Black Water Read online

  "—LOST, SENATOR? THIS ROAD IS SO—"

  "I said don't worry, Kelly!"—a sidelong glance, a tight smile puckering the corners of blood-veined eyes—"we'll get there, and we'll get there on time."

  As liquid sloshed over the rim of the plastic cup and onto Kelly Kelleher's leg before she could prevent it.

  The Senator had been among the three leading candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination in 1988; out of political prudence he had withdrawn his name, released his delegates in favor of his old friend the Massachusetts governor.

  In turn, Dukakis had asked The Senator to be his running mate on the Democratic ticket. The Senator had politely declined.

  Of course, there was always the next presidential election, even the election beyond that. The Senator, no longer young, was certainly not old: eleven years younger than George Bush.

  A man in the prime of his career—you might say.

  Kelly Kelleher envisioned herself working for The Senator's presidential campaign. First, though, she would work for his nomination at the Democratic national convention. In the intimacy of the bouncing Toyota, her senses glazed by the day's excitement, it was possible for Kelly Kelleher, who rarely indulged in fantasies, to give herself up to this one.

  The evening before, as if anticipating this adventure, Kelly had taken time, when so rarely she took time, to file and polish her fingernails. A pale pink-coral-bronze. Subdued, tasteful. To match her lipstick.

  "There's only one direction," The Senator was saying, smiling, with the air of one delivering a self-evident truth, "—on an island."

  Kelly laughed. Not knowing exactly why.

  * * *

  They were new acquaintances despite their intimacy in the speeding car. Virtual strangers despite the stealth with which they'd slipped away together.

  So Kelly Kelleher had no name to call the driver of the Toyota, no name that sprang naturally and spontaneously to her lips as the black water flooded over the crumpled hood of the car, washed over the cracked windshield, over the roof, a sudden profound darkening as if the swamp had lurched up to claim them.

  And the radio was out at once. The music to which neither had been listening was gone as if it had never been.

  New acquaintances since approximately two o'clock that afternoon. By chance meeting at the oceanfront cottage on Derry Road, property of Mr. and Mrs. Edgar St. John of Old Lyme, Connecticut, who were not at the cottage at the time of the party; the hostess was Kelly's friend Buffy St. John with whom she'd roomed at Brown—Buffy, Kelly's closest friend.

  Like Kelly Kelleher, Buffy St. John was twenty-six years old, and she too worked for a magazine published in Boston; but the magazine for which Buffy worked, Boston After Hours, was significantly different from the magazine for which Kelly worked, Citizens' Inquiry, and it might be said that Buffy was the more worldly of the two young women, the more experienced, the more "adventurous." Buffy painted her nails, finger-and toenails both, arresting shades of green, blue, and purple; and the condoms she carried in her several purses were frequently replenished.

  Vehemently, as if her own integrity had been challenged, Buffy St. John would deny speculation that The Senator, a married man, and Kelly Kelleher had been lovers at the time of the accident; or even, before that day, acquaintances. Buffy would swear to it, Ray Annick would swear to it, The Senator and Kelly Kelleher had only just met that day, at the Fourth of July gathering.

  Not lovers. Not friends, really. Simply new acquaintances who seemed, judging by the evidence, to have taken to each other.

  As others who knew Kelly Kelleher would vehemently insist: she and The Senator had not known each other before that day for of course Kelly would have told us.

  Kelly Kelleher wasn't the kind of young woman to be deceptive. To cultivate secrets.

  We know her, we knew her. She simply was not the type.

  So they were new acquaintances, which is very close to being strangers.

  You would not choose to drown, to die, in such a way, trapped together in a sinking car, with a stranger.

  Neither were they professionally associated, though it might be said that they shared certain political beliefs, liberal passions. Kelly Kelleher was not employed in any way nor had she ever been so employed by The Senator, his staff, his campaign organizers. It was true, certainly, she'd worked since graduation from college for an old acquaintance of The Senator's, a former political associate from the 1960s, Bobby Kennedy's whirlwind campaign, heady nostalgic days of power, purpose, authority, hope, youth in the Democratic Party—when, disastrous as things were, in Vietnam, at home, you did not expect them to worsen.

  Kelly Kelleher had been not quite four years old at the time of Bobby Kennedy's assassination in June 1968. In all frankness, she remembered nothing of the tragedy. In any case her employer Carl Spader had a saying: You're in politics, you're an optimist.

  You're no longer an optimist, you're no longer in politics.

  You're no longer an optimist, you're dead.

  In fact they had listened briefly to the car radio, at the very start of the drive, on bumpy Derry Road turning onto Post Road (a two-lane blacktop highway, one of the Island's few paved roads) and there came suddenly on Kelly's right a badly weathered signpost listing a half-dozen place-names which Kelly had not been able to see distinctly, nor had The Senator, though between them there was the vague impression—

  —at the same time The Senator, in high spirits, was whistling happily through his teeth, big perfect capped white teeth, saying, sighing, with sentimental pleasure, "God! that really takes me back!"—as, on the radio, out of speakers in the backseat of the car though somewhat muffled by the roar of the air conditioner which The Senator had turned on full blast as soon as he'd turned the keys in the ignition, there came a plaintive adenoidal instrumental version of a song not immediately familiar to Kelly Kelleher.

  Not reproachfully so much as teasingly The Senator said, with a nudge of Kelly's arm, "Don't suppose you even know it, eh?"

  Kelly listened. She would have liked to turn the frantic air conditioner down a notch but hesitated, for this was The Senator's car after all, and she his passenger. One thing Artie Kelleher did not appreciate was a passenger fiddling with his dashboard as he drove.

  Cautiously Kelly Kelleher said, "Yes, I think I do. Except I can't remember the title."

  "An old Beatles song—'All the Lonely People.'"

  "Oh," said Kelly, nodding happily, "—yes."

  Except this version had no words, this was New Age music. Synthesizers, echo chambers. Music like toothpaste squeezed very slowly from a tube.

  "But I bet you're not a Beatles person, eh?" The Senator said, in that same teasing voice, "—too young," not a query so much as a statement, as, Kelly had noticed, The Senator was in the habit of making queries that were in fact statements, his mind shifting to the next subject, as, indeed, a new subject presented itself now, "Here's our turn!" braking the Toyota and turning the wheel sharply without having had time to signal so, close behind them, an angered motorist sounded his horn, but The Senator took no heed: not out of arrogance or hauteur but, simply, because he took no heed.

  The badly rutted sandy road back into the marshes was known locally as Old Ferry Road though there was no longer any sign to designate it—there had been no sign for years.

  Strictly speaking, The Senator was not lost at the time of the accident: he was headed in the right direction for Brockden's Landing, though, unknowingly, he had taken a road never used any longer since a new, paved Ferry Road existed, and the turn for this road was three-quarters of a mile beyond the turn for the old.

  At about the time he'd finished his drink, and Kelly Kelleher gave him the one she'd been carrying for him: for the road.

  They were new acquaintances, virtual strangers. Yet, what immediate rapport!

  You know how it is, basking in the glow of a sudden recognition, his eyes, your eyes, an ease like slipping into warm water, there's the flawless
ly beautiful woman who lies languorously sprawled as in a bed, long wavy red hair rippling out sensuously about her, perfect skin, heartbreak skin, lovely red mouth and a gown of some sumptuous gold lame material clinging to breasts, belly, pubic area subtly defined by shimmering folds in the cloth, and The Lover stands erect and poised above her gazing down upon her his handsome darkish face not fully in focus, as the woman gazes up at him not required to smile in invitation, for she herself is the invitation, naked beneath the gold lame gown, naked lifting her slender hips so subtly toward him, just the hint of it really, just the dream-suggestion of it really, otherwise the advertisement would be vulgar really, the perfume in its glittering bottle is OPIUM the perfume is OPIUM is OPIUM theparfum is OPIUM it will drive you mad it will drive him mad it will make addicts of you it is for sale in these stores...

  * * *

  And, on their hike through the dunes, the wind whipping Kelly's hair, the gulls' wings flashing white above them, the beat beat beat of the surf like a pulsing in the loins, how assured his fingers gripping her bare shoulders, how shy yet eager her response: thinking This can't be happening! even as she was thinking Something is going to happen that cannot be stopped.

  ...THE THIN RED NEEDLE JOLTING UP BEYOND 40 mph as the Toyota hit a sandy rut and began to skid like an explosively expelled sigh and The Senator braked hard and quick exclaiming under his breath and the skid continued as if with more momentum, more purpose, as if the very application of the brakes aroused willful resistance in the vehicle that had seemed until now so obedient, such a sort of plaything, a wild wild roller coaster ride provoking that thrill deep in the groin, and then, how had it happened, the car was off the road, the car was skidding sideways off the road, the right rear wheel sliding

  forward and the left front wheel back, the guardrail no sooner flew up out of the shadows than it collapsed into pieces and there were seven-foot broom-headed rushes slapping and scolding at the windows, there was a crack! a crack! a spiderweb-crack! of glass and a rude jolting and rocking as in an earthquake and then the car was in water, you would suppose a shallow creek, a ditch, you would not suppose the car would sink beneath the surface sinking and not floating as black water foamy and churning rushed over the crumpled hood, the windshield, the car roof now bent in sharply on the passenger's side, and the door, the passenger's door, buckled in, the way on the beach one of the young guys had squeezed an aluminum can of Miller Lite but still she could not draw sufficient breath to scream nor did she even have a name to call him, a name that flew unbidden and spontaneous to her lips.

  WHEN FIRST SHE'D MET THE SENATOR IN THE EARLY afternoon of the Fourth of July, introduced to him by Bully's lover Ray Annick, who was a lawyer-friend of The Senator's and had gone to school with him at Andover, Kelly Kelleher had been guarded, rather reticent. Inwardly skeptical. Observing this famous man shaking hands as he was, vigorously, delightedly, with that breathless air of having rushed hundreds of miles expressly for this purpose: shaking hands with you, and you, and you: standing a little apart, thinking, He's one of them, forever campaigning.

  In the subsequent hours, Kelly was to radically revise her opinion of The Senator.

  It could not be said that in those six hours Kelly Kelleher had fallen in love with The Senator, nor could it be said that The Senator had fallen in love with her, for such matters are private and unknowable; and what the future may have brought (in contrast to what the events of that night did in fact bring) will forever remain unknowable.

  Except: Kelly certainly revised her opinion.

  Thinking how instructive, how purifying for the soul (smiling into a mirror in the bathroom of the guest room that was hers at Buffy's, would have been hers again for the night of the Fourth had she not decided so precipitously to accompany The Senator back to the mainland) to learn that you are fallible, to be proven wrong.

  Even if it's a merely interior, private proof.

  Even if the one you've so carelessly misjudged never knows.

  "Kelly, is it?—Callie? Kelly"

  It was absurd, wasn't it, that her heart should trip like a young girl's, hearing her name on The Senator's lips, for Kelly Kelleher was a mature young woman who'd had many lovers.

  Several lovers, in any case.

  In any case, since graduating from Brown, one serious lover—of whom she never spoke.

  (Why won't you talk about G-----, Kelly's friends Buffy, Jane, Stacey asked, not meaning to be intrusive but generally concerned for Kelly, misinterpreting her silence for a broken heart, her cynicism about men for depression, or despondency; her angry refusal to answer their taped telephone calls and to keep to herself at certain times for suicidal tendencies of which they dared speak only to one another, never to Kelly herself.)

  Yet The Senator was such a physical presence! Climbing out of the rented black Toyota loose-jointed and peppy as a kid, smiling, greeting them all as the murmur passed among them like wildfire It's him—Jesus, is it really him? A youthful ardor shone about him like an aura.

  Ray Annick had invited The Senator out to Grayling Island and Buffy had told her guests carefully, I don't expect him really. I'm sure he won't come.

  The man was more vibrant, more compelling, there was that tacky word charismatic, than his television appearances suggested. For one thing, he was a big man: six feet four inches tall, weighing perhaps two hundred fifteen pounds. He carried himself well for a man in his mid-fifties who had the fatty-muscled body of a former athlete, with an athlete's wariness on his feet; even when his weight was on his heels (in comfortable scuffed beige canvas crepe-soled shoes from L. L. Bean) there was that air of poise, of springy anticipation. And his broad handsome-battered face, the eyes so transparently blue, the nose just slightly venous but a straight nose, lapidary, like the jaws, the chin, the familiar profile.

  Tugging at his necktie, loosening the collar of his long-sleeved white cotton shirt—"I see the party has started without me, eh?"

  He turned out to be really warm, really nice, not at all condescending, Kelly Kelleher began to compose her account of that memorable Fourth of July on Grayling Island—spoke to us all as if we were, not just equals, but old friends.

  He'd kissed her, too. But that was later.

  KELLY KELLEHER KNEW ABOUT POLITICIANS, SHE WAS no fool. And not just from studying American history and politics at Brown.

  Her father, Arthur Kelleher, was a close friend from school days and a golfing partner of many years of Hamlin Hunt the Republican congressman, and even when business was not going well for Mr. Kelleher (as, since the stock market debacle of a few years ago, it did not seem to be going spectacularly well) he contributed to "Ham" Hunt's campaigns, helped host immense fund-raising benefit dinners at the Gowanda Heights Country Club, took a childlike pride in being included in Republican Party events local and statewide. The congressman, whom Kelly had known since elementary school, had lately become a controversial "colorful" figure with a national profile, he appeared frequently on television talk shows, was often interviewed on the news, as a maverick sort of conservative who spoke out derisively against every aspect of liberalism except abortion... regarding abortion, Ham Hunt declared himself "pro-choice."

  (In private, Hunt believed sincerely that the key to America's future salvation was abortion, abortion in the right demographic quarters, blacks, Hispanics, welfare mothers who start procreating with the onset of adolescence, something had to be done, something surely had to be done, abortion was the answer, the way to control the population which the white majority had better underwrite before it was too late—"And I know what I'm talking about, I've seen Calcutta, Mexico City. I've seen the townships in South Africa.")

  Once, Kelly screamed at her astonished father, "How can you vote for such a man!—a fascist!—a Nazi!—he believes in genocide for Christ's sake!" and Mr. Kelleher merely stared at her as if she had slapped him in the face.

  "How can he, Mother?—how can you?" Kelly asked her mother at a quieter moment, and Mrs. Kel
leher regarded her fierce young daughter with a shiver of pride, and took her hand, and said, calmly, "Kelly, dear, please: how do you presume to know how I vote?"

  During the most recent presidential election Kelly had volunteered her services working for Governor Dukakis's doomed campaign. She had not known the campaign was doomed until the final weeks of the contest, each time she saw or heard George Bush it seemed self-evident to her that anyone who saw or heard him must naturally reject him, for how transparently hypocritical! how venal! how crass! how uninformed! how evil! his exploitation of whites' fears of blacks, his CIA affiliation! his fraudulent piety! his shallow soul!—so too, until the final weeks, perhaps the final days, her coworkers at campaign headquarters (in Cambridge) had not seemed to understand that the Democratic campaign was doomed, though the national polls clearly indicated this, and the candidate Dukakis himself had a defiant rueful glassy-eyed air.

  "Kelly, my God!—how could you!—wasting your time and energy on that asshole!"—so Artie Kelleher shouted over the phone.

  When the votes came in, when the landslide was a fact, and the unthinkable became, simply, history, as so much that seems unthinkable becomes, simply, history, thus thinkable, Kelly had virtually stopped eating; had not slept for several nights in succession; felt a despair so profound and seemingly impersonal that she walked in the streets and eventually in Boston Common disheveled, dazed, vaguely smiling faint with hunger and nausea staring at, not human figures, but misshapen things, animal, fleshy, upright, clothed... until she broke down crying, and fled, and telephoned her mother to plead please come get me, I don't know where I am.