Justin Cronin - The Summer Guest

“You know, it’s nice here,” she said, looking out over the water.

“That’s just what I was thinking.”

“A little far away, though.” A breeze had kicked up, tousling her hair. “I know you went to a lot of trouble to bring me out here. But I’ve been thinking, maybe it would be better if I stayed closer to home.”

“It’s your life, Kats. You don’t need to worry about your mother and me. Besides, we’re gone all winter.” By this time, I hadn’t actually sold the camp, not technically-agreements made, paperwork still churning through the system-so I had told her nothing about this.

“Yeah, well…” She shrugged. “It’s not really Mom I’m thinking about.”

“Is it a boy?”

“God, Dad.” She gave an annoyed laugh. “No, it’s not a boy. It’s just… I don’t know, everything. Mom, you, all of it. My whole stupid life.”

“I just want you to be happy, Kats.”

She sighed heavily. “I know you do. But what does that mean, Dad? Sometimes I wish I was like, I don’t know, those other kids, Mary Prossert or Susan Jude. I think Mary’s, what, cutting hair now? And Susan’s probably still with that dork boyfriend of hers, always tearing through the woods on his ATV. They don’t have to worry about their organic final, or med school, or California, or any of it.”

“You’re a smart kid, kiddo. Comes with the territory. You’ll figure it out.”

She frowned miserably, looking at the table. “Sometimes I don’t feel so smart.”

“Well, you’re doing better than I am. I never feel smart.”

She laughed a little at that, and I was glad I’d eased her out of the worst of it. “But you’re happy.”

“Mostly,” I agreed. “Not always. Happiness may be overrated, Kats. I do know I’m happy I’m your dad.”

She lifted her face to look at me. “Well, that’s my point.”

“How’s that your point?” But as I said it, I understood, and my heart cracked like an egg.

Not a boy: me. She didn’t want to leave me.

“It’s okay,” I said, and unwound my legs from the picnic table to stand. Everything was suddenly swimming. I cleared my throat and held out the keys to the rental. “You feel like driving?”

She took the keys and looked at them strangely. “They’ve gotten lost,” she said in a distant voice. “They’re like children, lost in the woods.”

“Kats? Who’s lost?”

“You don’t have much time, Daddy,” she said. I felt myself rising, lifting away. “You’re cold. You should go through the dam.”

Go through the dam.

My head snapped back, my eyes flew open: I beheld the night sky and stars, and remembered where I was. A memory that had become a dream, or something else: an answer.

Go through the dam.

“Joe, listen-”

“We’ll do it together,” I said quickly. “Listen to me, I know this’ll work. We can go through the drain to the other side.”

“Joe, that’s crazy. We’ll fucking drown. I don’t think I can swim at all.”

“You won’t have to.” It was all coming clear. Sixty feet down, another hundred or so through the empty turbine tube. The tower would be tight, and there was a hard turn somewhere at the bottom, but the pressure would yank us through. If we didn’t get stuck somewhere or beaten to death against the sides of the tube, we’d shoot out the other side like rifle bullets, into the deep pool at the dam’s base.

“I’ll hold on to you. It’s just fifty yards. I know what I’m talking about.”

I twisted my neck to look for Pete, sitting on the edge of the dam.

“Pete, go down below! We’re going through the drain!”

He cupped an ear. “What?”

“The outlet!” I did my best to wave him in the right direction, hoping he could see me in the dark. “Just go! We’ll be coming out there!”

Pete rose to his feet, then headed at a trot across the catwalk to the trailhead. I braced the soles of my feet against the wall of the tower to push off. Our best chance to negotiate the turn at the bottom was a clean entry, straight through the gate and down the drain.

“Joe, this is suicide.”

“Maybe. But it’s the best idea I’ve got.”

He managed a laugh. “You’re one brave son of a bitch, you know that?”

I wanted to laugh too. I would have, if I weren’t so afraid. A crazy anticipation whirled inside me, half wild desire, half raw terror. It made me feel weirdly alive. I shifted my feet against the tower, tensing the muscles, preparing to spring.

“I’ll tell you a story about that later, if you want. Ready?”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I released the bar, wrapped my arms tight around his waist, and pushed away hard. We didn’t make it a yard before the whirlpool took us, a thousand pressing hands; I had just enough time to fill my lungs with air and think how stupid this was, how truly, truly stupid, we were going to drown for sure, before we hit the gate, rolled headfirst, and plunged into the darkness.

A night of waiting: after Harry and Jordan had set out, I returned to the lodge; there was still dinner to think of, and guests to feed. I found Patty in the kitchen, crying as usual, and I surprised myself by speaking to her curtly, then softened with guilt, gave her a motherly hug, and sent her home for the night. A little teenage heartbreak wasn’t what was bothering me; I still hadn’t heard from Joe. Usually he returned by six, making him, by the time we were sending out dessert-the apple pies I’d baked that morning-at least two hours overdue.

The last empty dessert dishes were coming in when Hal entered the kitchen. I knew he hadn’t eaten and had kept a plate of swordfish warm for him.

“Any sign of them?” I asked.

He sat at the table and shook his head. “Not a peep. And it’s gotten awfully dark out there.”

I put the plate in front of him. He picked at it politely, though I could tell he wasn’t hungry. I shooed Claire from the room, dried my hands on a dish towel, and sat across from him.

“You should eat.”

Hal put his fork aside. “Yeah, I know.”

I covered his hand with mine. “They’ll be okay, Hal. Jordan knows what he’s doing. Probably they just got into some fish. I bet they’re having a high old time out there, just like your dad wanted.”

Hal said nothing. We both knew how late it was. With no moon up, the lake would be dark as an inkwell.

“Joe back yet?”

I shook my head. “No, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about him, too. It’s not like him to be out this late.”

“So there we are.”

I nodded. “There we are.”

I cleared away his plate and excused myself to go check the radio. This was pointless, I knew; I’d long since given up any hope of raising him, but I felt I had to do something. I sat at the console and set the dial.

“Station tango-yankee-juliet-two-zero-one-seven, this is Crosby Camp, looking for Joe Crosby. Over.” I released the button and waited. The night was clear and reception should have been good. For a moment I heard nothing but the empty hiss of the open channel. Then:

“Lucy, that you?”

I jolted upright in my chair. But the voice wasn’t Joe’s. I wanted to cry with disappointment.

“Hey, Porter. Just looking for Joe. He took a party down to Zisko Dam this morning, and I haven’t been able to raise him. He’s way overdue. Over.”

For a moment the line was clogged with static. I adjusted the squelch, recapturing Porter’s voice in midreply.

“… truck about an hour ago. Over.”

A truck, I thought hopefully: he was talking about Joe’s truck. “Say again, Porter. Over.”

“Said a rescue truck went tearing out of here an hour ago. Headed south on County 21, could be toward the dam. Over.”