Undertow

by Steve Behling

  I know that face . . . I’ve seen it before . . .

  Then Arthur screamed, “Mother!”

  The sound didn’t travel, and the shape didn’t respond. As he screamed, Arthur gulped in a lungful of water; he felt light-headed, his chest burned, and his whole body felt heavy. So, so heavy. He screamed again, but this time, he began to gag.

  And as everything turned black, he swore he heard a soft voice . . . “Arthur.”

  Arthur’s scream had woken Tom out of a dead sleep, and he had come running to his son’s room. He found Arthur sitting bolt upright, his pajama shirt soaking wet, sticking to his back. Sweat poured down his forehead.

  And yet, Arthur felt decidedly cold to the touch.

  “Same dream?” Tom asked, sitting on the side of his son’s bed.

  Arthur shook his head. “Sort of. But it was different. I think I saw Mom,” Arthur said, panting.

  “You saw her?” Tom asked.

  Arthur nodded. “I think it was her. I tried . . . I tried to call out to her, but I was drowning, I couldn’t breathe, and I just wanted . . . I just wanted to talk to her.”

  Tom looked at his son and started to say something. It’s like he’s trying to find the words, Arthur thought, but can’t. Then Tom pulled Arthur close to him and wrapped the boy in an embrace.

  Then, a few seconds later, “I just want you to know that you’re really sweaty and gross right now.”

  Arthur managed to laugh.

  Tom rose from the bed and walked over to Arthur’s closet, and the two piles of clothes that sat on the floor in front of it. He looked at the pile on the left, then bent down and grabbed a blue “Amnesty Bay” T-shirt. “Pile on the left is the clean pile, right?” Tom said.

  Arthur nodded, and Tom threw the shirt to his son. “Put that on; you’re cold. And don’t th—”

  Arthur took off the sweaty shirt, then threw it on the floor.

  “—row it on the floor,” Tom said, completing his thought, laughing. “One day, you’ll learn.”

  Tom walked back to the bed. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I think so.” Arthur yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Three thirty in the morning, give or take,” Tom replied. “Get some sleep. You got school tomorrow.”

  Tom messed up the hair on his son’s head, then left the room. Then there was quiet, then Arthur was alone once more.

  He turned in bed and closed his eyes, hoping he would see her face again.

  Chapter Ten

  “ARE WE BORING YOU, ARTHUR?”

  Arthur suddenly snapped to, jerking his head off his desk. He wiped a thin stream of drool from the right corner of his mouth.

  Man, I hope no one saw that, he thought. Then he looked around at his classmates and realized that everyone probably had seen it.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lewis,” Arthur said apologetically. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

  Mrs. Lewis stood at the board in front of the classroom and gave Arthur a sympathetic smile. “Just try not to snore next time,” she said, and the class laughed.

  Laughing at me, not with me, Arthur thought.

  “Now, where were we?” Mrs. Lewis continued. “We were talking about the difference between mass and weight . . .” Then she began to draw a diagram on the SMART Board.

  Arthur felt a finger poke him in his right shoulder. He turned his head slightly, and saw Claudia leaning over from her desk.

  “What’s up with you?” Claudia whispered. “You look terrible.”

  Arthur shrugged. “I just didn’t get much sleep,” he replied in a hushed voice. Arthur shifted his body, and lifted his head, looking up at the white board, full of words and diagrams that made his head hurt. He tried to focus, but he had that eerie feeling of being stared at. He slowly swiveled his head to the right, and sure enough, he saw Claudia, still looking right at him.

  “I don’t believe you,” Claudia whispered. “C’mon, what is it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now!” Arthur whispered back.

  “Try to keep the noise to a dull roar,” Mrs. Lewis said, her back to the class as she wrote on the board.

  “C’mon, I don’t want to get in trouble,” Arthur said softly.

  Then he felt something wet and slimy strike his neck from behind, and he gasped. Arthur reached around with his right hand and pulled out a small, curled-up piece of paper, soaking wet.

  Classic spit wad, he thought.

  He turned around in his seat and saw Matt and Mike waving at him. Matt held a straw in one hand, wiggling it. Mike was busy rolling up bits of paper into tiny balls. Matt took one of the balls, popped it in his mouth. Then he took it out, put it in the front of the straw, and fired again.

  Arthur tried to duck, but the spit wad caught him right in the cheek.

  Yecccch.

  Arthur couldn’t believe how the day was turning out so far. He wanted to get up out of his seat and go after Matt. Inside, he felt his stomach churning, and he clenched his fists beneath his desk. But he knew if he did anything, he’d get in trouble. He knew his father would be disappointed in him for picking a fight. And if he told Mrs. Lewis, he’d be the class snitch and then everyone would dislike him more than they already did.

  “That’s great,” Arthur said. “Now Matt and Mike have another reason to hate my guts.”

  It was lose-lose all the way around.

  “Hey!”

  Arthur whirled around to see Matt covering his right eye with his hands. Then he pulled them away, revealing a little wad of wet paper stuck above his right eyebrow.

  “What is going on here?” Mrs. Lewis thundered. “Claudia, what on earth are you doing?”

  Arthur looked at Claudia and couldn’t believe what he saw. There she was, half sitting in her seat, turned backward, a straw in hand.

  “Spit-wad fight? Really?” Mrs. Lewis asked the class, incredulous.

  “They started it!” Claudia said, pointing at Matt and Mike.

  “I did not!” Matt said, wiping the spit wad off his face.

  “Me neither!” Mike added. “We’re totally innocent! This is a witch hunt!”

  Mrs. Lewis rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh, I bet. Straws on the floor, now. Both of you,” she said, and both Matt and Claudia complied. “I’ll be seeing the three of you after class.”

  “But Mrs. Lewis—” Arthur started to say, surprising himself.

  “What, Arthur?” Mrs. Lewis replied. “Would you like to stay after class, too?”

  Claudia put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “No, Arthur, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. What are friends for?”

  Arthur looked at his friend and smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  ARTHUR LOOKED UP AT THE SKY and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. He felt dazed, like he was floating an inch or so off the ground, and everything looked and felt fuzzy to him.

  I gotta get some sleep, he thought.

  He heard the sound of the school doors opening behind him, and Arthur stood up from his seat on the concrete steps. Claudia came walking out of the school, backpack slung over her left shoulder.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said, waving to Arthur.

  Arthur waved back. “Hey,” he replied. “I’m really sorry about before. I didn’t want you to get in tr—”

  “Pffffft,” Claudia said. “Don’t worry about it. Those jerks had it coming. Besides, Mrs. Lewis knows what’s going on. Believe me, I got a slap on the wrist compared to the punishment those two geniuses got.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow as if to say, Do tell.

  “They’ll be staying after school for the next month or so,” Claudia said, relishing every word that came out of her mouth.

  “Doing what?” Arthur asked.

  “I believe Mrs. Lewis’s exact words were ‘assisting the custodian in the fulfillment of his daily duties,’” Claudia said, giggling.

  “That’s great,” Arthur said, hanging his head. “Now Matt and Mike have another reason
to hate my guts. Not like they needed it.”

  “You worry too much,” Claudia said. “I got your back.”

  Arthur thought for a second, then smiled. “What about you?”

  “I have to help Mrs. Lewis plan a lesson next week,” Claudia said, a big grin on her face.

  “So basically, something you would have volunteered to do,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

  Claudia laughed. “Basically. What can I say, things always seem to work out.”

  They walked down the steps together and headed out into the parking lot.

  “Our dads are probably worried about us,” Claudia said. “Y’know, ’cause it’s so late.”

  Arthur thought about that for a second and shrugged. “My dad won’t mind. He’s cool about stuff like that. And it’s not like I have any chores today or anything.”

  “‘Chores’?” Claudia asked, her tone slightly mocking. “What is this, Little House on the Prairie?”

  Arthur laughed. “Okay, then what should I call them? It’s just fixing stuff around the lighthouse, maintaining the beacon, stuff like that.”

  Claudia nodded. “Sounds cool. All I ever get to do is take out garbage and dust. You wouldn’t believe how dusty our house is. It’s, like, made of dust or something.”

  They walked through the parking lot and onto the grass, to the road beyond.

  “Well, thanks for waiting for me and stuff,” Claudia said.

  “Sure. What are friends for?” Arthur replied, and Claudia smiled.

  “It was pretty cool what you did,” Arthur said. “With the straw. The spit-wad thing.”

  Claudia laughed. “Thanks. A necessary skill.”

  “You’ll have to teach me,” Arthur said. “I have to be able to defend myself.”

  Claudia looked at Arthur. “Are you telling me that you and your dad have never had a spit-wad fight?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No way! Are you kidding? I mean, he’s fun and all, but I just don’t think Tom Curry is the spitwad-fight type.”

  “Too bad,” Claudia replied. “You guys are missing out.”

  Hefting his backpack onto his right shoulder, Arthur shifted its weight. He and Claudia were walking through downtown Amnesty Bay, passing the numerous small businesses that dotted the well-worn, pothole-filled street.

  “Do you ever think about your mom?” Arthur asked slowly.

  Claudia didn’t say anything, and she didn’t look up. They just kept on walking. Then, after a while, she said, “Sometimes. A lot of times. I mean, I can’t help it. It’s hard not to miss her.”

  Arthur nodded. “I know,” he said quietly.

  “I know you know,” Claudia responded. “Why do you ask?”

  “I had a dream about my mom last night,” Arthur said. “At least, I think it was my mom. I couldn’t really tell.”

  “I bet it was your mom,” Claudia said.

  “How do you know?” Arthur inquired. “I mean, I don’t know, and I’m the one who had the dream.”

  “It wouldn’t be bothering you so much if it were someone else,” Claudia said.

  She’s probably right, Arthur thought.

  “I don’t really remember her,” he said, kicking a rock with his sneaker. “I was too young. Do you remember yours?”

  Claudia stopped, then lined up a rock in front of her right foot. Then she gave it a kick with her hiking boot, sending the rock at least twice as far as Arthur’s rock. “You gotta get behind it,” she said. Then, “A little. I was really young when my mom died. Like, four.”

  “I was three when my mom left,” Arthur said.

  “That sucks,” Claudia said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Race you to the beach?” Claudia asked, and before Arthur could answer, she was already off and running.

  Maybe it doesn’t suck so bad, Arthur thought.

  Chapter Twelve

  HE STILL COULDN’T BREATHE.

  But now, now he could see the shape’s face, more clearly than ever before.

  It was his mother.

  Only this time, Arthur didn’t try to call out to her. He didn’t want his lungs to fill with water. The current was there, and just like last time, it was pulling at him from all sides, but this time, he resisted. This time, he swam, harder than he had before, and at last he moved forward, if just a little. Then a little more. He was making progress. Arthur was coming closer to the shape, closer and closer.

  I know it’s her, I just know it. I can feel it.

  The shape reached out its arms, beckoning toward Arthur. He was only inches from her embrace. When he saw her, Arthur suddenly jerked backward, as if yanked by an unseen force. The shape appeared just as surprised as Arthur.

  No, they can’t take her away. Not again. I won’t let them!

  Arthur swam after his mother, keeping pace with her, yet she always remained just out of reach. His muscles ached, and he thought his chest would burst, but Arthur refused to relent. Stroke after stroke, he soldiered on, striving with all his might to keep close to his mother.

  Arthur was so preoccupied that he only then noticed that he was just a few feet above the ocean floor. Up ahead he saw a ridge. A second later, his mother disappeared over the ridge, heading down.

  That’s where I’m going, too.

  Arthur surprised himself with how easy it was to swim now, as if the current wasn’t fighting his every move or latching and grabbing at him. He made it to the ridge and saw nothing beyond except darkness. Then he hurled himself downward, and he found himself sinking like a rock. His mother was still, agonizingly, just out of reach.

  All around him, Arthur noticed it growing darker and darker. And yet, up ahead, there was a strange, almost unearthly glow. It was small but appeared to grow larger as he swam on.

  What is it? Where are they taking her?

  His mother turned slowly, her hair finally revealing her face. She looked at Arthur and mouthed a word.

  Home? Did she say “home”?

  And then he saw what was making the unearthly glow. Behind the shape, Arthur saw what looked like a city. If that’s in fact what it was, for it resembled no city that Arthur had ever seen or heard of before. The architecture was different from anything he had experienced in Amnesty Bay, or anywhere else, for that matter. Great stone-like columns rose from the ocean floor, spanning upward. It was a city that couldn’t have existed above the waves. It was hard to believe he was still on Earth.

  What is this place?

  As Arthur treaded water, he became aware of a peculiar sensation. The ocean current seemed to stop, and the water around him became still.

  Then there came a low rumbling sound. Small at first, and Arthur looked around, trying to place it. He looked at his mother swimming closer. She smiled at Arthur, but there was something sad in her eyes.

  The moment between them passed. The mild rumble grew louder and louder, and closer, until Arthur finally saw just what the rumbling was: a wave, moving through the water itself, heading directly for Arthur. It was impossible, Arthur knew, and yet it was happening right before his eyes.

  The wave crashed toward Arthur, and at last the boy screamed as it overcame him, pummeling his body.

  As his lungs filled with water, Arthur was carried away by the force of the wave. He kept on screaming, as futile a gesture as it was, reaching out for his mother.

  His mother looked at Arthur mournfully, and as the wave dragged him away, she became smaller and smaller.

  “For the record, it’s three thirty a.m. Again,” Tom said.

  “Give or take,” Arthur replied, panting.

  “Are you okay?” Tom asked, concern in his voice. “I . . . What can I do?”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” Arthur said, putting his head back down on his pillow. “It’s not . . . It’s just a dream, that’s all.”

  “Arthur,” Tom said softly. “Your mom . . . your mom had dreams, too. Some of them very real. She thought . . . maybe they were omens of the future. Or echoes of the past.” />
  “Dreams about what?” Arthur asked.

  Tom was silent for a moment. “She didn’t want to talk much about them,” he said. “But I think they were of her family. Her father.”

  “Do you think they were omens?”

  Tom scratched his head. “I’m not sure, kid,” he said. “It’s all a little beyond me. But I loved your mom. And if she believed it, well, then I bet there might be something to it.”

  Arthur nodded and sat there in bed, staring upward.

  “You sure you don’t wanna talk?”

  “I’m sure,” Arthur said.

  “I know it’s hard to believe right now,” Tom said, “but everything’s gonna be all right. We’re gonna make it all right.”

  Arthur didn’t say anything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “YOU CALL THAT A BICYCLE?”

  Arthur stared down at the bike beneath his legs, pumping furiously to keep up. He’d spent the better part of yesterday afternoon working on the gears, oiling the chain, but there was no way around it. The bike was old, a little beat-up, and not in the best of shape.

  Not like Claudia’s bike. She worked like crazy to keep it in good working condition. After all, it was absolutely necessary for a thirteen-year-old with a paper route to have the best bike possible.

  They had spent the mornings of the last few weeks the same way, ever since school let out for the summer. Arthur had mentioned that he was going to get a paper route to earn some extra money, apart from all the chores he did around the lighthouse. Claudia said (impossibly, it seemed to Arthur) that it sounded like fun, and that she would get one, too.

  So they did.

  And now Claudia was outpedaling Arthur as they rode down the main street of Amnesty Bay, each with a sack of newspapers slung low over the handlebars of their bikes.

  “I do call this a bicycle,” Arthur said, riding just behind Claudia. “It’s my bicycle.”