Kristopher Reisz - The Drowned Forest

Tyler sits on the glider, pushing with the toe of his loafer. Back, forth, back, forth.

“He talked to you at Rivercall. Did he mention … ?”

Tyler shakes his head.

“Well, think for a second!”

“Jane, he didn’t say anything.”

Turning with a huff, I walk to the end of the driveway and count the newspapers. There’s four of them, dew-

wrinkled in their plastic bags. I walk over to the neighbors, but they aren’t any help. Mrs. Lewis says he comes back every few days but never stays the night. The Devines across the street didn’t even notice he was gone, just that the grass was getting awfully tall.

I walk back. Still sitting in the glider, Tyler asks, “Well?”

I shake my head.

“He was at Rivercall, so we know he didn’t move to Alaska at least,” Tyler says. “I guess we’ll have to wait until next Sunday. Talk to him at church.”

“What if Holly can’t wait a week?”

“Then tell me what to do.”

I drop my head in my hands. “I kept meaning to visit him. If I’d gone once, we might know where he is. I kept saying I would and saying I would, but … ”

“Yeah, me too,” Tyler says.

“It’s just hard. Coming here and knowing she’s not here anymore.” I take your ring out and play with it, rolling it between my fingers.

“I know, I know.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Tyler shrugs and stares into the weeds swallowing the flower beds.

On the road again, we drive back past Veterans Park. I stare out at the swelling belly of land and the red-shimmering river beyond it.

“Think Pastor Wesley’ll call our parents?” I ask. “Tell them all the stuff we told him?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“They’re going to freak out.”

“So? Let them.”

“Tyler, they already think I’m losing it.”

“But you’re not.” Tyler takes the tarnished ring from me, holds it between two thick fingertips. “I saw a catfish drop this ring. Is that what you saw?”

I nod. “But—”

“I can see it has HELP written on it. Is that what you see?”

I nod, stuffing my trembling hands under my thighs.

“You sure? You sure it’s not magical thinking?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what Pastor Wesley thinks, right? It doesn’t matter what your parents or anybody thinks. We saw what we saw. We’re not losing it. Holly’s soul is trapped in the river somehow. And she needs us, and we can’t worry about what anybody else thinks, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“For Holly.”

“For Holly, yeah.”

He tucks the ring into his pocket again, then gives me a bolstering punch in the arm. We turn onto the road that crosses the top of Wilson Dam, heading toward the southern shore of the lake and my house. The water has turned molten in the sunlight. Staring down at it, I hear Tyler’s melody in my head again, an ugly earworm burrowing into my brain. “That tune you played? It’s been stuck in my head all day.”

“Oh, ‘The Drowned Forest’?” Tyler laughs. “Sorry.”

“Just fits with how today’s gone, I guess.”

“I’ve been working on it with Ultimate Steve. He’s got this great drum break, this sorta dum dum da-da-dum thing for it.”

When did Tyler start hanging out with Steve the Nine-Digit Idiot again? I bite my tongue. “So why is it called ‘The Drowned Forest’?”

“Well, it’s named for, y’know, the lake.”

“Oh.”

“It’s kind of sick, I know.”

“Yeah, a little.”

When the government dammed up the river many de-cades ago, all that backed-up water needed somewhere to go. It flooded acres of pine forest, farms, churches, graveyards, whole communities, creating Wilson Lake. The lake is a great place to fish and ski and swim. But if you swim down and down, past where the water turns suddenly cold, down and down into the slow, strange heartbeat of the river, you find yourself in the pines—dead trees preserved by the cold and dark. Black branches bloom algae and colonies of mussels. The forest has become the dominion of monster catfish and all the slithering things swarming without number.

The trees make it impossible to dredge the lake. When you drowned, they didn’t even try to bring up your body. It makes me sick to my stomach thinking about you down there all alone, Holly. Lost in the drowned forest.

Go thou to the sea, and cast an hook, and take up the fish that first cometh up; and when thou hast opened his mouth, thou shalt find a piece of money: that take, and give unto them for me and thee.

“Jane! Come slice these tomatoes for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The only footnote says that the “piece of money” would have been a silver shekel, worth four drachmas. How the heck does that help us?

“Jane, I need help here,” Mom calls again.

“Okay. Give me one second.” My finger moves back up to the beginning of the verse.

“Jane, your mom asked you to do something.” Dad sits on the floor, trying to keep Yuri interested in their word games. “Your studying can wait.”

The Bible drops to the coffee table. I stalk into the kitchen without looking at him.

Spaghetti bubbles on the stove. Steam swirls below the oven hood. The tomatoes are from Dad’s garden, and pieces of fuzzy green stem still poke up from their navels. When Jesus and Peter needed to pay their temple tax, Peter caught a fish with money in its mouth. Is that some clue to what’s happening now? I cut the tomatoes into wedges, pulp oozing between my fingers.

“When you’re done, Tim needs you to look over his math work.”

I groan. “I’m kind of doing something right now.”

“What, Jane? What’s more important than helping your brother?”

“It’s … just … nothing.” I glance over at Tim doing his worksheet at the kitchen table. “I’ll help you in a sec, okay, buddy?”

Tim gives me two thumbs-up. Mom says, “And slow down, honey. You’ll cut yourself.”

“I know what I’m doing.” I pare a bruise out of the tomato’s drum-tight flesh.

At least Pastor Wesley didn’t call my parents. But still, he should be guiding us through this. It’s on him that he couldn’t hear the truth.

“Jane, give me the knife if you’re not going to be careful.”

“I’m being careful! You yell at me to come do this, then you hover over me like I’m six. Let me do it.”

Mom reaches for the knife. “Jane, give me—”

I jerk back. The blade skates across the edge of her palm, and Mom’s yelp silences the chatter in my head. Clutching her hand—blood runs and smears—Mom glares at me like she hates me. Everybody rushes up, talking at once.

“What happened?” Tim asks.

“Mom? What happened?”

“Nothing. Just an accident.”

“Let me see. What happened?” Dad tries to take charge.

“I’m fine. Take the sauce off the stove, or it’ll burn.”

“Mom.” I speak above the rest. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

Her lips press together until they’re white. “If you weren’t acting like a brat, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Mom? Something happened at Rivercall.

“Not one of the good towels.”

Dad shakes his head. “I don’t care about towels.”

“I do. Get one of the old ones from the linen closet.”

Something happened, Dad. I need help. The words bunch in my throat, aching to be said. But I can’t say them. Mom and Dad will think I’m insane.

“There’s antibiotic ointment in the cabinet,” Mom tells Tim. “And the big bandages. No, behind there.”

I walk away. Nobody notices except Yuri, but he doesn’t say anything. Grabbing my Bible, I go upstairs.