Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

She clung to the boat with one hand, holding her face mask with the other, and then let herself fall back into the water. She bobbed to the surface almost immediately. Her mask had began to cloud. She swam to the side of the boat, pulled off the mask while she clung to the ladder, spat into it, washed it out with salt water, and then put it back on.

“Is the mask tight enough?” Ben asked.

“Yes, it’s fine. Aren’t you coming in?”

“As soon as I get this tank on.”

He came into the water a few moments later. They swam around the boat in idle circles while Gillian got used to the tank and the breathing apparatus. Once or twice, they dove under the boat and surfaced on the opposite side. The ocean was incredibly clear, alive with small fish. Ben had a dagger strapped to his leg. He was a muscular man, and a powerful swimmer, and she felt entirely safe in his company.

“We won’t go too far from the boat,” he said. “Stay with me all the time, Gillian, and don’t panic under water. If you want to go up, just go up. But remember you’re in water, and deep water, and try not to react to anything the way you would on land. Don’t scream, for example. You’d only lose your mouthpiece, and without it you can’t breathe.”

“Okay,” Gillian said.

“All right, let’s go.”

They put on their masks again, stuck the mouthpieces between their lips, and dove under.

Blue and pale-gold sifting sunlight down in silence.

Silence.

Weaving underwater plants, fish darting, bubbles from the oxygen tanks.

Down.

Down in silence deep and sunlight shafted.

Even his hair looked beautiful, caught in watery motion, afloat on his head, his long legs pushing effortlessly, the flippers gently paddling, down, sea urchins clustered like heads of medieval maces, spikes erect, silent and brown, a world without a whisper, a striped yellow fish coming up to peer through Gillian’s face mask, she almost laughed aloud and then remembered she was under water, remembered the sweet suck of oxygen flowing through the regulator and the tubes and into her mouth, the fish turned tail and darted away. She followed it. Ben was by her side again, ever present, his powerful arms pushing through the water, the dagger strapped to his leg. He pointed, and she looked, a school of tiny silver fish, needlelike, hanging on the water without thread, a cluster of glistening needles, she reached out to touch them and they scattered in hurried silence, reforming some five feet away, sunlight fanned the water in a spreading golden wedge, down, deeper, wash of sun vanishing in silence, blue so intense, the shocking stillness of underwater color, the delicate grace of sea life, the lulling rhythm of the water itself, and silence, silence, she saw the shark.

She did not know what kind of shark it was, but she knew it was a shark. She felt panic rocket into her brain, and she knew her eyes had suddenly opened wide behind the mask. She saw Ben back away instinctively, his legs dropping so that he stood erect in the water, like a man standing groundless. He made a placating gesture with his hand, outstretched behind him, a calming gesture, but he did not turn to look at her, he kept facing the shark, which had suddenly come into view and which hung in the water like a white-bellied torpedo circling idly and then suddenly vanishing in a burst of speed. Ben swam closer to her. His eyes kept searching the water, but the shark was nowhere in sight. He gave a slight shrug, and then gestured with his thumb, pointing directly upward, commanding her to surface. She nodded. She noticed for the first time that the dagger was no longer strapped to Ben’s leg. It was in his hand.

He gave a scissors kick with his legs and shot upward, and she followed him, pushing down against the water with her arms, thrusting her legs out in kick after kick, and then she saw the shark again.

He materialized from nowhere on a crest of blueness, blue himself, appearing suddenly and dead ahead and swimming toward her in a rush, directly at her, a giant specimen some fifteen feet long, he arced away from her and she saw the white underbelly and the curved mouth, and her first instinct was to scream, and her second instinct was to run. But she could neither scream nor run, she was under water and Ben was somewhere above her, probably on the surface by this time, she tried to remember everything she had ever heard or read about sharks, where was he now? should she splash? should she make noise? should she swim quietly away, where was he? She looked through her mask with wide frightened eyes, turning her head in short jerks, the wide rubber mold limiting her field of vision, watching, waiting, afraid to move, afraid to attract attention to the bright-green wool of her bathing suit or the bright yellow of her flippers, where was he? afraid to cause the slightest movement in the water, afraid the motion would attract the shark, he appeared again.

He appeared again, seeing her this time, perhaps he had seen her the first time, but definitely seeing her this time, making a long pass at her, a graceful beautiful swift pass, coming as close as six feet away and then circling off, she remembered something about sharks circling before they attacked, or had he attacked already, was that pass the beginning of his attack? She pushed out with her arms and legs and tried to swim away, but the shark was everywhere. He circled her patiently now, judging his distance, coming closer with each pass, what if he came close enough to tear her flesh with his rough skin, would she bleed, would the blood provoke a frenzied attack? She could see two small fish clinging to the shark, could see them in shocking clarity as he completed another pass. She hung witless in the water as he circled her, wishing Ben would come back, wondering why Ben did not come back with his dagger, paralyzed with fear. She felt her mouth going lax, felt the rubber mouthpiece sliding from her lips. She clutched at it greedily, grasped it before it fell completely clear, held it to her mouth, desperately sucked oxygen, certain she was trembling, feeling cold and limp and faint, and knowing she was going to die.

Knowing this.

Knowing it would be terrible and painful, knowing this as the shark cruised silently and patiently, almost as if he were toying with her now, coming closer and closer, his mouth seemingly curved into an evil grin, the water miraculously clear of any other fish, there was nothing in the water but Gillian and the shark, life and death, and she knew she would die.

But don’t, she thought. Please.

Please, I haven’t begun.

She decided to turn. She decided to swim away from the shark. She decided to find the boat. She hung paralyzed in the water.

Turn, she commanded herself.

Swim away.

She looked up. There was no sunlight. She was very deep, she felt heavy all at once, all at once she wondered if her oxygen would run out, and the shark made another pass, terrifyingly close.

Go ahead, she thought. Do it! Get it over with!

No, she thought. No, goddamn you! No, I haven’t begun.

She felt her arms moving in a breast stroke, felt her feet lashing out in a scissors kick, felt herself moving. She would not look back. She knew the shark was there. She knew he was behind her. She knew he was coming from behind, huge and silent, knew that any moment those terrible ripping teeth would cut into her legs, would sever her legs from the rest of her body. She began to whimper soundlessly behind the mask, thrusting with her arms, kicking with her legs, waiting for the razor slash that would end her life.

Sunlight.

A wedge of light fanned on water, breaking, motion.

Something touched her.

She thought, The shark!

She reeled back from the touch, her heart stopping. Something clamped onto her arm, she tried to pull away, her eyes exploding in fear, she saw something through the clouded face plate of the mask, saw, saw, and suddenly relaxed, suddenly went limp, suddenly knew she was about to faint, and felt Ben’s arm around her waist.