Stan shifted the ATV into reverse and backed out into the drive
way. Sol Goobash began to run after him, but Stan shifted into forward and left his father shaking his fist in the air. He ripped across the green lawn, stopped, then pressed the brake lever and hit the throttle. The rear tires began chewing up Sol’s precious lawn as the rear end began to fishtail on the grass. Stan let out a victorious whoop and let off the brake. A second later he was on the sandy beach and headed for the rocky lakebed.
Fear started to creep into his bones and Stan did his best to fight it off. He couldn’t think about the jump or what waited for him at the bottom, if there even was a bottom. His immediate worries were centered around the National Guard. Would they allow him to go over the edge? Stan didn’t know. He then thought about what Mike McMahon had said. He was probably right; jumping into the hole would likely be suicide.
Stan drove slowly as he gathered his thoughts. The fifteen minute ride out to the chasm gave him time to clear his head. He could see two news helicopters had now landed on the dry lakebed. Giant slabs of rock formed a natural funnel near the sinkhole. Stan groaned as he saw a pair of National Guard soldiers stationed there. To try going around them would add miles to his journey and there was no guarantee that there weren’t other soldiers positioned to intercept other curious civilians. Stan set his jaw and drove up to the checkpoint. The young soldiers stood in the path with their weapons held across their chests.
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