Lights Out by Peter Abrahams Page A

came the terror, then the shock of the cold, then the thrashing. One of his thrashing skates touched something. The bottom.Eddie pushed off. He must have, because the next moment he was on the surface. But only for that moment: the weight of his skates, the water saturating his thick clothes, pulled him back down. His eyes were open: he saw black, and silver bubbles, his own silver bubbles, bubbling out of him. He kicked his way up, got his hands on the edge of the ice, kicked, pulled. The ice broke off.
    “Jack,” he screamed, went under, swallowed icy water, came up gasping. “Jack.”
    He saw Jack. Jack saw him. Jack was standing still, his mouth open, a tiny breath cloud over his head. That was all Eddie had time to take in before he went under again.
    Eddie hit bottom, pushed off, came up, looked for Jack. Jack was skating away, skating in a clumsy way he had never seen before. Eddie had that thought. Then he thought: he’s going for help, and getting his frozen hands on the ice again, he kicked with his legs and tried to push himself up with his hands. The ice broke away, and Eddie started to go down again. Then something hit him in the face. His stick. He reached for it, got it in his hands. His hands were awkward things now, barely able to grip, and his shivers were beyond control.
    Eddie took the stick, reached out as far as he could, scissored his legs with all his strength, tried to dig the blade into the ice. Pull. Kick. Pull kick. He flopped onto the ice, up to his chest. Some of it broke off beneath him, but not all. He kicked, pulled, wriggled, flopped up a little higher; and finally right out of the water. Eddie didn’t get up, didn’t skate, but crawled all the way to the river bank, frantic.
    He was crying now, crawling and crying. “Jack, Jack.” But Jack wasn’t there. No one was there. He came to the bank on the downtown side, pulled himself up. The house was a block from the river. Eddie walked there in his skates. He didn’t know what else to do.
    The back door was always unlocked. Eddie pushed it open, called, “Mom, Mom.” The house was silent. He had to tell someone, but there was no one to tell.
    Eddie poured a steaming bath, lay in it, wearing his clothes and his skates; lay there until the shivering stopped. Afterthat, he felt sleepy. He got out of the bath, unlaced his skates—that took a long time because of the wet laces and his sausage fingers—stripped, dried himself.
    Eddie went down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Jack. The door was closed. He opened it. Jack lay in the bed, still in his Bruins sweater. He was doing the shivering now.
    “I got scared,” he said.
    Jack was eight, Eddie seven.
    Eddie, leaning on the bridge rail, looking down at the water, didn’t hear the squad car stop beside him, didn’t hear the door open and close. The wind was blowing harder, drowning out other sound, and his attention was elsewhere.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and—
    A voice said: “You Eddie Nye?”
    Eddie turned. A cop was standing there, all bundled up except for the bare right hand on his gun butt.
    “Yeah,” Eddie said.
    “Just saying hi,” the cop said. “Wouldn’t want you to feel all—what’s the word?—anonymous, or nothing.” He waited, perhaps for Eddie to say something. When he realized it might be a long wait, too long in weather like that, he said, “Enjoy your visit,” got in the car and drove off.
    Eddie stood on the bridge. Snow collected in his collar and the tops of his shoes, and on his bald head. After a while he laughed, a little sound, lost in the wind. Vic had dropped a dime on him. Who else could it be?
    Eddie walked quickly off the bridge, into downtown, amused. Good old Uncle Vic.
    It was time for that steam bath.

5
    “Y ou a member?” asked the man behind the counter at the Y. He had the valley accent too.
    “No,” said Eddie.
    “Then it’s three bucks. Plus fifty cents for a