Echo Lake

by Letitia Trent

  He had his eyes closed tight, though water escaped. His usually tight, controlled mouth wobbled. Levi, she said. I need to speak to you.

  He opened his eyes.

  I believe you, she said.

  He closed them again. She saw a shudder roll through his body and felt the faint clack of his teeth banging together.

  I’m sorry, he said. It’s true, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing—

  I believe you, she said again, less firmly this time. She couldn’t absolve him, but she also couldn’t manage to hate him: she hadn’t known Frannie. He was more real to her than she had been.

  But what made you do it? She asked him. What’s making this happen? It’s been like this for all of the murders, hasn’t it?

  He raised his head and jerked his arm away from the boy at his left. Let me be, he told them. Emily and I have things to say to each other.

  The boys stepped away, surprised by his sudden force where he had been only limp and accepting before. But they wouldn’t have much time before somebody with authority came, the youth pastor or one of the tall, older men who served as deacons and stood like obelisks at Greg’s side.

  He leaned close to her. She could feel the heat and faintly taste the salt from his skin.

  It was inside of me, all that anger. He said. But this place made it come out. It was the lake. The lake did it. It took what was wrong in me and pointed it at anyone who I came upon. It didn’t matter who. It’s the lake, he said. It’s where all of the feeling gathers. It’s like a bullhorn, an amplifier. It takes whatever you give it and send sit back tenfold. That’s what happened to the others, they were like me—opened to receiving something ugly, feeling murderous anyway, confused, susceptible. It’s like the devil, he said. It gets inside if you are weak. And I am weak.

  You can’t just bury things forever. I guess the water held all of that, and now it has power over us.

  Did you see them? He flicked his head at the crowd, the families stuffing cups and plates in plastic trash bags and sealing the Tupperware containers closed. They didn’t want to hear it. But they know it’s true. They tell their children not to go to the lake alone, to never go to the lake after dark, but they don’t say why. Maybe they don’t even know why.

  He turned to her, the skin around his eyes purple and blue, his mouth chapped and cracking. They’re afraid. We’ve been doing this for too long. We can’t stop now. It won’t let us.

  One of the deacons approached.

  Thank you, she whispered. Thank you for telling me. She stood up, and then hesitated, her hand still on the table. She knelt down again.

  I forgive you, she said. She leaned in close enough to see the small pores in his nose, hear the little whistle of his breathing. I don’t know what happened, or why, but I forgive you.

  The words seemed to weigh him down instead lift him, as she’d hoped that they would. But really, how much could he be lifted now? Levi collapsed back into his own arms.

  A boy stood by her side, his hands in his pockets, his eyes unable to stay in just one place.

  Ma’am, I’m here to take you to see Greg, our youth pastor; he respectfully asks a word with you.

  She imagined that the youth pastor had couched him to use those words exactly, respectfully asks a word. She felt sorry for the boy and smiled at him. His pale hair was cut so short at the sides of his head that she could see his scalp.

  He wants to talk to you about Pastor Levi, those things he said about your Aunt Frannie tonight, things that must have upset you so much.

  Emily nodded and stood up. I’d be happy to speak with him.

  Happy wasn’t exactly the correct word, but it would do for now, for this boy who was innocent and basically well-meaning in his ignorance.

  Greg perspired at the podium as he fielded questions and families holding their now-crying children or shepherding their confused grandparents to the minivan or truck. He held a cloth handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  He shook her hand and asked the man who stood red-faced before him to wait a moment, he had something important to say. She watched the man reluctantly leave the podium.

  Emily, he said, smiling at her in that practiced, directed way that she’d seen now only in preachers and salesmen. I wanted to apologize on behalf of Levi for his words tonight. I can’t imagine how much they’ve upset you.

  Emily nodded. She pressed her lips together, knowing they would make a harsh, fleshless line.

  He says that he killed a member of my family, she said. Why shouldn’t that upset me? And more importantly, why shouldn’t I believe him?

  Greg blinked and lifted the handkerchief to his head again.

  I can assure you, Ma’am, that he had nothing to do with—

  But how do you know?

  He sighed and balled up the handkerchief. Ma’am, I can assure you—

  You can’t assure me of anything, she said. Why don’t you believe him?

  Greg looked down the podium, which had names carved into its rough surface. I don’t believe him because what he says is impossible. What would possess him to do such a thing? There’s no reason.

  That isn’t a good enough reason, she said. He admitted to it. He showed evidence. He knows what he did. Shouldn’t we believe him?

  Greg shook his head. You aren’t from here, so you don’t know, but Levi is not the kind of man who would do such a thing. We know who would do something like this: it’s very clear, when you get to know the people around here—

  I’m sick of this, Emily said. I’m sick of people telling me that I’m not from here, so I wouldn’t understand. Maybe I don’t understand, but I don’t think I’m wrong. She surprised herself by turning away from him, by not even saying goodbye or waiting to hear what he had to say.

  She went back to Jonathan, who remained seated at the table. An older woman from the church had seated herself next to him. She seemed to be telling him about the tragedies that had struck Heartshorne—the murders, the missing children.

  And now our pastor, she said, shaking her head, seems to be touched. She pressed her forefinger against her temple. Touched in the head, I mean.

  Jonathan nodded.

  Can we leave? Emily said. The old woman looked up, alarmed, used to being deferred to. I have to go home, she said. I have to get out of here. Jonathan led her back to the car, where she realized, as she sat in the passenger seat and watched the sky open again and a downpour ripple across the windshield, that she was angry. She was shaking with anger. And she was not afraid.

  9

  It took Jonathan a half hour to get them home, though it was usually only a ten minute drive—he could hardly see through the rain pounding against the windshield. The dirt roads were flooded.

  I won’t be able to leave in the morning, he said. Can I stay the night again?

  She nodded at the windshield. Of course you can, she said. I’d love for you to stay.

  I’m sorry, she said, after a few minutes of silence. I’m sorry I’m not here right now.

  It’s OK, he said. We’ll figure out what to do.

  She turned to him and smiled. She appreciated his kindness, though it seemed like a silly thing to say. What could they possibly do about this? It was larger than the both of them.

  Jonathan and Emily ate soup and crackers and listened to the rain pounding her ceiling. It did not leak, so far, though the rain was hard and constant and poured down the windows.

  Why did everyone ignore what Levi said? She asked. Why didn’t anyone stand up and say that he had to be listened to, that if he was guilty, then he should be able to confess and be heard? Jonathan didn’t know.

  Should we call the police? He asked, but she shook her head.

  But why not? What are you waiting for?

  What she was waiting for was the town to admit everything. That would be better than the police coming, taking one person and leaving nothing really unchanged.

  I want them to do something, she said. They are like the b
oy holding the two swords, afraid to do anything because they might cut themselves. I want them to cut themselves.

  They all knew that Levi had killed Fran, Emily thought, but they knew other things, too. They knew why her mother had left. They knew how Mr. Rodriguez had died. The ones who didn’t know didn’t want to know and the ones who were still innocent were being taught how not to hear.

  No, she said. Let’s not call the police. Not yet. Let’s wait.

  Wait for what? Jonathan showed signs of tension in his mouth, a tightness that was new to her. He was upset. But she couldn’t give in. An image formed in her head, the six of swords, the mother and child crossing the water.

  She turned to him and placed her hand on his knee. I don’t know exactly why, but I want to wait. Can you understand that? It’s just a feeling. You trust those, right? Intuition?

  He nodded. I just—

  Let’s wait, at least a day. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.

  After a quick dinner, they fell asleep early, just like married people. Only she didn’t really fall asleep: she pretended, keeping her breathing shallow and regular until she heard his breathing become regular and his legs stopped their restless kicking. Soon, he snored softly. And then, when she thought he was deeply enough asleep to leave the bed without disturbing him, she felt that telltale heaviness that meant she was sleepy, too. She closed her eyes, just to give them enough of a rest to allow her to get up, to dress, to make it to the edge of the lake. But her body would not let her. She felt herself sliding into sleep, felt her thoughts branch out and multiply into absurdities, and knew that it was too late. She couldn’t stop it.

  •

  Connie was a teenage girl. Her hair was whipped up in a bouffant and twisted behind her head with bobby pins. Emily could tell it was Connie because her eyes and mouth were the same as they’d been when Emily was a child, same as they’d been when she was older, even when she was dying. Her eyes were big, but capable of quick, suspicious movements. Her blue eyes were surrounded by pale lashes that Connie painted in blackest black Maybelline mascara, a purchase that had not changed in all of the years that Emily had known her. Her mouth was small but shaped like a bow. She’d been a beautiful girl. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse tucked into a knee-length A-line skirt, stockings and sandals. She had a lighter in one hand and a cigarette in another. The lighter was metal with a flip-top that you could open by jerking your hand downward sharply at just the right force and angle. Connie did this, flicked the flame to life, and lit the cigarette end.

  My mother was cool, Emily thought. She was beautiful and she could light a cigarette like a femme fatale from a film noir, even at what, fourteen? Connie narrowed her eyes and pursed her perfect mouth at Emily.

  So, what were you planning?

  I don’t know, Emily said. She felt awkward around her young mother. She was in her nightgown, a long t-shirt with a hole in one armpit that said OSU across the chest in garish, red letters. She was not cool and never had been.

  Did you hear about the water? Connie took a drag and blew the smoke from her pursed lips. Did you hear what he said? The water makes you do crazy things? Makes you even more angry than you already are and turns you on the closest person?

  Emily nodded.

  So you were going to go out there as you are right now, so angry, stupid with anger?

  Emily shook her head. I’m not angry.

  Oh, I think you are. Connie narrowed her eyes again. She stepped forward and Emily resisted the urge to step away. This was her dream. She didn’t have to step away. She stood her ground.

  Connie took her arm. Listen, she said. She put out the cigarette under her heel. I know you are angry with me. You are mad that I never told you about this. Mad that I tried to make you hate this place. Mad that I died and was never the mother that you wanted to have, all of that. Connie waved her free hand in the air and rolled her eyes.

  But guess what? Connie tightened her grip on Emily’s arm. I was the mother you had, the only one. You don’t get to choose. You don’t get to tell me who to be, just like I didn’t get to tell you who to be. It works both ways. I was your mother and I was a woman going to a shitty community college who found herself alone and pregnant, and I was a fourteen-year-old in Heartshorne, and a child in Heartshorne Elementary, and a baby on Frannie’s lap and in my mother’s arms. I was all those things. She let go of Emily’s hand.

  Emily looked around for the first time, seeing the scrubby brush that surrounded them, the cracked and dry ground. They were in Heartshorne. In the distance, Emily saw the school marquee, no longer electronic as it was when Emily last saw it, but crowded with black letters that the janitor changed by hand every week: Harvest Dance, it said.

  You don’t know what happened here, Connie said. Don’t punish me for what you don’t know. You can’t be angry when you go out there, she said. You can’t do it angry.

  Emily nodded. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold.

  You have to figure out how to love me.

  The light changed then, a column of it falling from the blue, enormous Oklahoma sky, and Connie changed, too. She was an adult, at a kitchen table. A room enclosed them, the weather now outside, tapping at a small window to get in.

  Sit down, Connie said. Let me help you.

  •

  Emily woke to the continuing sound of rain. Jonathan had wrapped the pillow around his head and kicked the blankets to the floor. Jonathan was so deeply asleep that she didn’t even moan or break the hum of his snoring when she got out of bed and felt for her shoes and her robe on the floor.

  In the kitchen, she drank a glass of water and watched the rain streaking the window. She switched on the porch light, which revealed a swamp, the road overflowing. She went to the hallway closet and took out her only jacket. It wasn’t waterproof, but it had a hood. She took out her rain boots and a heavy flashlight which she’d bought before her road trip and had never used until now.

  She’d reach the lake in just a few minutes if she went straight through the woods. She knew the way.

  The rain pounded against her jacket, and though the flashlight was drenched and she feared it would short, it shone through the trees and rain. She had not imagined how peopled and active the woods would seem in the rain and how much what she’d learned about Levi and the lake would make her body revolt against her movements. She felt herself shivering, not from cold, but from some deep part of herself trying to keep her from going forward. She had to force every step.

  She didn’t look beyond the light or behind her. If she looked backward, she might turn back. If she paid attention to things that seemed to be moving in her peripheral vision, she might turn back. And she couldn’t turn back.

  She’d had another dream conversation with her mother. They were sitting at her new kitchen table in Fran’s house, her own house now, at the gouged countertop. Connie was as Emily last remembered her—thin, her hair wispy with pink patches of scalp showing through. She lifted her hand to stir the milk and sugar into her coffee and Emily saw the bruises on her wrists from the IV’s and the sticky, black edges of the tape that had held the tubes around her nose and mouth. She didn’t shake, as she had at the end, and wore a light, white dress. Just before the end, she grew so cold, even in rooms heated to 80 degrees, and always needed a blanket around her chin. Even when she could still speak, quietly, but still coherently, her toes and fingers had already started to lose heat. Emily had found this particularly painful, insulting even. Connie’s mind was still working; she understood what was happening even as she lost the feeling in her toes and fingers.

  Emily, she said, stirring her coffee tan. Do you remember when we drove to West Virginia? You were eight. We drove together, just the two of us, and went to Black Mountain Caverns? Do you remember how I pulled you to me as the elevator dropped us down to the bottom? How scared I made you because I bruised your arm? It was because I was afraid, you understand? I was afraid that you’d be hurt. You struggled
and pulled yourself away from me and out of my arms, but I held you tighter and I was angry with you, because you did not understand how afraid I was and how much I needed you to simply let me hold you.

  Emily nodded. She did remember, but she remembered it differently. She remembered the elevator’s sudden shift down and grabbing at her mother’s clothes, afraid of flying off into the dark of the cave where the dim lights reflected off of what had seemed like sharp stalactites. Emily remembered fearing that she would fall from the elevator (it only had a bar, waist-high, keeping her from the cave walls). She remembered, too, that her mother had pushed her away.

  Connie continued to stir, and then took another spoonful of sugar from the opened bag.

  And do you remember when I drove you to school, the first day of first grade, and how you cried and I told you to stop, that you had to be a big girl? After you left, I stayed in the car, watching you as you weaved among the other children. Those other children, they didn’t matter, do you understand? They didn’t matter to me. You entered that building, dry-eyed after some sweet, young teacher showed you your new classroom, and I cried until my eyes were swollen and drove home slowly so I wouldn’t wreck, I was so afraid of having you away from me for a whole day. That’s how foolish you made me because I loved you and I couldn’t help it.

  She looked up, her under eyes purple and translucent in the sunlight of the room. Emily turned her head to see the light source—the kitchen window, opened out to the day. It wasn’t raining anymore. It was noon, the sun full above them.

  You have everything you need, she said. So stop it. Stop the anger. You think because you don’t say it and are quiet and alone it isn’t there, but it is. You aren’t fooling anyone. Your mother knows you, even if you don’t want her to know you. Let it go. Stop wanting what wasn’t possible and want what you actually had.

  It took Emily ten minutes to reach the water, she walked so slowly and carefully through the muck. She heard it before she saw it. The rain beating against the lake sounded different than the rain against the leaves—flatter and more insistent. Then, she hit a patch of soaked ground, and her boots were ankle-deep in water. She sloshed through until the trees ended and she reached what was once the shore. She was now knee-deep in water. The surface of the lake was black with little flashes of pale light where the rain hit the surface.