The Night Swim

by Megan Goldin

  “Luke said you want to discuss something,” said Sally, without looking up as she cut the melon.

  “I was told you might be able to help me with information on the town’s history,” said Rachel.

  Sally looked up at Rachel, taking in Rachel’s wild hair and windblown appearance. “You look like you’ve been out sailing in gale-force winds,” she said.

  “I was at Morrison’s Point before I came here.”

  “It’s not smart to go there at night. The town’s garbage hangs out there when it’s dark. Vagrants. Addicts. I see syringes there all the time when I take the dogs for a run on the beach on Sunday mornings,” said Sally. She cut the watermelon into slices as she spoke, using her whole ample body weight to get the blade through the thick dark green rind of the melon.

  “There was a man on the jetty with scars on his face. He scared the heck out of me. Do you know who he is?” Rachel asked.

  “Sounds like it’s that homeless man I’ve told the cops about,” muttered Sally. “Heard he drops his crab pots off the jetty at night. He’s not supposed to,” she said, glancing at Rachel. “He’s dangerous. Unstable. Cops should have gotten rid of him the second he moved here a couple of years back. They’ve gone soft,” she said to herself as she tossed cut watermelon slices on an oversized plate. She added abruptly: “You said you wanted information on the town’s history What exactly did you want to ask? I don’t have much time. We’re going to eat soon.”

  “I’m looking for the guy who used to run the gas station at the Old Mill Road,” said Rachel. “His name is Rick. I don’t know his family name.”

  “I know who you mean,” said Sally. “He sold to one of those franchise chains a good few years ago. Heard he lives in an old people’s homes now. What do you want with him?”

  “His name came up in a letter about a girl who grew up here. I was told that Rick might have known her.”

  “I worked at the elementary school for over twenty years. I bet I know better than Rick. What’s her name?”

  “Hannah Stills,” said Rachel.

  “Sure, I remember her.” Sally put down the knife on the cutting board. “She was a quiet little thing with long brown hair and sad eyes. Lost all her family within a month. Wouldn’t talk afterward. They brought in a psychologist, but she refused to say a word. Not a sound. After that she left town,” she said. “Foster care,” she added ominously.

  “Where did you hear that?” Rachel asked.

  “Rumors,” Sally said cagily “There was no family to take care of her once her sister Jenny drowned and the cancer took her mother.”

  “I heard the mother believed that Jenny was murdered. That it wasn’t a drowning.”

  “That’s garbage,” Sally snapped. “Jenny Stills was never murdered. Her mother was in denial. Jenny would go night swimming. Boys got to hear about it and they’d join in. It involved a lot more than swimming, if you get my drift,” she said. “One night, she got drunk and jumped off the jetty. Hit her head and drowned herself. It was nobody’s fault but her own. I don’t like to speak badly of the dead, but that Jenny was a wild girl. In every way.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘wild’?” Rachel asked coldly.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Jenny Stills was ‘the town bike,’” said Sally Crawford scornfully. “She had a bad reputation. And I mean bad with a capital B. That girl was just like her mother. Promiscuous. I felt bad for the little sister, but that Jenny was out of control. Getting raised by a new family was the best thing to happen to Hannah Stills. The Stills family were—. Well, they had a name around here. Even the grandfather, Ed. He was crazy as a bat. No wonder his daughter went bad, and then his granddaughter after that. And then her kid, Jenny. They say the apple never falls far from the tree.”

  “Food’s ready,” someone called from the backyard.

  “Okay, okay,” said Sally, picking up the watermelon platter. “I’m coming.”

  She turned to face Rachel at the sliding door to the backyard. “Word of advice,” she said. “Don’t dig up the past when it comes to Jenny Stills. It’s one thing for a girl to go bad. It’s another for her to take down good people with her. She caused terrible tragedy, that girl. Ruined lives. Doesn’t deserve a shred of sympathy. You hear me? Not a shred.”

  19

  Hannah

  I get the impression that you’re enjoying your time in Neapolis, Rachel. Me, I’m not so sure. It’s hard for me to process the strangeness of returning here after all this time. I truly thought I’d never come back. When I heard you were heading to Neapolis, I thought to myself that if you could do it then so could I. And so, much to my surprise, I did.

  Rachel, let me say that I’m truly sorry we haven’t met in person. I’d hoped we’d already know each other by now. I have admittedly chickened out several times. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all me. I don’t want you to meet me the way that I am right now. A basket case, to be perfectly frank. Vulnerable. Sad. Terribly angry when I see people I recognize and remember how badly they treated us.

  Neapolis is a pretty place, if I put aside all my emotional baggage and look at it objectively. The historic district is as good as any you’ll find anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The cuisine is simple but really, really good. The best crab cakes I ever tasted, I guess they call them burgers now, were in Neapolis. The one you ate at that marina cafe was pretty tasty, but it wasn’t even close to the crab burgers my mom made when I was a kid. My ex-boyfriend, who fancied himself a chef, called that type of food seafood chic. He said those dishes always sound better than they taste. But then he never tasted the crab cakes in Neapolis.

  The town has changed. At least compared to my recollection. It’s less sleepy. Not as provincial. Bigger. Busier. Still, some things have stayed the same. I visited my old elementary school yesterday. It looked exactly as I remembered it. Same hallway color scheme. Same yard. Even the aging playground equipment looked the same. I walked past cute fifth-grade kids lining up to go into class. Hard to believe that I stood there once with the same unsuspecting bright-eyed innocence. I didn’t have the faintest idea of what life had in store for me.

  I suppose you’re wondering what happened to Jenny that day she went off with those boys. To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. She never said a word about it. All I can say is that by the time she arrived home in the middle of the night, she was a different person.

  Mom was asleep when I got back to the house that afternoon after Jenny was taken in the truck by those boys. I eventually fell asleep myself, curled up at the bottom of Mom’s bed like a puppy. I woke when I heard a hesitant knock on the front door. It was the middle of the night. I rushed across the house to get the door. The drapes had been left open and the house was filled with fleeting shadows from pine trees outside.

  “Who’s there?” My voice trembled.

  “It’s Jenny. Let me in.” A shiver ran through me. I knew that she was broken. I could hear it in her voice. I released the latch and swung the door wide open.

  Jenny pushed past me while I stuck my head out into the night. No truck headlights were visible in the dark and there was no sound of an engine. No sound of anything at all except for trees rustling in the wind. I closed the door and shut the bolt.

  “Why were you gone for so long?” I asked.

  There was no response. I turned around and saw that she’d disappeared down the hall. A sliver of light was visible underneath the bathroom door. The taps whined and water pounded relentlessly against the cheap enamel of the bathtub. I knocked on the door, but Jenny either didn’t hear me, or didn’t want to answer. I went back to Mom’s room and lay pressed between her body and the wall, listening to the water run until I fell asleep.

  When I woke, Mom’s fingers were tangled in my hair. I had to slowly unwrap them so as not to disturb her when I crept out of bed to my room to check on Jenny. She was fast asleep in my bottom bunk, my teddy bear pressed to her stomach. The quilt had fallen off, leaving her expos
ed. I could see bruises forming on her wrists and legs.

  I didn’t know what to think and so I didn’t. I went about the usual morning routine instead. I ate breakfast and packed our beach bag with towels and sandwiches. When Mom woke, I brought her toast with jelly and a weak coffee. She sat up with the tray on her lap, picking at her food. Noticing the time, she asked why Jenny and I weren’t already at the beach. I muttered something about how we were leaving soon. Satisfied, she turned over and went back to sleep.

  The heat hung heavily that morning and I was becoming impatient as the day dragged on and Jenny showed no signs of waking. Eventually, I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Jenny? It’s time to get up.” I shook her gently. “It’ll be too hot to walk to the beach if we don’t go soon.”

  “Leave me alone. I’m tired,” she slurred.

  Jenny lay like that for days. Listless. She didn’t wash. She barely ate. She’d go entire days without uttering a single sentence.

  I had no idea what was wrong. I was a kid. I couldn’t even speculate. Either way, I was so consumed with taking care of Mom, who could barely get out of bed most days, that I didn’t know how to break through the wall of silence that my sister had erected.

  It must have been three or four days later when we ran out of food. Not a slice of bread or a drop of milk was left in the kitchen fridge. We had nothing except for the lemons on our tree and a few carrots and tomatoes that Mom had planted in the spring.

  I told Mom we were out of food and she gave me money from her savings to go shopping. She assumed I was going with Jenny. I didn’t tell her the truth.

  Rick’s convenience store was the closest shop to our house and the only one I could reach on foot. I walked down there and filled a shopping basket with a few staples. I paid Rick at the counter. He packed all the groceries into four plastic bags. I carried them, two in each hand, as I walked home on the shoulder of the road. My arms quickly became sore from the weight of the groceries. I had to put the bags down by my feet to take a short break every few minutes.

  It was during one of those rest breaks that I heard gravel crunch behind me. I turned to see an open-back truck pull to a stop next to me. It was the same truck and driver who’d given us a ride home that day after the beach. This time, there were no passengers. The driver was alone. His elbow rested casually on the open window as he leaned out to talk to me.

  “How’s your sister?” he asked.

  “She’s fine,” I lied.

  “She around?”

  “At home. Why?”

  “No reason,” he said, shoving an open pack of gum in my direction. Despite my immediate inclination to say no, I took a stick of gum and popped it in my mouth.

  “Do you want a ride home?” he asked. “Those bags look heavy. That one has a split in it.”

  I looked down and saw that the plastic bag with the milk carton was splitting. I was tempted. A ride in the truck would get me home in minutes instead of half an hour struggling uphill with torn grocery bags. As I hesitated, the driver leaned across the cabin and swung the passenger door open.

  “Get in,” he ordered as if I didn’t have any choice. I climbed in and sat as far away from him as I could manage. My grocery bags rested by my feet.

  Instead of dropping me on the main road like last time, he took a sharp turn down the rough access road to our house. He stopped outside our front porch, his truck engine running. He looked toward the house. His eyes were searching for something. I guessed he’d hoped to see Jenny. I snatched my shopping bags and clambered out, relieved to be home.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I called out in a shrill, nervous voice as I stepped onto the porch.

  He put the stick shift in gear and the pickup rattled forward. “Tell your sister that I said ‘hey,’” he called out. “Tell her I hope to see her real soon.”

  20

  Rachel

  Scott Blair’s family home was an ultra-modern architectural masterpiece in the most prestigious neighborhood of Neapolis. It had beach access, a putting green, and a resort-style pool. Rachel had seen the house in a design magazine. Even that didn’t prepare her for the real thing when Cynthia Blair opened a double-size front door to reveal a black-and-white-tiled hall with an overhanging chandelier.

  “Greg is one of your biggest fans,” gushed Cynthia as she escorted Rachel into the living room, where a white leather sofa faced floor-to-ceiling windows with breathtaking ocean views. Cynthia was tall and slim, with long blond hair. She wore figure-hugging white pants and a sleeveless matching top with a deep neckline. Nestled between her breasts was a thick gold necklace with a diamond pendant.

  “My wife’s right. I am a huge fan, Rachel,” said Greg Blair as he finished a phone call on the balcony and came inside to meet her. He was dressed in immaculately pressed chinos and an off-white open-collar cotton shirt. He had the same handsome square-jawed good looks as his son and the same blue eyes and light brown hair.

  “When your producer contacted me, I told him we’re happy to cooperate in any way we can. We have nothing to hide. We’re an open book. Anything you need, you let me know.”

  Rachel knew exactly what she needed: an interview with Scott Blair. Even though the family had already said twice it wouldn’t happen, she decided to put Greg Blair’s generous offer to the test. “Is Scott home? I’d love for him to join us for our chat today,” she said.

  “I wish Scott could talk. To you. To the networks. To everyone,” Greg replied. “I really do. Scotty’s good name and reputation have been dragged through the mud. He hasn’t been able to defend himself. In fact, his new attorney has given strict instructions that he can’t talk until after the trial,” Greg said. “I told your producer—Pete, was it?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “I told Pete that we’d cooperate as much as possible but that an interview with Scott is out of the question. After the trial, it’s a different story,” he said. “What we are really hoping for—and Rachel, your reputation precedes you in this regard—is fairness. We are hoping that your podcast will be fair and balanced even if you can’t talk to Scott until the trial is over.”

  Rachel nodded noncommittally as she changed the subject by feigning interest in the long lap pool she could see through a side window. “Is that where Scott swims these days?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Greg, walking her to the window so she could get a better view of the four-lane Olympic-length lap pool with an ocean view. “Scott couldn’t swim at the local pool. The media were staking it out. He had to go through a gauntlet of cameras each morning. Fortunately, we’d put in the lap pool for me. I still swim two, three miles a day. Force of habit. I hate using our family pool. It’s good for parties but bad for serious swimming. So we built the lap pool for me and so that Scott could continue his training.”

  “Scott still trains?”

  “When he can,” said Greg, his voice tight and bitter. He escorted Rachel back to the living room where he lowered himself onto the white leather sofa and motioned for her to do the same. “Scott hasn’t been allowed to swim competitively for months. For a swimmer of Scott’s caliber, that alone could set back his career permanently. He never did what he’s been accused of doing. His trial hasn’t begun, as you know, but his punishment started right after the accusations were first made. The law says he’s supposed to be presumed innocent. In reality, it’s quite the opposite.”

  “Kelly Moore says that Scott raped her,” Rachel said. “If that’s true, then swimming training is the least of his problems.”

  “It’s not true. They went skinny dipping and then had consensual sex,” Greg responded. “I don’t know what motivated the girl to make false accusations. Maybe she was looking for fame. Or perhaps revenge, because Scott stupidly rated her, uh, sexual performance poorly in a message to his friend and she saw it. I don’t know her motivation. But I know my son and he didn’t do it. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain other than some pus—” He stopped abruptly.
>
  The last syllable reverberated through the room. He and Rachel both knew what he had been about to say. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

  “You were going to say ‘pussy’?” Rachel filled in the blank.

  “That was uncalled for,” he said without missing a beat. “You have to understand that I haven’t slept in days and we’re all very stressed. But that’s no excuse. I apologize,” he said, rising from the sofa and clapping his hands together as if to suggest that episode was over. “Let me show you something.”

  Greg led Rachel into an adjacent room with custom-made mahogany shelves of different lengths arranged in a minimalist asymmetrical design on stark white walls. On each shelf were trophies and medals from swimming competitions.

  One shelf displayed awards from when Greg was a champion swimmer. The second had Scott’s awards all lined up: elementary school prizes all the way to state swimming medals and national awards.

  Greg held up one of his gold medals. “This medal was from the national championships. I won gold. Broke two national records.” He picked up a silver medal. “I won this in the World Championships. Lost by a tenth of a second. I made the Olympic team and was in the final weeks of preparation when I got pulled with a shoulder injury.”

  “It must have been heartbreaking,” Rachel sympathized.

  “It was. I had to have major surgery. I was only twenty. Never got my form back. I tried, but I couldn’t return to elite swimming. It meant a lot to me that my son decided to follow in my footsteps. I never pushed him into it. Scott chose swimming all by himself. If anything, I discouraged it. I knew the discipline and focus it required. The agony of disappointment. But it was his passion. It was his dream to make the Olympics. He gave it his all. So many years of hard work.” He sighed.

  Greg went into a detailed rundown of Scott’s career, starting from his first win when he was eleven at a state competition. “He barely trained. It was raw talent that won it for him,” said Greg. After that, Scott exploded onto the swimming scene with win after win, at sixteen breaking his own father’s state freestyle record. Later that year, he won the junior national championships in freestyle and backstroke.