She held up one hand. “Quiet! I heard screaming.”
Muriel suddenly burst into the house. “Mom, Katie is running up the road. And she’s screaming.”
We ran outside, where we saw a shadow flying toward the house. I raced ahead to Katie, who collapsed into my arms. Her hair was matted against her head from the sweat. Even her dress felt moist. Mom and Dad arrived just behind me.
“What is it, honey?” Mom brushed the hair back from Katie’s sweaty forehead. “Is Jack okay? Where’s Jack?”
“Where’s Jack?” Dad asked, his tone more impatient than Mom’s.
But Katie was breathing so hard that she couldn’t speak. I carried her to the house and set her down in a chair. Mom knelt in front of her. “Katie, what happened? Where’s Jack?” Now her own tone was more urgent, more desperate.
“Give her a chance to breathe,” I said. “Give her some room.”
“What happened?” Dad insisted, ignoring me, moving closer to Katie.
“It’s George,” Katie finally said, coughing. “Jack found him.” She burst into tears, and the coughing intensified. We all stood, stunned, silent, for several minutes. Dad muttered softly, his head rocking from side to side, eyes to the floor. Mom’s eyelids clenched together.
My throat closed. I couldn’t have made a sound if I needed to. I found myself trying to imagine what George would look like after six months frozen underwater, but I stopped short of a picture, horrified that I would be thinking such a thing. Bob and Muriel started crying, and tears pushed toward my own eyes, but I blinked them back. I squeezed my eyes closed, wondering what Jack was doing. Was he fishing George from the river? If so, he’d no doubt need some help.
“Let’s go, Dad.” My voice was deep and thick in my throat, barely recognizable. I started for the back door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Dad nodded.
We found Jack two hundred yards downstream from the crossing, sitting on the bank with his head on his knees, in his hands. One bloated leg, nearly bursting the seams of its overalls, jutted at an angle from the water, bobbing gently with the current. The boot was gone, the foot blue. Upstream, about ten yards, Jack and Katie’s fishing poles were planted in the bank. One of them jerked with the weight of a fish.
Dad prepared a lasso and inched down the steep bank.
“Dad, shouldn’t we just go in and get him?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, swinging the lasso above his head, then tossing it out over the rushing water. He missed the first time, but on his second toss, the loop flopped over the foot. I scooted down the bank behind Dad, sitting, and hooked my hands into his back pockets. He pulled. I pulled. Jack remained folded up on the bank, still hiding his face.
The body broke free. We strained, dragging my brother’s mutated form onto the bank. Our racing breath was nearly as loud as the rush of water.
George’s face was bloated beyond human proportion. His arms puffed from beneath his sleeves, bleached from months in ice. His skin looked like a cow’s bag—pale, almost transparent. Dad and I hauled the body further up the bank, struggling with the weight. Dad collapsedonce we reached level ground. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the slate-gray sky.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t avert my eyes from my brother’s distorted expression. His eyes and mouth were wide open, his cheeks swollen until they nearly hid his ears. One hand was clenched into a fist, the other lay innocently open, its fingers sausage thick. In a way, his appearance was a relief, because it didn’t look like him. This wasn’t my brother. The river had swallowed up George and regurgitated this strange form in his place.
Dad and Jack were useless, I realized. Neither of them moved. Although his expression was as stoic and straight as always, tears ran down Dad’s weathered cheeks, something I’d never seen. I tried to keep the air moving through my lungs, recognizing that if
Muriel suddenly burst into the house. “Mom, Katie is running up the road. And she’s screaming.”
We ran outside, where we saw a shadow flying toward the house. I raced ahead to Katie, who collapsed into my arms. Her hair was matted against her head from the sweat. Even her dress felt moist. Mom and Dad arrived just behind me.
“What is it, honey?” Mom brushed the hair back from Katie’s sweaty forehead. “Is Jack okay? Where’s Jack?”
“Where’s Jack?” Dad asked, his tone more impatient than Mom’s.
But Katie was breathing so hard that she couldn’t speak. I carried her to the house and set her down in a chair. Mom knelt in front of her. “Katie, what happened? Where’s Jack?” Now her own tone was more urgent, more desperate.
“Give her a chance to breathe,” I said. “Give her some room.”
“What happened?” Dad insisted, ignoring me, moving closer to Katie.
“It’s George,” Katie finally said, coughing. “Jack found him.” She burst into tears, and the coughing intensified. We all stood, stunned, silent, for several minutes. Dad muttered softly, his head rocking from side to side, eyes to the floor. Mom’s eyelids clenched together.
My throat closed. I couldn’t have made a sound if I needed to. I found myself trying to imagine what George would look like after six months frozen underwater, but I stopped short of a picture, horrified that I would be thinking such a thing. Bob and Muriel started crying, and tears pushed toward my own eyes, but I blinked them back. I squeezed my eyes closed, wondering what Jack was doing. Was he fishing George from the river? If so, he’d no doubt need some help.
“Let’s go, Dad.” My voice was deep and thick in my throat, barely recognizable. I started for the back door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Dad nodded.
We found Jack two hundred yards downstream from the crossing, sitting on the bank with his head on his knees, in his hands. One bloated leg, nearly bursting the seams of its overalls, jutted at an angle from the water, bobbing gently with the current. The boot was gone, the foot blue. Upstream, about ten yards, Jack and Katie’s fishing poles were planted in the bank. One of them jerked with the weight of a fish.
Dad prepared a lasso and inched down the steep bank.
“Dad, shouldn’t we just go in and get him?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, swinging the lasso above his head, then tossing it out over the rushing water. He missed the first time, but on his second toss, the loop flopped over the foot. I scooted down the bank behind Dad, sitting, and hooked my hands into his back pockets. He pulled. I pulled. Jack remained folded up on the bank, still hiding his face.
The body broke free. We strained, dragging my brother’s mutated form onto the bank. Our racing breath was nearly as loud as the rush of water.
George’s face was bloated beyond human proportion. His arms puffed from beneath his sleeves, bleached from months in ice. His skin looked like a cow’s bag—pale, almost transparent. Dad and I hauled the body further up the bank, struggling with the weight. Dad collapsedonce we reached level ground. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the slate-gray sky.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t avert my eyes from my brother’s distorted expression. His eyes and mouth were wide open, his cheeks swollen until they nearly hid his ears. One hand was clenched into a fist, the other lay innocently open, its fingers sausage thick. In a way, his appearance was a relief, because it didn’t look like him. This wasn’t my brother. The river had swallowed up George and regurgitated this strange form in his place.
Dad and Jack were useless, I realized. Neither of them moved. Although his expression was as stoic and straight as always, tears ran down Dad’s weathered cheeks, something I’d never seen. I tried to keep the air moving through my lungs, recognizing that if
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