very long. He brushed the damp hair away from the still face. The eyes were closed, bronze lashes lowered to tanned cheeks dusted with tiny freckles. Didn’t people die with their eyes open?
The woman’s face was not beautiful, George thought, but the features were regular, with high cheekbones and a full mouth still bearing the residue of lipstick. He noted the tiny wrinkles at the mouth and eyes and realized that she was not as young as he’d first thought, not as young as her body appeared. As his gaze went over her he saw a white scar on her abdomen to the right of her navel. Once more he peered at her face. He knew this woman, he thought with sudden surprise. He had seen her before. Then he remembered; she had attended the swimming classes at the Y and he had talked to her. Because he worked Saturdays at the bank, Wednesday was his week day off, and on Wednesday mornings he usually helped the Y swimming instructor with the class, just for something to do. He didn’t know her name, but she had been pleasant and had really learned to swim quite well. He placed a thumb against the inside of her left wrist, but could feel no pulse, had not expected any. She was dead and he was sorry. And Mr. Sprang was coming to the bank at ten in the morning.…
George had learned how to give artificial respiration at the Y and although he knew it was hopeless he turned the woman on her stomach again and went through the motions. A little water dribbled from her mouth, but that was all. It was no use, she was gone. After a time he stopped, squatted on his heels, braced himself, placed his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her slowly. When he stood erect, holding her, he was surprised at the lightness of her body. Cautiously he waded into the water and when it was chest-deep he crooked his left arm beneath the woman’s chin and struck out strongly with his right, keeping her face above water, even if she was dead. And all the while he thought of what was going to happen at ten in the morning. What could he do about it?
Lewis Sprang, grunting and still clenching the cigar between his teeth, helped George lift the woman to the deck. “Dead, huh?” he panted. “Drowned?”
“I guess so,” George said as he climbed over the side.
Sprang placed two fingers on the woman’s left wrist, his lean old face grim. “No pulse,” he announced.
“I know,” George said.
Sprang stood erect. “We’d better get her to a doctor, just in case. And we ought to cover her with something.” He turned to Mortimer Watson, who had left the wheel and stood in the cabin hatchway. “You got a blanket or something, Mort?”
Watson shook his head slowly, gazing down at the woman. “I wonder who she is?”
“She’s a stranger to me,” Sprang said, “but there’s lots of summer people around. She could be from Toledo, Detroit, Cleveland, any place.”
George Yundt said, “I’ve seen her before—she took swimming lessons at the Y this summer. But I don’t know her name, or where she lives.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Sprang said. “Come on, son, let’s carry her inside.”
When they had the woman laid out on the padded bench along the cabin wall, Lewis gazed down at her and shook his head sadly. “Too bad—she’s a right attractive woman. Fairly young, too.”
“She’s married,” Watson said, pointing to a thick gold wedding band on a finger of her left hand.
It was the hand that had been doubled beneath her on the beach and George Yundt had not noticed the ring. He said, “We really should cover her. It—it’s not right to just let her lay there like that.”
Sprang gave him a keen, curious glance. “You’re right, son.”
“There’s an old tarp in the locker,” Watson said, “but it’s pretty dirty.”
“Get it,” Sprang told him.
As they covered the woman with the stiff, soiled canvas, George thought he saw her eyelids flutter. “Wait,” he said excitedly, “she’s still
The woman’s face was not beautiful, George thought, but the features were regular, with high cheekbones and a full mouth still bearing the residue of lipstick. He noted the tiny wrinkles at the mouth and eyes and realized that she was not as young as he’d first thought, not as young as her body appeared. As his gaze went over her he saw a white scar on her abdomen to the right of her navel. Once more he peered at her face. He knew this woman, he thought with sudden surprise. He had seen her before. Then he remembered; she had attended the swimming classes at the Y and he had talked to her. Because he worked Saturdays at the bank, Wednesday was his week day off, and on Wednesday mornings he usually helped the Y swimming instructor with the class, just for something to do. He didn’t know her name, but she had been pleasant and had really learned to swim quite well. He placed a thumb against the inside of her left wrist, but could feel no pulse, had not expected any. She was dead and he was sorry. And Mr. Sprang was coming to the bank at ten in the morning.…
George had learned how to give artificial respiration at the Y and although he knew it was hopeless he turned the woman on her stomach again and went through the motions. A little water dribbled from her mouth, but that was all. It was no use, she was gone. After a time he stopped, squatted on his heels, braced himself, placed his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her slowly. When he stood erect, holding her, he was surprised at the lightness of her body. Cautiously he waded into the water and when it was chest-deep he crooked his left arm beneath the woman’s chin and struck out strongly with his right, keeping her face above water, even if she was dead. And all the while he thought of what was going to happen at ten in the morning. What could he do about it?
Lewis Sprang, grunting and still clenching the cigar between his teeth, helped George lift the woman to the deck. “Dead, huh?” he panted. “Drowned?”
“I guess so,” George said as he climbed over the side.
Sprang placed two fingers on the woman’s left wrist, his lean old face grim. “No pulse,” he announced.
“I know,” George said.
Sprang stood erect. “We’d better get her to a doctor, just in case. And we ought to cover her with something.” He turned to Mortimer Watson, who had left the wheel and stood in the cabin hatchway. “You got a blanket or something, Mort?”
Watson shook his head slowly, gazing down at the woman. “I wonder who she is?”
“She’s a stranger to me,” Sprang said, “but there’s lots of summer people around. She could be from Toledo, Detroit, Cleveland, any place.”
George Yundt said, “I’ve seen her before—she took swimming lessons at the Y this summer. But I don’t know her name, or where she lives.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Sprang said. “Come on, son, let’s carry her inside.”
When they had the woman laid out on the padded bench along the cabin wall, Lewis gazed down at her and shook his head sadly. “Too bad—she’s a right attractive woman. Fairly young, too.”
“She’s married,” Watson said, pointing to a thick gold wedding band on a finger of her left hand.
It was the hand that had been doubled beneath her on the beach and George Yundt had not noticed the ring. He said, “We really should cover her. It—it’s not right to just let her lay there like that.”
Sprang gave him a keen, curious glance. “You’re right, son.”
“There’s an old tarp in the locker,” Watson said, “but it’s pretty dirty.”
“Get it,” Sprang told him.
As they covered the woman with the stiff, soiled canvas, George thought he saw her eyelids flutter. “Wait,” he said excitedly, “she’s still
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