Amity Gaige - Schroder

When I opened my eyes, the woman was staring at me.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m great,” I said. “Never better, in fact.”

Along the weathered dockside people strolled quietly. But for the creaking of the dock boards and oars in their oarlocks and the chanting of vendors and the distant churning of the steamboats, the crowd seemed hushed, awed. The world was softening, opening up.

“Spring always feels like such a victory,” I said. “Like you did something good to deserve it.”

“That is so true,” said the woman. “Plus, it was such an icy winter. Icy and slushy and eewy.”

“One of the worst. At least in my personal history. But”—I looked at her—“I guarantee you, it’s going to be an extraordinary summer.”

She smiled again, displaying two pearlescent front teeth with a pretty little gap.

“Really? How do you know?”

“I just do. Butterscotch!” I called to Meadow. “Come back a bit toward shore, OK? The sign says, ‘no swimming.’ There’s no lifeguard yet.”

“I’m not swimming, Daddy,” she called without turning. “I’m fishing .”

My friend and I exchanged a pair of knowing looks whose covert purpose was legitimate eye contact with one another.

“Are you and your daughter staying on the lake?” the woman asked. “It’s going to be a beautiful weekend, they say. Unseasonably warm.”

“No,” I sighed. “We’ve got to head home. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Where’s home?”

“Canada.”

“Oh. You’re Canadian?” The woman blushed again, and I detected a faint note of disappointment, as if she’d already become attached to me. “I always expect Canadians to look different. But they never do.”

“It’s how we speak,” I said. “You have to wait until we start talking about how sooory we are.”

The woman laughed, sweeping her foot in the water. “And your girl’s mother? She’s back at home?”

“Yes.” I turned to face her. “My wife’s back at home. Waiting for us.” In the background, my friend’s husband dimly became aware of me. “She keeps calling us. ‘How many miles left now? How many more hours?’ She misses us.”

“Of course she does,” the woman said. I watched her face, slightly rosy with the thought of it, whatever it is, the universal dream, the dreamed us. The wind played with the beaded hem of her sarong. She pulled one delicate foot out of the sand and the sand made a crude suctioning sound and the steamboat tooted in the distance and I finally looked away from her and across the lake at the hills.

“Isn’t that something,” I said, overwhelmed. “The way the light is growing long on the hills across the lake. Look at that. The way the hills seem in a different dimension over there. What an afternoon. You’re right, you know. This day should not be allowed to end. We should be allowed to keep it. You know what? This is the first time this year that I haven’t felt like jumping off a bridge.” I looked at my companion. A breeze blew her apricot-colored hair off her brow, which was pinched sympathetically. “I know you don’t even know me, but I’m glad you’re here. I mean, I’m glad you’re here with your family. Your family makes me happy.”

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s good, don’t you think? It’s the point, don’t you think? Togetherness. Like this. In families.”

She gazed back at me, her expression uncertain.

“Hey, Tex,” the husband bellowed. “Your kid is swimming in her clothes.”

We all looked. In the near distance, but with commitment, Meadow was indeed swimming, her head held stiffly just above the water, a big grin on her face. Just then the sun reemerged from the sky’s lone cloud, spilling outrageous light across the surface of the lake, which now seemed to be filled with boiling gold. I shielded my eyes and watched Meadow swim.

“Will you look at that,” I said. “I didn’t even know she could swim.”

“You didn’t—” The woman stepped forward. “Is she all right?”

“Oh, very,” I said. “Look at her. Solid. She must have learned last year.”

“But is that safe? I mean, no one else is in the water, it’s so cold.”

“You’re right, I should join her. Excuse me.”

I was wearing tan khakis, rolled to the knee, and a short-sleeve blue-checkered dress shirt from Eddie Bauer. I flipped my wallet and keys backwards onto the beach and waded out into the frigid water until my shirt belled around me. When the water was at my chest, I pushed off. Leaning my ear into the water, I swam a lazy sidestroke past my daughter. “Hello,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here.” She treaded in my vision, her glasses speckled with water. “This water is heart-stoppingly cold,” I said. “I mean, I think my heart just stopped.” Our laughter rang out over the water. From the beach, people stared. I could see my redhead looking beautiful and puzzled. Some things you can’t explain, you just can’t, no matter how sympathetic nor how moving in her own right is the listener.

She wanted to ride the steamboats. We chose the Minne-Ha-Ha .

“Ha-ha-ha,” we said. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

We ran up the gangplank, dodging the crowd, because we wanted the best view of the paddlewheels. We hung as far over the rails on the upper deck as we safely could, and after a toot from the calliope, the boat left the dock, and we were showered with a chilly mist from the paddles. Meadow screamed, drawing other children to us, several of whom stuck their heads through the rail bars until their parents called them back. We didn’t care. I mean, we were wet already. Behind us, the shoreline fell away, and a chaos of seagulls hung over our wake like bridesmaids holding a veil. The wind picked up, soft and clean.

She said, “Here’s a joke. Where does a dog do his grocery shopping?”

“I don’t know. Where?”

“The Stop ’n’ Smell.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I made it up. I can roller-skate, you know.”

“You can swim, you can roller-skate. What else can you do?”

“I can fly.”

“Of that I am skeptical.”

“Knock-knock,” she said. “Orange.”

“Wait. You forgot to let me ask who’s there.”

“Who’s there?”

“Ha! No, I ask you .”

The steamboat chugged up the eastern bank of Lake George. Dusk was falling as the boat came about, and we saw the yellow ball of sun disappear in a glint through the keyhole of the northernmost mountains.

“Poof,” she said. “Good night!”

“Yeeeeer outta here, sun,” I said.

“Yeeeeer out, sun!”

“You’re goin’ down , sun.”

“Way down,” she said. “All the way downtown.”

“You’re goin’ down state .”

Grinning, she climbed a metal bench on the deck. “But I can fly,” she said. “Watch.” Stretching her arms out for balance, she placed both sneakers on the armrest, and started wheeling her arms, looking ungainly.

“Careful,” I said although she was well clear of the railings. Her shorts were bunched up over either thigh accordion-style, and her T-shirt rode up over her belly as she seesawed above the bench. When she jumped, her wind-knotted hair trailed like streamers.

“I’ll eat my hat,” I said. “You can fly.”

“I told you.”

“Come on, you crazy kid. Your lips are purple.”

We entered the warm inner cabin, where most of the families had fled from the afternoon bluster. An infant given free range was crawling across the tacky linoleum floor, batting an empty soda can in front of her.