Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

In the dream we’ve swum straight out from shore. The ridged, sandy bottom has fallen away below us, and the beach has vanished behind ranks of glassy waves. The sky is cloudless and the sunlight so bright off the faceted ocean that my eyes are squinted and bleary. The wind throws scraps of the Atlantic in our faces. Anne and I are drifting in the chop. I know this place. This is Nantucket. This is our honeymoon.

Anne is giddy and breathing hard. The water has made her cropped, blond hair a sleek cap, and has made her hazel eyes pure green. Her forehead, nose, and cheeks are tanned, and her teeth are very white. She floats on her back, tilts her head to the sun, and lets the water toss her.

I am breathing hard too, in short, audible bursts. Anne is laughing and speaking, but in the wind and the chop and the sound of my own breath, her words are lost to me.

Her shoulders and arms and the tops of her breasts are brown and smooth. I see the muscles shift in her forearms and wrists as she treads water. Her swimsuit is green, and through it I see the shape of her nipples, the lines of her ribs, and the rounded muscles of her belly. We have rested, and now we turn toward shore.

In life I am a strong swimmer, but here I am tired. Anne swims ahead of me, the soles of her feet, her long legs, her elbows and hands, flashing in water and sunlight. Her strokes are fluid and perfectly timed and she pulls farther and farther ahead. I beat through the waves behind her in short, arm-weary strokes. My legs feel heavy, and cold patches spread across my shoulders and back. Saltwater washes through my mouth and eyes, and the wind grows louder in my ears.

Anne swims on, beautifully and with great intent. She is so far ahead now that I only glimpse her, through moving alleys and corridors of waves. My belly and groin are cold, and I am less swimming now than punching and kicking the water.

Suddenly, the sky clots up with thick cloud. The ocean goes gray all about me, and the waves become falling slabs of slate. A heavy sadness washes over me, and I realize that I am crying, and that with every breath I am calling her name.

As the rain begins, I am lifted up high on a wave, and I hang there, caught. Below me, the beach is gone. Instead there is a rocky shore and a narrow, wooden dock running over flat water. Pines rise steeply from the water’s edge; low clouds are caught in their jagged tops. Beyond the dock, among the trees, I see part of a house-a gravel path to wooden steps, a deep porch, a stone chimney, green clapboards, black shutters. I know this place too. This is the lakefront. This is our home. This is the swim that Anne takes every morning, from June to September.

She has reached the dock, and climbs the small metal ladder at the end. Water streams from her brown shoulders and legs, and I see the muscles working in her calves and thighs as she steps onto the dark planks. Her swimsuit is cut high on her slim hips, and has ridden up over her rear. She stands on the dock and hooks her fingers in the seat and tugs it down. She combs her fingers through her hair and shakes the water out. It falls from her hands in gleaming drops. She bends and reaches for the towel folded by the ladder.

Now Anne turns to look out over the lake. Of course she cannot see me, or see the wave that has pitched me up so high. But she sees a cloud rolling in from the far shore and a wind coming with it across the wide expanse of water. She sees the surface ripple and darken, like goose-bumps, she thinks, and feels a chill herself. She wraps the towel about her shoulders. Her dark brows furrow. She looks for something out on the lake. Me? Not me. I am at work by now-no, still at work from the day before. She does not see me because I am not there. Neither does she see the figure cross behind her from woods to house, scale the porch railing, and crouch in the shadows, waiting. I try to call to her but I am choked by sadness and fear and I cannot make a sound or even take a breath.

And now this wave is breaking and I am pitched headlong under a solid sheet of gray water. The ocean rushes through my nose and ears. I cannot shut my mouth to it. I welcome it. I am tumbling now, not sure of where the surface lies, caught in some cold undertow and headed out to sea.

I washed up across my bed like a castaway, tangled in sheets like seaweed, gripping pillows like an oar. I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling and the shadows sketched there by the thin morning light. The phone was ringing far away, at the other end of the house, but even at a distance it made my eyes shake in my head. I lay there, waiting for the spinning to stop and for the answering machine to pick up. But neither would happen. I was still drunk, and I’d shot the machine last week.

Everyone was in a bad mood. It was a palpable thing in midtown, as pungent as the bus exhaust on the cold evening air and as loud as the traffic. The streets were awash in it. Cars and trucks and taxicabs were locked in mortal combat, surging forward by inches, then rocking to a halt, their drivers cursing and leaning on their horns, their passengers fuming. Surly streams of people poured from office towers and washed into the gridlock, adding their own fulminations to the angry grind. Sharp elbows and rude gestures were everywhere.

Maybe it was the season that brought it on-a week before Thanksgiving, the cusp of the holidays. Maybe it was the prospect of Christmas shopping, or of all that family time, bearing down like a freight train. Maybe it was the gnawing obsession with this year’s bonus-assuming there was one-or the corrosive dwelling on the next round of layoffs. Maybe everyone was battle fatigued-edgy from the latest terror alerts, strung-out from life in the crosshairs. Or maybe it was just another hellish rush hour. Whatever, it was some nasty karma.

At seven p.m. I was threading my way through these wretches, headed up Park Avenue toward 52nd Street. The intersection was a particular mess. Sawhorses and traffic cones were scattered across it, and in the middle of the street was a trench that belched steam. Steel plates only partly covered the excavation, and I wondered if anyone had yet disappeared into its depths. I crossed 52nd, threading between two taxis, and pushed against a wave of people into the lobby of Mike’s building. I crossed the marble floor to the guard station, produced half a dozen pieces of ID, waited while they called upstairs, signed in, and got on an elevator. I pressed 30, and the doors closed silently.

Michael Metz is a partner at the law firm of Paley, Clay and Quick, and the firm’s biggest rainmaker. He’s also my friend, and has been since college, from the day we first chased each other around a squash court, vying for a spot on the team ladder. For the last couple of years, he’s also been my most regular employer. Mike’s got an eclectic practice- corporate work, entertainment, matrimonial, every now and then some criminal work. And I’ve done lots of different things for him- background checks, find-the-girlfriend, find-the-boyfriend, find-the-assets. But tonight, he’d said, was something different.

The elevator doors opened with a sigh, and I stepped into Paley, Clay’s reception area. At this hour, in this season, it was dark and quiet. The front desk sat in a pool of light and looked like a mahogany toll-booth. It dwarfed the old guard dozing behind it. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as I approached.

“John March to see Mike Metz,” I told him. He flipped slowly through the wrinkled papers on his clipboard and punched some numbers into the phone. He whispered into the handset, and told me in a voice I could barely hear to go in.