birches and spruce stirred restlessly, as if trying to flee their roots. In the hazy distance, thunder grumbled like an empty belly.
Scott lay on the hideaway bed in the rec room, cocooned in a comforter that reeked of mothballs and cedar. Krista sat next to him on one side, Kath on the other. Kath looked pale beneath her summer tan, and her eyes were too bright. She was in shock, Scott realized, and even through his own discomfort he was deeply disturbed by it. Bob and Fred stood between the hideaway and the color TV, decked out like Field & Stream centerfolds. The two old gents looked uncomfortable there, oddly out of place. Fred shuffled in his gum boots. Bob chewed nervously on his pipe.
Now Bob removed the pipe from his mouth, and as he spoke, he tamped a thumb into its empty bowl. “Our part was luck, Scott.” He pointed at Kath with the stem of his pipe. “It was your girlie there. She’s the one saved you.”
Scott touched Kath’s waist and she jumped, startling back from some gloomy place in her mind. She tried a smile but couldn’t quite manage it. After a moment her eyes went glassy again.
Frightened by Scott’s first dive, Kath had stood breathless vigil following his second, waiting for him to resurface. When the camera bobbed up in a rush of air bubbles, she realized something was wrong and began yelling for help. The fishermen had already docked over at Bob’s and were just climbing out of the boat. In response to Kath’s screams, they hopped back aboard and gunned the motor full throttle, cutting across the short stretch of open water between Anderson’s place and the Bowmans’.
“If she hadn’t piped up when she did...” Bob said, letting his words trail off. He clapped his partner on the back. “It was old Fred here thought of draggin’ that anchor.”
Grinning sheepishly, Fred looked down at his boots. “Did you get stuck down there, Scotty?” he said. “On the bottom?”
Scott nodded and the nod turned to a brief convulsion. Feeling it, Krista hugged him closer. Even Kath came back from that dark place in her mind long enough to stroke Scott’s quivering arm.
Between still-labored breaths, Scott did his best to describe to his rescuers the horror of his last dive. Then he fell silent.
Bob placed a hand on Fred’s shoulder, indicating Scott with a thrust of his chin. Scott was still shivering, but his eyes were trying hard to close. He was physically exhausted, a condition Bob Anderson understood only too well. He had experienced it himself more than once in his lifetime, after sixteen hours of farm work under a punishing, mid-July sun.
“Let’s get along,” he said to his friend, and Fred nodded grimly.
“Thanks again,” Scott mumbled as the two old-timers let themselves out.
Then his head was on the pillow, heavier than he’d ever known it, and a welcome darkness was falling. As the first spreading web of electricity shattered the vexed summer sky, Scott slid willingly into that darkness. He slept fitfully through the storm that raged through the balance of that morning, then well into the afternoon.
* * *
He awakened with a muffled shout, feeling the clutch of the lake at his throat. But it was only a pillow he’d dragged across his face while he slept, its feathery weight triggering the hideous dream-illusion of drowning. Hearing his cry, Krista came stomping down the carpeted staircase, calling his name in alarm.
“I’m all right,” Scott said, his voice thick and low. “Scared myself, is all.” He rolled over onto his side, then tried shifting to a sitting position.
It wasn’t until then that he realized how much damage had been done during his brief underwater struggle. Sometime during the inactive hours of his sleep, gravel-laced cement had been mysteriously deposited inside his joints and had hardened there. Muscles everywhere shrieked in an almost audible chorus of agony. When he leaned over to push himself up off the bed, his abdominal muscles
Scott lay on the hideaway bed in the rec room, cocooned in a comforter that reeked of mothballs and cedar. Krista sat next to him on one side, Kath on the other. Kath looked pale beneath her summer tan, and her eyes were too bright. She was in shock, Scott realized, and even through his own discomfort he was deeply disturbed by it. Bob and Fred stood between the hideaway and the color TV, decked out like Field & Stream centerfolds. The two old gents looked uncomfortable there, oddly out of place. Fred shuffled in his gum boots. Bob chewed nervously on his pipe.
Now Bob removed the pipe from his mouth, and as he spoke, he tamped a thumb into its empty bowl. “Our part was luck, Scott.” He pointed at Kath with the stem of his pipe. “It was your girlie there. She’s the one saved you.”
Scott touched Kath’s waist and she jumped, startling back from some gloomy place in her mind. She tried a smile but couldn’t quite manage it. After a moment her eyes went glassy again.
Frightened by Scott’s first dive, Kath had stood breathless vigil following his second, waiting for him to resurface. When the camera bobbed up in a rush of air bubbles, she realized something was wrong and began yelling for help. The fishermen had already docked over at Bob’s and were just climbing out of the boat. In response to Kath’s screams, they hopped back aboard and gunned the motor full throttle, cutting across the short stretch of open water between Anderson’s place and the Bowmans’.
“If she hadn’t piped up when she did...” Bob said, letting his words trail off. He clapped his partner on the back. “It was old Fred here thought of draggin’ that anchor.”
Grinning sheepishly, Fred looked down at his boots. “Did you get stuck down there, Scotty?” he said. “On the bottom?”
Scott nodded and the nod turned to a brief convulsion. Feeling it, Krista hugged him closer. Even Kath came back from that dark place in her mind long enough to stroke Scott’s quivering arm.
Between still-labored breaths, Scott did his best to describe to his rescuers the horror of his last dive. Then he fell silent.
Bob placed a hand on Fred’s shoulder, indicating Scott with a thrust of his chin. Scott was still shivering, but his eyes were trying hard to close. He was physically exhausted, a condition Bob Anderson understood only too well. He had experienced it himself more than once in his lifetime, after sixteen hours of farm work under a punishing, mid-July sun.
“Let’s get along,” he said to his friend, and Fred nodded grimly.
“Thanks again,” Scott mumbled as the two old-timers let themselves out.
Then his head was on the pillow, heavier than he’d ever known it, and a welcome darkness was falling. As the first spreading web of electricity shattered the vexed summer sky, Scott slid willingly into that darkness. He slept fitfully through the storm that raged through the balance of that morning, then well into the afternoon.
* * *
He awakened with a muffled shout, feeling the clutch of the lake at his throat. But it was only a pillow he’d dragged across his face while he slept, its feathery weight triggering the hideous dream-illusion of drowning. Hearing his cry, Krista came stomping down the carpeted staircase, calling his name in alarm.
“I’m all right,” Scott said, his voice thick and low. “Scared myself, is all.” He rolled over onto his side, then tried shifting to a sitting position.
It wasn’t until then that he realized how much damage had been done during his brief underwater struggle. Sometime during the inactive hours of his sleep, gravel-laced cement had been mysteriously deposited inside his joints and had hardened there. Muscles everywhere shrieked in an almost audible chorus of agony. When he leaned over to push himself up off the bed, his abdominal muscles
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