Kristopher Reisz - The Drowned Forest

“No problem.”

Bo’s the one who asked Tyler to play today, wasn’t he? It’s exactly the sort of youth ministery thing he’d do. Half a dozen other musicians in the congregation, but Bo reaches out to the guy who hasn’t been to church in weeks.

“And Tyler, I’d really like to talk about getting you into the praise band,” Bo adds.

Tyler shakes his head. “No. Thanks, but I don’t really think I could keep up with their schedule.”

“Well, maybe we could just have you fill in every once in a while. Like I said, Tyler, you have an incredible—”

“I said no.”

The snap in Tyler’s voice startles Bo. He laughs to cover it up. “Okay. No problem. But still, thanks for coming out today. Jane, take care now.”

He heads off, and Tyler says, “Guess I better get some chicken too,” trying to slip away gracefully.

“You can have mine if you want.” I offer him the thigh on my plate. No matter how awkward this feels, I do want him to stay.

“I can’t steal your food.”

“Whatever. Since when?”

Tyler laughs, and there’s a glimmer of what things were like before. He takes the chicken and my roll. We sit on a driftwood tree worn smooth as bone. Pulling off my sandals, I press my toes into the water and sandy soil. The Tennessee River rushes across four states, but here, behind Wilson Dam, it slows down and swells up. The river turns into fat, lazy Wilson Lake. That makes it a perfect spot for a picnic. It makes it the perfect spot to talk and share food and try to reconnect with Tyler.

We chat about the weather and how bad the mosquitoes are. When we run out of easy things to talk about, Tyler picks up his guitar. He plays some little riff and asks, “So, you doing okay? Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I’m not sad, but … I’ve been praying a lot.”

Tyler nods without looking up from his guitar.

“How about you? Doing okay?” I ask.

“Not really, no.” He starts into the same song again, the lonely riff leading into chords sick with reverb.

“I know you’re sad right now, but … I mean, I am too but … when you’re at the end of your rope, you just have to tie a knot of faith and hold on. I mean, we just … we … ”

Tyler’s song squeezes my chest, making it hard to breathe, impossible to speak. It holds me trapped, watching the guitar strings flicker like dragonfly wings under his fingers. There’s no noodley-noodley parts, no big finish. Tyler just drops his palm across the strings, and the song vanishes.

“I need to get this stuff packed away.” He waves a hand toward the church’s battered amp and the cords snaking through the grass. “But it was good seeing you. Say hi to your mom and dad and everybody, okay?”

“You don’t want to—”

“No, I’m gonna get this stuff packed away and head on out. But good seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“Thanks for the chicken.”

“Sure.” Another awkward hug, and he walks away.

I turn to watch a barge cutting down the middle of the lake, heading toward the dam. Once it enters the lock, dam operators will lower it to the other side, where the river runs narrow and quick again—a hundred tons of steel and cargo, along with a couple thousand gallons of water, dropping five stories in a few minutes. From the shore, though, the barge seems to drift along ghost-silent, wavering in the hot air. The dam’s groans and shrieks of metal have a hollow quality, like they’re not quite real.

After another minute, I pick up my sandals and walk back. With most people finished eating, Bo is getting some of the kids together for a water-balloon toss. I edge around them and return to our family’s picnic blanket.

Mom asks, “So how’s Tyler?”

“Good.”

“I hope he starts coming to church again.”

He won’t. He was doing a favor for Bo today, that’s all. “He’s still pretty sad.”

“Well, of course, but he’s got to stop running away from God and let Him catch up.”

Dad adds, “Email him tonight. Make sure he knows he’ll always be welcomed back.”

I roll my eyes. “He knows.”

“Never hurt anybody to hear it.” Dad rubs my back. “Tyler needs God, honey. That means he needs you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Holly, I’m sorry. I know how bad Tyler’s hurting, but I can’t be his shepherd. I can barely keep myself together.

Yuri pushes his plate away and starts rocking. Mom hasn’t shaved him in a couple days, and bits of food stick to the stubble around his lips. Dabbing them off with my napkin, I ask, “You want some pie, buddy?”

“Pie.”

“Mmm … ice cream on top?”

“Ice cream.” He stops rocking. “An’ pie.”

I get back up to get dessert. Out on the river, something breaks the surface, catching my eye—an old Styrofoam cooler, slimy green-black with algae. I slow down, shield my eyes with my hand. A blossoming brown wake moves toward the bank—sediment and trash tumbling up from the bottom. Tim and his friends are too busy playing to notice the flip-flop pop up a few feet away.

A loud wet smack makes one of the boys yelp, and every head whips around. The boys scramble backward. Tyler runs toward the bank, and I’m on his heels.

“C’mon, guys. Keep away from it.” Tyler steers the kids behind him. But Tim is crouched down, reaching toward the catfish. Before I can shout, Tyler catches his wrist. “Watch it. Don’t want to catch one of those spines.” He scoops Tim up and passes him over to me.

“Jane, see it?” Tim asks.

I nod, squeezing my brother against me. The catfish probably weighs more than Tim. It’s the size of a Rottweiler. Fleshy whiskers taste the air. Too-human eyes—pupils and irises surrounded by white—have shrunk to pinpoints in the sudden sunlight.

Gruh … Gruh … The thing’s croak sounds like old bones splintering. Its mouth is a lipless gash, dripping wads of mud. The thing already smells dead. It’s carried the rotten smell of the lake bottom up with it. It still thrashes, though, driving itself higher up onto the rocks.

Gruh …

“Whoa.” Adults crowd around us. I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Jane, take your brother and … man, that girl’s gotta be a hundred pounds.”

“Check out the hook scars; she’s been around awhile.”

“Wonder why she beached herself like that.”

“Must be sick. Fish’ll do that sometimes if they’re sick and dying.”

The fish slaps its tail against the mud. People jump back. There’s more nervous laughter, then someone says, “Let’s get these kids out of here. Come on, kids, let’s get some pie.”

They herd Tim and the other boys back to the picnic shelter. None of them notice the giant catfish cough something up. A ring.

Gruh … Gruh …

Tyler asks, “Jane? You okay?”

I step closer to the beast—raw pink gills pumping as it suffocates—and snatch the treasure from the mud.

“Jane, what—”

“It’s Holly’s ring.” I rub away the grime. “Tyler, it’s the ring you gave her. It’s … Tyler, it’s … ”

Tyler takes it with shaking hands. He turns it over—the simple silver band with a cut-out cross—lost to the depths, now returned.

Grace fills me. I laugh out loud, then want to cry. Thank you, Holly, thank you for this miracle. I couldn’t have kept going much longer. I love you, I love you.

“What … ? Jane, look.” Letters are scratched thin and bright into the tarnished silver. Tyler cleans the ring with his shirttail. It reads, HELP .

Memories flow together. Things sink to the sunless bottom. But the day I met you always bobs close to the surface, Holly. My mouth still goes dry when I think about it. I’d never met a kid whose parents were dead.