Snapper

by Felicia Zekauskas

  Marc wondered if he was using too many big words. But Marc liked big words. People could always look them up. That’s why there were dictionaries.

  He handed the finished piece to Michael Schneiderman to review.

  Bozian watched Schneiderman’s eyes tracking back and forth across the page. Then Michael looked up perplexed.

  “What the heck does ‘objective correlative’ mean?”

  “It’s when one thing stands for something else,” explained Marc.

  “So what’s the objective correlative in your piece?”

  “The snapping turtle is the objective correlative of the painted rock,” explained Marc. Then he paused. Could he possibly have that backwards? Marc wasn’t completely sure. But what did it matter? If a equals b then b equals a. The order didn’t matter. It was the commutative property. Or maybe it was the associative property.

  “Don’t you think it’s just a bit over our readers’ heads?” asked Michael.

  Bozian shrugged his shoulders. Schneiderman handed the article back to him.

  “What the heck – just run it,” said Schneiderman.

  *

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Judd.

  Judd was sitting in a booth at Bonds’ across from Michael Schneiderman. The Turtleback Gazette was spread open between them.

  “People are talking as if removing the paint from Turtleback Rock is going to solve our problem,” said Judd. “The real problem goes much deeper.”

  “You’re missing the whole point of the piece,” said Michael. “The point is the rock is just the tip of the iceberg. It’s like a pimple, Judd. You’ve got to pop it to get the pus out.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Judd. “That the graffiti on the rock is the pimple and the giant snapper is the pus and if we scrape the paint off the rock that will get rid of the snapper in the lake?”

  That was what Michael meant. Though now that someone else was saying it, it sounded pretty preposterous. Maybe he was giving Bozian too much leeway.

  “Well, a pimple is probably a bad analogy,” said Michael. “But it’s essentially what Bozian was driving at. If we take care of what is relatively a little problem we might be inspired to address the bigger one.”

  “You mean the ‘objective correlative?’”

  “All right, Judd,” said Michael. “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Look, Mike,” said Judd. “I want Turtleback Rock cleaned up as much as anyone. But it’s been weeks now since Sully died and has anything at all been done about this turtle? No!”

  Schneiderman shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Judd. “I think people are actually starting to think that maybe this whole thing will just go away on its own. They’re thinking that pretty soon the lake’s gonna freeze and then – come spring when it thaws – everything will be fine again. And everything will be fine again – until it happens again.”

  * * * *

  The water in Turtleback Lake was cold, but August hardly felt it. He was wearing a wet suit. In any case, he wouldn’t be in the water long. He only had to wade out a few more yards before climbing up the side of his sub and lowering himself into its open hatch.

  Once inside, August sealed the hatch above, switched on the ignition, and surveyed the illuminated gauges on the instrument panel. As the vessel slipped past the floating dock, August flipped two more switches and the nose of the sub dipped beneath the surface. An instant later there was no sign of August or his sub.

  In the predawn darkness, the surface of the lake was still jet black and its depths inkier still. Not until he was twenty feet down did August turn on the submarine’s headlamps. Soon the sun would rise and lighten the eastern sky. Now that he was well under, August welcomed it. Sunlight on the lake’s surface would prevent anyone from seeing the beam of his headlight probing beneath.

  The actual depths of Turtleback Lake had never been charted. Who cared how deep a lake was when all its leisure activities took place on the surface? Turtleback Lake wasn’t a Great Lake; it wasn’t a shipping channel where vessels had to worry about running aground. The vessels that plied the waters of Turtleback Lake were canoes, rowboats, sailboats, kayaks, and inner tubes. Their hulls barely broke the surface.

  Now August was once again in the uncharted underwater world he had loved exploring as a child. It was a filmy green realm filled with boundless wonder and potential danger. Who knew what the intrepid explorer might encounter if he dared to venture a tad too far or a foot too deep?

  Through the thick glass of his vision panel, August peered into the waters lit by his searchlight. He glanced at his watch. It was 7 a.m. The sun was now high enough for him to turn on the craft’s auxiliary lights.

  Visibility straight ahead was about twenty feet, but August’s peripheral vision was minimal. Eerie, sword-like bodies of deep-dwelling pikes and pickerels – fierce, prehistoric-looking things – darted across his field of vision.

  This was the medium through which Grundel roamed like a lord, the unchallenged king of the food chain. He was the predator of all and the prey of none. He felt impervious and impregnable. Other than that nasty ax that had split his shell, nothing had caused Grundel the slightest pain in the last eighty years.

  “Well, every reign must end,” mused August, thinking of the giant turtle’s long dominance of the depths of Turtleback Lake.

  Soon, if all went well, the turtle would be in an aquarium behind thick walls of tempered glass where – where what? August wondered. Would capturing the giant snapper be a boon to science? God knows he would love the chance to study such a creature. Or would the beast end up as a freakish tourist attraction? When there was a profit to be made, what wasn’t turned into a circus spectacle?

  August brought his focus back to the illuminated waters just beyond his windshield. Local legend was right: Turtleback Lake was as deep as the mountains around it. Once beyond the shallows ringing its shoreline, the sides plunged steeply downward, as if the basin of the lake were an upside-down hollowed-out mountain.

  Where was Grundel’s lair in this vast underwater world? Did he roam the entire lake from end to end and shore to shore? Ian Copeland had been attacked in the lake’s northeast corner off a dock in front of Judd Clayton’s place. Joanne Sully was attacked at the public beach in the lake’s southwest corner. And Jack Sully had been out in the middle. It seemed to August that this snapper was a roamer.

  August wasn’t sure that there was a best way to go about his search, so he let himself be guided by instinct and intuition. He dialed the nose of his sub in the direction of Turtleback Rock. In all his dives as a child, he had never gone anywhere near it. First of all, his father had issued a strict injunction against it. And then there had been the strange ominous aura that surrounded the rock. Even he, a child of logic and science, had felt it and respected it.

  Turtleback Rock had always appeared – at least until Jack Sully got to it – as a low, slightly domed, bone-white island.

  But in reality, the tiny island was actually a mountaintop – the tip of a mighty Gilbraltar whose precipitous sides plunged for hundreds of feet to the lake’s bottom. If Turtleback Rock hadn’t been ninety-nine per cent submerged, it would’ve been a mecca for rock climbers.

  Suddenly, the water began to glow a spectral white. The beams of August’s headlamps were reflecting off the sides of Turtleback Rock. As the sub neared the massive monolith, August veered to the left and began a clockwise circumnavigation.

  Orbiting the white behemoth in his tiny tin tube, August felt like an astronaut on an early Mercury space mission. Growing up, August had regarded men like John Glenn as heroes. In his impressionable young mind, he had always imagined a second Mt. Rushmore carved with the faces of those early space travelers. That’s the kind of monument young August dreamed about: a monument to intrepid men of science, adventure and exploration.

  Now, as he rounded the bends of Turtleback Rock, August beheld new vistas of stunning beauty. It
was like being immersed inside the globe of a giant paperweight.

  August kept glancing at his gauges. They told him his depth, the pressure, the water temperature, and how much fuel and oxygen he had left. He had enough oxygen for ninety minutes more. He kept the nose of the sub pitched slightly downward, so as the craft was orbiting it constantly corkscrewed deeper and deeper.

  At approximately two hundred feet, August noticed a large cave-like cavity in the side of the mountain. August estimated the opening to be twelve feet across and roughly eight feet high. It was shaped like a cartoon drawing of a caveman’s home. The top and sides were arched, the floor was flat. August aligned the sub just outside the cave, pointed the nose inward, and adjusted the headlights to maximum luminosity.

  August had expected the opening to be a shallow niche or alcove. What he saw instead was the entrance to a tunnel that looked big enough to accommodate a Cadillac. As far as August could see, the tunnel went straight in, ramping down ever so slightly. And, for at least as far as his headlamps revealed, the tunnel was wide enough for August to turn the sub around. If worse came to worst, he thought, I could always put it in reverse and back out: tricky, but do-able.

  He took a deep breath and then plunged in. The capsule gave a small lurch and then began to slide into the open mouth of the cave.

  All went smoothly for a while. The sub burrowed effortlessly, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the giant white rock. Then the tunnel, which had started so straight and wide, began to twist and turn, rise and fall. The gentle undulations didn’t concern August until he suddenly became aware that the tunnel was also narrowing. A sudden wave of claustrophobia sped up his heart and quickened his breathing.

  “If I get wedged going around one of these bends,” thought August, “Turtleback Rock is going to end up being my tombstone. And no one will ever know it.”

  August put the craft into neutral and looked again at the glowing gauges on the instrument panel. He had lost track of time. More than half an hour had passed since he had last checked his oxygen supply. He had less than thirty minutes left now. And he still had to back out of the tunnel. Going any further was now out of the question. The possibility that an exit might be just around the next bend was a risk he couldn’t take. He had to start backing out.

  August took a deep breath. It didn’t matter that it used up extra oxygen. Right now what he needed was to calm himself. Staying calm now could be the difference between life and death.

  August adjusted the craft’s rearview mirrors. He flicked a switch. The sub’s taillights shot a beam into the blackness behind him. He shifted into reverse. Going backwards was slow going. Several times the sub bumped and scraped noisily against the stony sides. But August couldn’t rush. He couldn’t risk smashing a lamp, losing a mirror, or busting a sensor. What were the words his mother had drummed into his head as a boy? He could see them embroidered on a pillow. Haste makes waste. Going slow was the fastest way out.

  August finally reached a point where the tunnel looked wide enough to attempt a three-point turn. He glanced at the gauge for oxygen. Twelve minutes left.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said.

  August turned the wheel all the way to the left, easing the sub backward until it bumped against the wall behind him. The contact was jarring. Then he swung the wheel all the way back to the right and shifted forward. It was like trying to get out of a tight parking space in New York City. Sometimes you just couldn’t. The side of the sub screeched as the metal scraped against the wall, but nothing broke off. August let out a breath. He was in the clear.

  A few minutes later, August was out of the cave and on his way back to the surface. Turtleback Rock had almost gotten him – not by anything that it had done, but because of his own questionable judgment.

  Chapter 24

  TURTLEBACK LAKE NOVEMBER 2006

  It looked like it would turn out to be a perfect day for a high school football game. The morning air was crisp, the rising sun was warm, and the sky was cloudless and blue.

  It was 9 o’clock. August was having coffee in the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door.

  August looked through the screen. He saw a woman in a black turtleneck, tight black stretch pants, and red sneakers with wide white laces. His new next door neighbor had come to pay a call.

  August looked at her for a moment.

  Only one thing gave away Deena’s age – the crows’ feet that creased the corners of her eyes whenever she smiled. But lines didn’t matter to August. He actually preferred things a little aged, a little broken-in. And to his taste, Deena was just right. She looked good.

  “Hey!” said Deena through the screen. “Good morning.”

  “And a good morning to you,” said August, stepping outside.

  “So,” said Deena, letting out a sigh. “The reason I stopped by was to see if you might consider escorting a certain young lady to today’s big game.”

  “Today’s big game?” said August.

  “The Snappers are playing the Ramapo Rams,” said Deena. “Both teams are undefeated. I gather it’s a big deal. The whole town’s going.”

  “And who might be the young lady in need of an escort?” inquired August.

  “She’d be me,” said Deena with a sheepish smile.

  August had to give her credit. She certainly put herself out there.

  “Sure,” said August. “It’d be my pleasure. What time?”

  “Kick-off’s at eleven,” said Deena, exhaling with relief. “How about I pack us some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee?”

  “Sounds great,” said August. “I’ll give you a honk at, let’s say, 10:30?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Deena turned and started back toward her house. As she walked, she added the slightest extra sway to her hips, just in case August was watching. At one point she chanced a quick look back over her shoulder.

  August was looking.

  She smiled and waved and then silently thanked God that men – even the most cerebral ones – were so predictable.

  *

  Ramapo was another town in the mountains of North Jersey.

  But unlike Turtleback Lake, it had no lake to attract outsiders. Ramapo was set deep in a valley on the far side of a high mountain pass. In the winter, it was often unreachable for days or weeks at a stretch because of treacherous ice and snow. Unless you happened to live there, the town of Ramapo felt remote and godforsaken, almost Appalachian.

  Removed from the rest of the world, the inhabitants of Ramapo had an eerie, inbred quality. They were gruff and suspicious toward everybody. But it was on the football field that their native sons showed their truest colors. There they became completely and utterly ruthless and ferocious.

  Ramapo High School’s mascot was a ram – and not because of the ‘ram’ in Ramapo. It came from the way that Ramapo players lowered their heads and rammed opposing players with their helmets.

  The Rams were throwbacks to an earlier era. They weren’t high-fivers or ball-spikers. When they scored a touchdown, they simply dropped the ball to the ground or tossed it to the nearest official. If a player – on their team or the opposition’s – had to be carted off, they simply waited for the battle to resume. Football to them wasn’t a game – it was a war. Casualties were inevitable. Part of their success came from the fear they instilled in their opponents’ minds. But as brutal as they were, there was nothing dirty about them. They simply played harder and tougher than anybody else.

  When Deena and August arrived at Turtleback Field, the stands were already packed. They had to climb through the crowd and squeeze into a tiny spot in the top row of the bleachers. They could feel the whole structure flexing under the weight of the stomping sell-out crowd.

  Pressed against Deena, August could feel the heat of her body radiating right through his corduroys. Their four thighs, squeezed tightly together, became the tray for their coffee and sandwiches.

  The game began. The first quarter was a scorel
ess defensive battle. The second quarter was more of the same until, with less than a minute left in the half and the Rams driving deep into Snapper territory, Bobby Savarese picked off a pass and raced almost eighty yards for the game’s first touchdown.

  The crowd stood and cheered wildly. Most remained standing for the extra point attempt. Because of the food on their laps, Deena and August remained seated. They couldn’t see JJ Clayton drill the ball through the uprights. But when the crowd roared, August turned to Deena and said, “I guess we made it.”

  “We certainly did,” said Deena with a little smile and wink.

  Since their brief summer tryst, August had made no advances toward Deena. He hadn’t even flirted with her. She wished he would.

  After the extra point, JJ ran off the field. Ian Copeland greeted him on the sideline with a slap on the back.

  “Nice kick!” he said.

  “Thanks!” said JJ, taking off his helmet.

  “Hey – don’t you think you should put that back on?” said Ian. He nodded toward the field.

  JJ turned around. Everyone on the kickoff team was already out there lining up. Everyone, that is, except for the kicker.

  “Yeah – right!” said JJ, pulling his helmet back on and reaching down unconsciously to adjust his cup. “I forgot!”

  JJ’s kickoff pinned the Rams inside their own 15-yard line. Rather than risk a turnover so deep in their own territory, they took a knee and ran out the clock. Then the two teams headed toward the locker rooms. As the players ran off, the marching band took the field. For the next twenty minutes the blare of brass instruments echoed off the sides of the mountains that surrounded Turtleback Lake.

  In the bleachers, Deena and August stood up and brushed crumbs off their pants. The afternoon was perfect. It was crisp and clear – sweater weather. The night surely would be chilly, down in the high thirties – perfect for curling up in front of a fire. Deena imagined herself snuggling up with August on a rug in front of the fireplace in his cabin – the one with the long-handled ax hanging above it.