I was standing at the upstairs bedroom window staring at the lake, figuring out how to make another day pass, when I saw something floating trapped in the rushes near the shore. It didn’t take me long to realize it was a body, gently bobbing face down with the movement of the waves. I didn’t react other than trying to ignore it, but something about the body drew me to look at it. I kept peering down and wondering whether it was a man or woman, young or old, neighbor or visitor. From the size, I guessed it had to be a full-grown man wearing a muddied white tee-shirt resting in my lake.
The thoughts that go through your head at a time like this–was it just last week an old raccoon was digging for snails two nights in a row? She was by the dock scratching in the mud, one place and then another, a little tipsy at times. I didn’t actually know it was a she until later, when her full useless nipples were clearly visible. After teetering once again, she rested across the bleached wood of the willow that fell into the lake four years ago. The next morning, I went down to the water’s edge to clear some weeds, and there she was with her head turned sideways limply floating near the shore. I suspected some bird or fish would make a pleasant meal out of the old raccoon, so I left her to let nature take its course, which it did in a different way. By the third day, her body was bloated and putting out a more putrid odor than I thought appropriate for my summer home. I decided to scoop her up in my big fishing net and drag her with my motor boat to the deep end of the lake. Funny thing, even with her body puffed up unnaturally, she still had four dainty paws dangling down in the water, dark rings around her eyes and a thick striped tail. That’s when I noticed her teats poking out from her swollen belly. I thumped her with an oar to dump her out of the net and my heavens, you never smelled anything so vile. All that gas distending the raccoon’s body belched out and found my face before I could pull a rag over my mouth and nose.
That’s what I thought about for five minutes, maybe more, while watching the man’s body from my window. I hesitantly picked up my phone to dial the emergency number. Mid-way through the number, I asked myself, “Why hurry, the body won’t be less alive because I waited a few more minutes.” Once someone picked up on the other end, I knew what would happen. The body would no longer be mine. The dead man would belong to the system of laws, autopsies and crying family members, assuming he had some.
Wanting a closer look at my find, I put down the receiver and stepped away from the window. The pine floorboards creaked, reminding me of yet another chore I didn’t get to last summer. But, I couldn’t be too hard on myself because it did end up being our last summer. I walked half-way down the steep hill to the lake and edged crab-like a little further to get a good look. My suspicions were confirmed. It was a man. No swollen nipples on this one and not too old either. His thick brown hair spread like the rays of a halo around his head as his body gently swayed as if a babe in his cradle. I imagined he was probably one of those weekly renters staying in the white clapboard house down at the narrows. Maybe he was the same idiot whose boat ran out of gas in the middle of the lake and, of course, he hadn’t thought to bring any oars to get back to shore. That one was wearing a navy baseball cap, Red Sox if I recall, so I couldn’t be certain they were one and the same. I didn’t have my binoculars with me at the time to get a good look at his face. Around here you need a good pair.
Most days I relax on our screened porch after lunch, sitting in the rocker passing time, watching with my binoculars. Watching the lake for changes. Watching neighbors. I see two or three of these idiots a season. They go out on the water without oars, with lightening in the distance, and can’t tie a knot for nothing. Just last week, I towed in a vintage Old Town canoe. She was a beauty, red canvas and wood construction, fully restored, out in the lake drifting along without a soul in sight. It took half my day to find the owner, a flabby, sweating weekender. He swore, “I had it all secured last night.” I’m sure he thought he did. More likely he had his expensive canoe tied up with a tangle of rope that he called a knot. She probably slipped her moorings before he huffed and puffed up to his air conditioned house.
Two half-hitches. That’s what I always use. I never had a problem holding onto a canoe or my fishing boat. Angela. That was a different story. She slipped away in the spring long before the ice on our lake receded and white trilliums poked through the snow to call us back. She always looked forward to the smell of fresh pine needles shedding their winter dampness. I begged God to let me keep her. Here, beside me. Maybe I should have used a half-hitch.
It’s an easy knot once you get the hang of it. You take the rope in your left hand and make a turn around the post or through the ring on the dock making sure you have enough extra rope for the next step. Bring the end in your hand back over the rope already tied to the boat and back through the loop you made in the same direction. That’s your first half-hitch. Then, you go ahead and tie a second one. Pull that baby tight and your boat isn’t going anywhere.
I learned this knot seventy summers ago, that’s how long I’ve been coming to this lake. I could write a bible about this place, if anyone had an interest anymore. Swimming, boating, fishing, catching tadpoles; I passed on everything I knew to Angela. You learn how to live on the lake from the old ones like me. This guy floating near the shore didn’t know how to live, or he wouldn’t have been face down in my lake.
One of the chores on my list that day, which I didn’t get to, was to drive to the hardware store in town and buy a piece of glass for the downstairs window that cracked over winter. I don’t spend much time downstairs anymore, down there where Angela played the piano. It can get cool some nights at the lake. We used to stoke up the Franklin stove until it got so hot we had to open windows. Angela played on the old spinet we bought right after we married. We sang songs together. Old Broadway tunes. Sometimes a song from the radio. Neighbors from other houses along the lake came over. Adults. Kids. Everybody laughing and singing. We were in the moment, living our lives. Loving.
I decided downstairs could wait. The cracked window wasn’t too bad. Nothing a little tape couldn’t hold for another year. Anyway, I’d worked up an appetite walking down to the water and back.
After an early lunch I settled into my rocker on the porch, binoculars in hand. The body was still there caught in the rushes. My mind drifted back to the old raccoon. You would think a dead animal bobbing in the lake would move on down the shore as it was lifted by ripples hour after long interminable hour. I watched the raccoon after lunch the first day. Actually, it was the first two days. Would you believe, that critter hardly moved an inch, like the rushes were holding it there in its coffin. Waiting.
The phone rang about then. No one ever calls me at the lake any more. I don’t know why I keep the phone, except it’s the same number we had when I was a little tyke. At first it was a three-party line, meaning three houses shared the same one. We had to pick up the receiver to see if Mrs. Norris was still talking. Sometimes we waited an hour for the line to be free. Now it’s just me, so the line’s never busy. I hurried to the phone wondering who thought to call me on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Hi, this is Christy calling Mrs. Jordan about her annual Lake Association donation. Is Angela available?”
I slammed down the receiver. I didn’t mean to be rude. Angela isn’t here this summer. I stared at the quiet phone, in our quiet house, by the quiet lake. We used to love reading books in the rocking chairs on the porch, hoping no one would interrupt our solitude. Now there are too many uninterrupted hours in a day.
By the time the sun was setting behind late afternoon clouds, I convinced myself to give up the body floating in my lake before dark. No need to inconvenience anyone by bringing them out at night. Maybe that’s why Angela slipped away before noon. She never wanted to be a bother to anyone. If she had waited, I would have held her one more time. Her soft, warm body was never a bother. Not to me.
Once again, I picked up the phone to dial the emergency number. Remembering. I brushed away the wetness from my eyes. Enough. Tears never helped anything.
Hesitating before each digit, I dialed the complete number, knowing they would take away the body. Away from me. Like before.
Deni Dickler writes short stories and poetry. She was published in “Ripples in Space” and her poems are displayed at Cathedral of the Pines. She is an editor of “Smoky Quartz Online Journal”, judged for the Poetry Society of Vermont, and founded the Rindge Writers Group. Deni lives in Rindge, NH with her husband and four-legged companion, Willy Waggins.