Black Water Page 3

  SHE WAS THE GIRL, SHE WAS THE ONE HE'D CHOSEN, she was the one to whom it would happen, the passenger in the rented Toyota.

  She was clawing at something that held her tight as an embrace as the black water churned and bubbled rising about her splashing into her eyes as she managed now to scream, drew breath to scream coughing and spitting screaming at last as the Toyota sank on its side on the passenger's side in murky churning water.

  Her baptismal name was "Elizabeth Anne Kelleher." And, on the masthead ofCitizens' Inquiry: A Bi-Weekly Publication of the Citizens' Inquiry Foundation, the name was "Elizabeth Anne Kelleher."

  Known to her friends as "Kelly."

  An immediate warm rapport between them, you know how it happens sometimes. Unexpectedly.

  As he'd smiled happily gripping her hand squeezing it just perceptibly too hard unconsciously as men sometimes do, as some men sometimes do, needing to see to feel that pinprick of startled pain in your eyes, the contraction of the pupil.

  As G-----, making love, had sometimes hurt her. Unconsciously.

  She'd cried out, short high-pitched gasping cries, she'd sobbed, she'd heard her voice distant, wild, pleading reverberating out of the corners of the darkened room, Oh I love you, I love you, I love love love you, their bodies slapping and sucking hot-clammy with sweat, hair plastered to their heads with sweat, you know you're somebody's little girl don't you? don't you?

  His weight on her, and his arms around her, her legs tight-quivering around his hips, then her trembling knees drawn up awkwardly to her shoulders so he could go deepest in her, Yes! yes! like that! oh Christ! and she knew that G-----'s lips were drawn back from his teeth in that grimace, that death's-head triumph, that excluded her.

  * * *

  Very near the end he'd said quietly, "I don't want to hurt you, Kelly, I hope you know that," and Kelly smiled saying, "Yes, I know that," as if this were a casual conversation, one of their easy friendly conversations, for weren't they more than lovers, weren't they best friends too, she'd kissed him, he'd slung an arm around her burying his warm face in her neck, she was very still thinking, And can't I hurt you? Have I not that power, to hurt you? Knowing that she did not have it, any longer.

  The winter afternoon waned. Shadows rose out of the corners of the room, it became a room Kelly did not know. G----- nudged his head against hers, and said, "I knew you knew. But I wanted to make sure."

  And now what held her tight?—a band?—several bands?—across her chest and thighs, her left arm tangled in one of them?—and her forehead had cracked hard against something she hadn't seen, it was pitch-black she was blinking squinting trying to see, she was blind and that roaring in her ears as of a jet plane and a man's voice incredulous "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

  She was the girl, she was the one, she was the passenger, she was the one trapped in the safety belts, no it was the door and part of the roof that had buckled in upon her, she was upside down was she? thrown on her right side was she? and where was up? and where was the top? and where was the air? the weight of his body thrown upon her too struggling and gasping for air pleading "Oh God" a sob in his voice, a man's voice, a stranger's voice, you would not choose to die like this, to drown, in murky black water with a stranger, but her right leg was pinned, as in a clamp, her right kneecap had been crushed but she had no sensation of pain, she might have been in shock, she might have been dead, so soon! so soon! the black water filling her lungs to drown her lungs thus the oxygen to her brain would cease thus her thoughts would cease and yet her thoughts were detached and even logical: This isn't happening.

  This person, this man, his weight thrown on top of her—she'd forgotten who it was. He too clawing and clutching and scrambling and kicking frantic to get out of the capsized car.

  That distinct voice, a stranger's—"Oh God."

  Not in a curse but in a hortatory appeal.

  Had the speeding Toyota not lost control on the hairpin curve estimating a probable speed of forty-five miles an hour from the skid marks in the road and the considerable degree of damage to the vehicle it would very likely have collided with the railing of the narrow bridge ahead with a subsequent crash, a fall into the water, a similar result. Or so it would be speculated.

  The name of the fast-running stream was Indian Creek. You would not have thought it had a name. In the marshy wasteland, in the seemingly uncharted swamp dense with mosquitoes and shrill with nocturnal insects in a midsummer frenzy of procreation.

  You would not have expected a creek, as deep as eleven feet in some stretches, twenty feet wide, running in a northeasterly direction to empty into a tidal pool of the Atlantic Ocean, thus into the ocean, approximately two miles to the east in Brockden's Landing.

  Am I going to die? Like this?

  And no witnesses.And no other motorists traveling on Old Ferry.

  As if to punish her for her behavior her performance as a self not herself: not Kelly Kelleher really but she rejected such a thought, she was not superstitious, she did not believe in even the Anglican God.

  He had chosen her. You could see that from the first. The quick rapport! the ease of their smiles! a girl his daughter's age!

  Yes they had surprised the others—a few of the others. Those who knew. Disappointing Buffy St. John by saying they were leaving to catch the 8:20 P.M. ferry to Boothbay Harbor.

  Actually, as Buffy would recall, The Senator had wanted to catch an earlier ferry... but, somehow, they hadn't left on time... The Senator had another drink. Or two.

  The Senator and Kelly Kelleher his passenger had left the party at 17 Derry Road at approximately 7:55 P.M. Which gave them twenty-five minutes to get to the ferry, enough time if you drive fast and if you take the right route.

  Turning onto Old Ferry was the mistake but it was an understandable mistake, you would not need to be under the influence of alcohol to make such a mistake at dusk.

  Old Ferry, no longer maintained by Grayling Township, should have been officially shut down: ROAD OUT.

  Three hundred acres of the swampland were preserved as the Grayling Island Wildlife Sanctuary under a federal funding. Such birds as phalaropes, whippoorwills, swifts, both surface-feeding and diving ducks, egrets, great blue herons, terns, killdeers, many varieties of woodpeckers, thrushes, tanagers, as well as the more common of northeastern birds. Such marsh vegetation as cattails, sea oats, sedge, wool grass, pickerelweed, dozens of varieties of rushes and reeds, jack-in-the-pulpit, trillium, marsh marigold, arrowhead, water arum. Such animals as... Kelly Kelleher had in fact skimmed a tourist flyer at Buffy's cottage, she'd read about the wildlife sanctuary a few miles away, yes Buffy had gone of course many times when she was a kid and the family spent summers out here but she had not gone in recent years and maybe next day if Ray was in the mood they could drive over it was a beautiful place unless they all had hangovers unless Ray had other plans unless it was just too hot but Kelly was thinking yes she'd go by herself preferably, she'd make a point of going, borrow someone's car or maybe if it wasn't too far Buffy's bicycle: a brand-new mountain bike.

  Have you ever ridden one of these before?—no? Try it.

  Gripping the handguards, her feet on the pedals, rising, standing at first, spine arched, buttocks arched, long coppery hair whipping in the wind, smiling at the childish pleasure of hurtling herself along the beach, the bicycle's thick ridged tires biting into the crusty sand, what quick speed, what happiness, little Lizzie flying as Mommy, Daddy, Grandma and Grandpa watch, Oh be careful honey! careful! but she'd laughed flying out of the range of their eyes, their voices.

  Now, at Buffy's, in her new swimsuit fitting her slender body like a glove, white spandex, teasing little pearl buttons, a single strap, the invisible underwire bra lifting her breasts pushing them together so there was a shadowy cleavage and she'd seen his eyes drop there unconsciously, she'd seen his casual gaze take in her ankles her legs her thighs her breasts her shoulders bare except she'd slipped on a daffodil-yellow crocheted tunic out of modesty
perhaps out of her old shyness regarding her body so unlike Buffy in her silky black bikini her campy-lewd glitter-green fingernails and toenails, Buffy with her flawless skin, her funny "faux" ponytail, brash enough and confident enough to slap her thighs in Ray's presence crying Cellulite! that's what this is: cellulite! I'm too fucking young for cellulite God damn it!

  And they'd all laughed. He'd laughed.

  Buffy St. John who was so beautiful. So confident in her oiled heated skin.

  Since freshman year at Brown Kelly had had the habit of starving herself to discipline herself to maintain rigorous control to lighten her menstrual periods and, after G-----, to punish herself for having loved a man more than the man seemed to have loved her, but this past year she was determined to be healthy, to be normal, forcing herself to eat regularly and she'd regained eleven of the twenty pounds she'd lost, she slept without sleeping pills not requiring even the single glass of red wine she and G---- had made a ritual of before going to bed during those three months G----- had actually lived with her: not even that.

  So she'd regained health, normality. She was an American girl you want to look your best and give your ALL.

  Yet avoiding the house in Gowanda Heights. Guilty of making her mother worry about her, guilty of provoking quarrels with her father, those "political" quarrels that were really about Daddy's authority unheeded, but relations between them were all right now and Kelly was fine now discreetly avoiding certain of her old friends the embittered idealists the angry pro-abortionists and even Mr. Spader after this most recent divorce (his third) unshaven, potbellied, losing his fiery hair, sixty-year-old babyface the dimpled smile grown dented, sodden, and she'd been acutely embarrassed that day in the office feeling his eyes on her, hearing his hoarse breath, there were hairs in his ears and nostrils like Brillo wire poor Carl Spader once a media personality an eloquent young white associate of Martin Luther King and John F. Kennedy and now the dismal storefront office on Brimmer Street and Citizens' Inquiry with its fluctuating circulation of 35,000-40,000 where at its peak in 1969 it had had a circulation of 95,000-100,000 rivaling The New Republic but never get Carl Spader going on the subject of The New Republic, where in fact he'd worked for several years after college! never get Carl Spader going on the subject of the triumph of conservatism in our time, the heartbreak, the tragedy, the dismantling of the Kennedy-Johnson vision, the loss of America's soul never get him started!— Kelly was discreet answering The Senator's questions about his old friend Spader, Kelly Kelleher was not one to gossip carelessly, nor was she one to exploit another's misfortune for meretricious conversational purposes, it was a principle of hers that you must never say anything about another person you would not say in that person's presence.

  The Senator several times turned the conversation back to Carl Spader, whom he had not, he said, seen in years. In The Senator's voice there was a tone both regretful and mildly censorious.

  Yes of course he read Citizens' Inquiry— certainly.

  His office in Washington had a subscription. Of course.

  He'd asked Kelly what she did for the magazine and Kelly told him mentioning her recent article "The Shame of Capital Punishment in America" and The Senator said why yes, yes he'd read that article, he believed he had read it, he'd been impressed.

  As, on Buffy's great new bike, she'd felt his eyes follow her too.

  Politics, the negotiating of power.Eros, the negotiating of power.

  Gripping her shoulders bare beneath the crocheted tunic with his strong fingers and kissing her full on the mouth as the wind blew caressingly about them like a palpable tactile substance wrapping them together, binding. He had kissed her suddenly yet not unexpectedly. Hiking in the dunes behind the St. Johns' house, the gulls flashing white overhead, their knifelike wings, deadly beaks, excited cries. The pounding splashing surf. Beat beat beat of the surf. She'd heard it the night before sleepless hearing muffled sounds of laughter, lovemaking from Buffy and Ray's room, underneath such human cries the beat of the surf, the rising of the tide, the moon's tide, a tide in her blood, the almost unbearable rush of the man's desire so it was understood between them that he would kiss her again and Kelly's seemingly impulsive decision to go with him to catch the ferry instead of spending the night of the Fourth at Buffy's as planned was a public acknowledgment of this fact.

  She was the one, the one he'd chosen. The one in the speeding car. The passenger.

  Scorpio don't be shy, poor silly Scorpio your stars are WILDLY romantic now. Demand YOUR wishes. YOUR desires for once.

  So she did, she had and would. She was the one.

  TASTING STILL THE BEERY WARMTH AND PRESSURE OF The Senator's mouth on hers.The forceful probing tongue.

  Even as the nameless road flew out from under the Toyota she was tasting it. Smiling wryly thinking how often in her life had kisses tasted of beer, of wine, of alcohol, of tobacco, of hash. The many probing tongues. Am I ready?

  She'd been staring at the moon out of the jolting car. How queerly flat-looking, how bright. Lit from within you'd think and not mere reflected light you'd think but you'd be wrong for thinking, reasoning, calculating out of your own brain is not enough: poor Scorpio.

  Of course Kelly Kelleher did not believe in anything so idiotic as a horoscope, astrology. In her innermost heart though she was a volunteer for the National Literacy Foundation of America she felt a certain contempt for ignorant people, not just blacks of course (though all of her students were black) but whites, whatever: men and women whom the ruthless progress of civilization had left behind really, their limited intelligences could not grasp certain facts of life really, no doubt as Artie Kelleher and Ham Hunt and all of conservative America believed it was hopeless thus save your own white skin but Kelly Kelleher angrily rejected such selfishness, had she not committed in writing a shameful statement to her own parents composed on her word processor at college and carefully revised and signed with her baptismal name "Elizabeth Anne Keller" and mailed to the Kelleher home in Gowanda Heights, New York, in partial explanation of why she was not coming home for Thanksgiving this year but going to Old Lyme with her roommate, I will always love you Mother and Father but I have come to realize I would not live the lives you live for anything please forgive me!

  Kelly had been nineteen years old at the time.

  The wonder of it was, her parents had forgiven her.

  The Senator was of a social background similar to that of the Kellehers, he too had gone to Andover just after Arthur Kelleher had graduated, then he'd gone to Harvard for both his B.A. and his law degree and Arthur Kelleher had gone to Amherst and then to Columbia and very likely The Senator and the Kellehers knew many people in common but in their meandering disjointed excitable conversation that day neither The Senator nor Kelly Kelleher had chosen to pursue the subject.

  She knew that The Senator had children her age—a son?—a son and a daughter?—but neither mentioned this of course.

  She knew that The Senator was separated from his wife of approximately thirty years and this fact The Senator did mention, or allude to, very briefly.

  Saying, with a smile, I'm alone this weekend: my wife's having her family out to our place on the Cape... his voice trailing off inconclusively.

  Tasting his mouth on hers. And earlier that day when Kelly had been sitting with her head resting on her arms at a picnic table apart from the others sleepy and sun-dazed and slightly ill (why did she drink? when it affected her so unpredictably? was it simply to be one of a party, as in college? was it simply to appear to be one of a party, as in college?) when someone came up steathily beside her, she saw through her eyelashes that the person was barefoot, a man, large white veined feet, gnarled-looking toenails, and there came the lightest most shimmering touch on her bare shoulder, a touch that ran through her like an electric shock as she realized it was his tongue on her skin... his warm soft damp tongue on her bare skin.

  Staring up then into his face.His eyes. The whites faintly yellowed as with fat
igue, threaded with blood, but the irises startlingly blue. Like colored glass with nothing behind it.

  And not a word passed between them for what seemed like a very long time though Kelly's lips twitched wanting to smile or make a nervous girlish joke to break the spell.

  You know you're someone's little girl, oh yes!

  Recalling this as they sped into the desolate area southeast of Brockden's Landing as dusk deepened and it began to look (to Kelly at least) that they would not make the 8:20 P.M. ferry.

  The place was dense with mosquitoes and here and there fireflies and some of the blond broom-headed rushes grew to a grotesque height swaying top-heavy in the wind, like human figures grotesque without faces so she shivered seeing them. Remarking to The Senator it was strange wasn't it that so many of the trees in the marsh seemed to be dead... were they dead?... isolated tree trunks in the twilit gloom denuded of leaves, limbs, bark gray and shiny-smooth as old scar tissue.

  "I hope it isn't pollution of some kind, killing the trees."

  The Senator, hunched over the wheel, frowning, exerting pressure on the gas pedal, made no reply.

  Had not spoken directly to her, Kelly was thinking, since they'd turned off onto this damned road.

  Since G-----, last June when it had finally ended, Kelly Kelleher had not made love with any man.

  Since G-----, when she had wanted to die, she had not touched any man in desire; nor even in the pretense of desire.

  Am I ready? ready? ready?—a small mocking voice.

  On all sides were shrill shrieking nocturnal insects in a frenzy of copulation, procreation. A din of cries, near-deafening—she shivered, hearing them. So many. You would not think that God would make so many. Their frenzied cries as if in the very heat of midsummer sensing the imminent and inevitable waning of the heat, the quickening of night, and cold, their tiny deaths flying at them out of the future and Kelly Kelleher swallowed hard regretting now she had not brought a drink along for herself thinking, Am I ready?