Water Dogs

by Lewis Robinson

  “He is?” she shouted.

  “We shouldn’t tell Martha,” he said. “Not yet.”

  After a long silence she said, “We can’t do that.”

  “Gwen didn’t tell me what was going on,” he said. “She didn’t say anything. I don’t know what’s happening back there. We need to see for ourselves.” He leaned over and hugged her, and over her shoulder he saw the light in the trailer blink off and Martha’s silhouette jogging back down off the hill, and then she was clicking open the right rear door of the Skylark, throwing her rucksack on the bench seat, and scooting in.

  13

  Driving back from Tavis Falls in the dark snowstorm, nearly getting hit by a hulking plow outside Lewiston, catching glimpses of the cars that had spun off the road, Bennie tried to discern what Martha was thinking about. She probably wasn’t worried about the road conditions—she’d never been timid about driving—but he wondered what she really thought had happened to Ray. Was there any part of her that truly believed he was alive? She’d always been able to judge every instant, every situation, with cool eyes. He was silent behind the wheel while Helen and Martha talked about the old, tiny kitchen at Julian’s. They compared other aspects of their jobs—apparently the cooks at Rosie’s got a decent share of the tips, which was something Julian had never offered. Martha told Helen she was crazy to agree to such terms, and Helen said she was probably right.

  “Bennie, you drive like my grandfather,” said Martha.

  “It’s snowing pretty hard,” he said. “Did you notice that?” He found himself slipping back into his teenage persona, intimidated by Martha, deferring to her judgment.

  “When it snows, you’ve got to show the road who’s boss. Let me drive.”

  “We’re almost there,” he said, weakly.

  “We’re only about halfway. Come on. You’re making me nervous.”

  After they pulled over, Bennie ended up in the backseat. Martha didn’t hesitate to start passing cars right away, scooting out into the oncoming lane, weaving back and forth between pickup trucks. Bennie closed his eyes.

  By the time they got back to the island, it had stopped snowing and gotten much colder. Bennie didn’t want to arrive at the Manse with both Helen and Martha—he didn’t know what he might find there—so he asked Martha to drive them to Helen’s first. Bennie would pick them up in the morning.

  As Martha collected her stuff from the backseat and Bennie got back behind the wheel, Helen stepped out into the cold and kicked her way through the snow to his side of the car. He rolled the window down. She leaned in. Their noses were nearly touching when she whispered, “You don’t think we should come back to the house with you?” He stared at her dark eyebrows, her uneven eyes, then down at her mouth. He tried to see her whole face, but she was too close. Her breath was a little sour. She said, “Wouldn’t it be better if we all went?” He put his hand up on her cheek and drew her toward him. They kissed. She squeezed his hand and turned toward her house. He wanted to say something to her, but sitting there, looking at her, he was quiet. He was hoping she’d understand what the silence really meant—that he wanted to be with her, but that he needed to go to the Manse alone. As she walked into her house he wished he’d been able to say the right thing.

  It was midnight when he got home. Only one light was on—the living room light—and there was smoke coming from the chimney. He sat in the car with the engine running and smoked two cigarettes before stepping out into the cold. He’d had the same pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment for weeks; Helen hated smoking. The sky was clear, with only a few wispy clouds highlighted by the moon. He had a vague image in his mind of Ray’s corpse, wrapped in a bedsheet, hidden in the bathtub.

  As he hopped through the unshoveled snow in front of the Manse, he heard Gwen’s laugh—loud guffawing, unabashed. As surprising as it was, he was relieved to hear it; he hadn’t heard her laugh like that since the beginning of her visit. He knocked twice then pushed against the door—it was still locked, but Gwen came to open it almost immediately. She stuck her round, flushed face out into the cold, grinning. “We’ve been drinking a lot of beer,” she said. Her hair was still in a loose braid and she was wearing an oversize white T-shirt and shorts. Ronald was wagging his tail beside her. When Bennie crutched inside, Gwen tried to jump up into his arms. Ronald barked and scratched at his cast. Bennie hopped backward once on his good leg to keep his balance, and Gwen hugged him and laughed, and again she said, “We’ve been drinking a lot of beer.”

  “Let me get my balance,” he said.

  “He was sleeping, but now we’re drinking beer.” She hugged him again. “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  “Is Littlefield here?”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you on the phone. I was freaking out then. But I’m beginning to see how amazing it all is.” She took him by the hand. “You’ll like him. Here, come. Come into the living room.”

  He followed Gwen through the kitchen (they had the thermostat cranked up to what felt like eighty degrees; he usually kept it at sixty) and into the living room. Sitting by the fire, slumped in the wicker rocking chair, with his head down and his eyes closed, a blanket pulled around his shoulders, was Jamie Swensen. Swensen was a biathlete from Brunswick Littlefield and Bennie had known in high school. Bennie hadn’t seen him in a while, and he looked different—his curly brown hair was longer, covering his ears and the back of his neck and stopping just above his closed eyes. He had a thick bandage on his head, like a bandanna, and a small spot of blood had soaked through, where the bandage covered his temple. The upper parts of both of his arms were heavily bandaged, too, as was his waist, just above the belt of his jeans. His hands were wrapped in white bandages, the individual fingers fat with gauze. His cheeks were ruddy and he reeked of beer.

  Bennie stood a few yards away and said to Gwen, “You must be absolutely shitfaced. What’s Swensen doing here?”

  “I’m sure it’s a relief,” she said with wide eyes. “I mean, that he’s alive.”

  Bennie pointed. “That’s Swensen.”

  “I know it’s … weird. I guess you don’t remember meeting Ray.”

  “That,” he said again, “is Swensen.” She shook her head.

  Then he spoke directly to Swensen. “What the hell, man. Tell my drunk sister who you are.” He tapped him on the chest.

  “Careful,” said Gwen. “He’s pretty fragile right now.”

  Bennie turned back toward Gwen, who seemed both concerned and ready to keel over. He looked at Swensen, whose eyes were still closed, and tipped Swensen’s head back. Swensen blinked open his eyes. His expression was inscrutable, and then he scowled, but the scowl quickly faded to a vague look of discomfort.

  When Bennie pinched his nipple and twisted it, though, the scowl returned. “Damn it, Bennie,” he said. “You were supposed to go along with it.”

  Gwen looked confused. “Ray?”

  “Maybe you should go,” said Bennie, looking closely at Swensen’s head bandage.

  Swensen asked, “What’s up, bro? I haven’t seen you in too long.” He unwrapped the gauze on his fingers and said, “Man, it’s hot in this house.” His tongue seemed like it was causing him problems; his words slurred. “When you coming back to train?”

  “Swensen, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Oh, man.” He smirked, but then he looked at Gwen, who was moving slowly toward him, staring into his eyes.

  “Have you been fucking with me?” she asked.

  Swensen picked up the bottle near the rockers of his chair and drank a few gulps before Gwen grabbed it from him.

  “Have you been?” asked Gwen. She folded her arms on her chest and stood over him. There was a long row of empty bottles lined up by the fire. Swensen unwrapped the bandages on his hands, then looked up at Bennie and Gwen.

  “Talk,” said Bennie.

  “Yeah,” slurred Gwen.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “We were over at Lackey’s house—me and La
ckey and Nate Langholtz and Nate’s dad and Vin Thibideaux, and we were all drinking, putting up some good numbers, you know … it’s Saint Paddy’s Day. Just a bunch of dudes, sitting around.”

  Bennie remembered these guys—Lackey and Langholtz—from Brunswick High. They were basically unobjectionable, except that they were fairly dumb, and usually got swept up by whatever prevailing wind happened to be blowing. Bennie was sure things hadn’t changed much for those two. Swensen, unfortunately, was the kind of good-natured guy who was unwittingly influenced by their stupidity. And Vin Thibideaux—it wasn’t surprising that he and Nate Langholtz’s dad were in on it, too.

  “Thibideaux, he was the one who said your sister was back in town,” Swensen continued. “You know, and I’d always heard she was cool.

  Dude, you probably don’t want to hear this …” He leaned in closer to whisper to Bennie, though Gwen was close enough to hear. “Your sister—she’s mint!” He grinned.

  Bennie glanced at Gwen. She still looked stunned, but she stayed quiet.

  “Go on,” said Bennie.

  “Thibideaux said I should come over and say hello. He said he’d been coming around, trying to see if you were okay, Bennie, but that he hadn’t seen you yet. He said you’d think it’d be funny as hell if I came over—”

  “Wrapped up in bandages?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He said you’d all be fooled.” It seemed Swensen was slowly realizing that what he had done was not as hilarious as he’d hoped it would be. “They just told me to call myself LaBrick.”

  “LaBrecque,” said Bennie.

  “Right. LaBrick. Say my name was LaBrick, and say I’d been lost since that night you got hurt, Bennie.”

  “Why are you hanging out with old guys like Vin Thibideaux and Nate Langholtz’s dad in the first place?” asked Bennie.

  “They had the beer,” said Swensen.

  Gwen’s face was aglow with sweat. She was still staring at Swensen as he unwrapped the bandages, shaking her head, smelling like perfume and Rolling Rock.

  Bennie asked her, “This is what you were talking about when we spoke on the phone?”

  She put her head in her hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Bennie. “There are a lot of assholes in this town.” It was exactly the kind of idea that Vin Thibideaux and his buddies, all of them sitting around swilling beers, would come up with.

  “I’m sorry,” said Swensen. “I had no idea I was messing things up. They said you’d be fooled. The fake blood … that was Langholtz’s idea.”

  Bennie couldn’t believe how tanked Swensen was. Gwen collapsed on the purple couch and put a pillow over her head.

  “You never heard about LaBrecque?” he asked.

  “No,” Swensen said.

  From beneath the pillow, Gwen cried, “Why would that jerk do this? Nate Langholtz? We had the same homeroom, for Christ’s sake.”

  “It wasn’t Nate,” said Bennie. “It was Vin. Vin’s an idiot. And he hates our family.”

  “Gwennie, we were having a good time, right?” said Swensen, sadly. He picked up another half-full beer by his feet and started drinking it. This time, Gwen stood up from the couch, walked over to him, and plucked the bottle from his lips.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “I didn’t know I was going to piss anyone off,” said Swensen, standing up from the rocking chair.

  “If you’re wondering why I was being nice to you,” she said, “it was because I thought everything was going to be okay.”

  “Man, I’m confused,” said Swensen, scratching his armpit. Gwen seemed to be realizing he was a difficult guy to get mad at. “But wasn’t it a good time”—he lowered his voice—“when we were kissing on the couch?”

  She slapped him softly across the face. Swensen smiled. She slapped him a second time, harder, torquing her waist like a tennis player. This got Swensen’s attention. He stopped smiling for a minute but continued looking admiringly at her. He said, “You’ve got some serious power. Check out those arms.” Then he stood up and asked, “Hey, should I go get us some more beers?”

  “No,” said Bennie.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s just hang out for a little longer,” said Swensen.

  Gwen and Bennie looked at each other. Then Bennie said, “We’ve got more in the crisper drawer.”

  They all drank Rolling Rocks for another hour or so. Bennie was surprised Swensen hadn’t heard about Ray LaBrecque or the accident. But Swensen lived with his folks on River Road in Brunswick on the banks of the Androscoggin, and they didn’t involve themselves much with town. Each time Swensen finished a bottle, he handed it to Gwen, who was lying quietly near the fire and added it to the line. Swensen continued talking about how his shooting had been improving; he was hitting his targets on full rest and was feeling more confident about his accuracy during the races. Swensen was a big, strong guy, but he was an oaf—he didn’t have the necessary control during a race to clean the targets. He wasn’t the kind of Brunswick kid who told lies when he was drinking, but with the bandage on his head it was difficult to take him seriously. By the end of the night he’d probably passed nine or ten empty bottles to Gwen to add to her line, which had started to curve around the coffee table.

  “I’m going to bed,” said Gwen. Since she’d arrived from New York she’d been sleeping on the purple couch, so by saying this she was asking Bennie and Swensen to leave. She got on the couch and slipped inside her sleeping bag. She wriggled around, then pulled her pants out of the top of the bag and set them on the coffee table. Ronald was curled up on one end of the couch. “Get down, Ronnie,” she said softly, and she nudged him, and he slinked to the floor.

  “Hey, Gwen,” said Swensen. “I’m sorry. I liked talking to you, back when you thought I was LaBrick. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

  “I guess it’s okay,” she said. “But just remember, I didn’t mean any of what I said. Or … what I said to you I was saying to someone else. Someone I thought you were.”

  Swensen’s cheeks, and his eyes, were ablaze. “Okay,” he said. “It’s cool.”

  He stayed in the rocking chair after Bennie switched off the lights. Bennie let people sleep over at the Manse often, anyone who didn’t want to drive off-island late at night.

  Just after Bennie collapsed into bed, he heard Gwen get up. She stumbled into his room with her sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders. She sat down on the bed near his feet. “I think Swensen passed out,” she said. “He didn’t say anything when I walked past him in my underwear.”

  “What did you expect him to say?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I think he likes me. Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “Swensen? No,” he said. “But you’ve got to remember—Julian’s the one for you.”

  “I told you. I knew that kid back in high school. He’s a hippie.”

  “He’s grown up. He’s tall. He’s a good cook.”

  They were silent for a while. The storm window beside Bennie’s bed was rattling. He could feel cold air streaming in, by the sill.

  “We drove over to Tavis Falls, where Ray is from,” he said. “We met Martha at this Saint Patrick’s Day Bible thing.”

  Gwen pulled the sleeping bag more tightly around her shoulders. “Saint Paddy’s Day Bible thing?”

  “Martha is Ray’s girlfriend,” he said.

  He saw it unfolding in her eyes—she was realizing that Littlefield was probably wrapped up in something that would not end well. He hadn’t been able to think it himself, but he recognized it in her eyes.

  “You know, it was easy, when I saw Swensen. It was easy for me to believe Ray was alive. Littlefield and I had a long talk earlier today. Not about Ray, about other stuff. Acting, my life in New York. And Littlefield told me he wants to get out of Maine. He was being normal, Bennie. It’s the most I’ve talked to him in a long time. He was being nice to me. It was easy, really easy. I guess I was
just wanting to believe Ray hadn’t been badly hurt. When Swensen showed up, I believed it.” She lay back on the bed by Bennie’s feet. She sighed. “Those bandages on his hands looked pretty stupid. But come on, you might have believed it, too.”

  “Probably.”

  They lay in the quiet for a while. Bennie kept his eyes open even though he couldn’t see anything. Then she said, “I’m worried about our brother.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I haven’t seen him since this afternoon.”

  “Well, it is Saint Patrick’s Day,” said Bennie, but the fact that Littlefield had been nice to Gwen—chatted her up—meant to Bennie that he was probably on his way out of town.

  14

  During her senior year at Vassar, Gwen drove to the island from Poughkeepsie. When she arrived, Bennie was already in the kitchen to greet her, and they walked together into the living room, where Littlefield was waiting quietly on the purple couch, staring at logs burning in the fire, dressed in a brown tweed jacket, a white shirt, and a red tie.

  “Oh, shit. Should I be wearing a dress?” asked Gwen. She had on jeans and a T-shirt and a thin red parka.

  “We’re late,” said Littlefield.

  “We’ll be fine if we leave in a few minutes,” said Bennie. “Get up and give your sister a hug.”

  Littlefield sighed. “Kiddo, did you even pack a dress?”

  “Well, hello and good to see you, too,” she said.

  He stood up and hugged her. “If you want them, there are some clothes in the back closet.”

  “Since when do you give a shit what I wear? And what about Bennie? Shouldn’t he be dressed up, too?”

  Littlefield shrugged. He stood up and strode to the kitchen, returning with a pitcher full of water. He poured it on the fire. Thin rivers of ash streamed from the hearth.

  “Oh, man,” said Bennie. “What a mess.”

  “You’re the one who started this fire. We can’t let it burn while we drive to Mom’s.”