There is more than fish and lake weed beneath the surface of the water. More than snapping turtles and a thousand lost fishhooks and lures sitting on the bottom of the lake. There are more unknown things than known. More questions than answers. There is a whole hell of a lot beneath that water, laying unseen to the eye, but seen every night in a repetitive nightmare. There was no end of the little bits of me in that lake. So many pieces. So many fragments. Probably my very soul.
There was that one time I dropped the keys to the Tacoma. I was way out on the lake. Way out where the shoreline was just a narrow horizontal smudge, pine-colored and squint-so-you-can-see-it. Way out there, might as well have dropped those keys, rabbit’s foot, bottle opener and all, into the Mariana Trench out in the Pacific. Or is it the Atlantic? Some place deeper than the soul I no longer really have anyways. Those keys were gone, rabbit’s foot, bottle opener and all.
There were Coke cans and beer bottles. The ones down deep, sleeping in the dark, bedfellows to catfish and carp, Coors or Bud or Miller Light; you’d never see them again but if you did you could read them, their labels and the text. The ones near the shore, tangled in emerald strands slicker than the fish that hides in them; those are the ones you’d see but could barely read. Sun bleached, all white or bright yellow, you’d only just make out if it’s Sprite or Pabst Blue Ribbon.
No doubt there was bound to be a snowmobile or three. Probably one in each bay, maybe more. Maybe less. But you hear about it each winter. Someone taking their motor sled out too early, too late, or just not knowing the lake as well as they should. Someone breaking the surface like a greedy finger into a piecrust. Except hot cherry filling, fresh baked apples, isn’t what’s waiting. It’s a whole lot of pain. Steal-your-breath-from-your-lungs cold. The kind of cold that doesn’t exist, cannot be quantified, until you feel it. But then you’re dead. And dead men don’t go explaining the type of cold that was the last sensation they ever felt.
Dead men, too. The lake has claimed many. Collected bodies over the years. Though more often than not those come back to the surface. Find the shoreline as if they need to keep on breathing. The gulls usually help with the search. Or the bears.
Not just lives lost on the water. Plenty lost out there.
I lost my virginity on a pontoon boat. A lazy thing that moved as slow as Mary did fast. My swim trunks were off before I knew anyone was working at those knots I never could untie myself. I always just wiggled in and out of the damned things. But there they were, plastered up against the wall of the pontoon and I only looked to see them there because I heard the slap of their impact. Next thing I know, I know Mary a whole lot more than I did moments before. And quick as it was, it happened all out on that lake.
There was a bit of dignity lost out there on the lake. The times I spent bent over the aluminum siding of the Lund Angler. The times I emptied a bit of me into the lake. I’d watch some pale purple cloud mix with the clear cold water. Little sunfish would pop up and nibble bits of what I ate a meal or two ago.
I’d lost my temper out there on the lake. The few times I nearly reeled in a fish the size of my Labrador. Sweating my body weight working to pull in what felt like a sperm whale or maybe one of those dead bodies still dressed up in snow pants even though it’s the height of summer. I’d pull some denizen worthy to hang on any wall in any bar close enough to look it in the eyes. Sometimes I could kiss the damned things, whisper secrets into wherever the hell a fish ear is, then watch them splash back into the black, nothing to show for it but a broken line and another bout of hemorrhoids.
There was trash at the bottom of the lake. Maybe some treasure too. But the things I’d bring up from out the depths, disappointed when it wasn’t something fit with fins and gills, something alive and breathing so I could kill it and eat it, something instead, like a bike tire or an old shoe, six-pack rings and a dead duck tangled up in ways that didn’t look possible, they were things I’d put in the category of trash. Never did find any treasure. But I did find a scratch game winner once. Trouble was the card came to pieces when I picked it up out of the water.
Lots of memories out on that lake. A few in the water. Like the time I skinny dipped with Millie Martin when I was a kid hardly out of school. Like the time I cannonballed some real cold water onto Sarah who came diving in from sunbathing to swim me down and tickle my sides. How I nearly choked to death breathing in water while laughing. And when I caught my breath how we made love on the dock, ignoring those nagging horseflies gnawing at our backs and just letting that setting sun showcase our passion to the fisherman who were no longer focused on their fishing.
We had Sam less than a year later. Then the good times came fast and often. Some hard times too. Living selfishly and being a good dad, that’s like oil and water. There were sacrifices. Time, habits, sleep, dockside intimacies with Sarah, or any intimacies at all. But there were rewards. And besides, nothing more intimate than being a loving dad, a caring husband, seeing your home at the end of a hard day and smiling without a shred of effort. Seeing Sam smiling to see me in the window, smiling back at him and forgetting how tired I am. Life was good. Life was rich. Life was sweet.
‘How many drops of water are in the lake, Dad?’
‘A lot.’
‘More than a thousand?’
‘More than a million.’
There were well over a million drops of water in that lake. The sort of number that was the true answer to Sam’s question was probably the sort of number I couldn’t pronounce. Something with a whole lot a zeros trailing off the pages if you had the care or the patience to write it out.
A whole lot of zeros. Now that’s feeling familiar. That’s feeling like what I’ve got now. A whole lot of nothing. No soul, no love, no reason to go on breathing.
Sarah left the lake. Left me. Couldn’t look at my face any longer. Couldn’t stand the sight of me, the sight of the lake. She moved somewhere out of state and other than that I have no idea where or how to reach her.
My son is down there in that lake. Sam is somewhere halfway in the mud making some bottom feeder feel cozy and safe nuzzled up in a hollowed-out ribcage, an underwater grotto that used to house my child’s beating heart. My boy is down there deep. Deep where the sun doesn’t bleach the beer cans. Deep where the catfish and carp rub their smooth bellies on the rough rocks.
Sam was nearly seven. His birthday was so near that we already had the presents wrapped and stashed beneath our bed. We had already ordered the chocolate cake which was a treat to ourselves so we wouldn’t have to bother making it. We bought one of those numbered candles. Seven. It was sitting unopened to this day. How many drops of water in the lake? How many tears on the carpet over where I routinely clutch that plastic wrapped candle?
I was teaching my boy how to fish. But I was also enjoying a Saturday afternoon like I used to do back when it didn’t have to be Saturday. Back then it was Monday, Tuesday, any old damn day. I was going through some cold ones from the cooler and I think I was around the same number as that candle back home. The day was blistering hot and the beers were demanding a snooze.
Sam started making excited noises. ‘I gotta big one, Dad!’
‘Good for you, Sam. Pull her on in.’ I smiled at my boy and tipped my cap over my eyes to make the sleep come easier. It was the last time I laid eyes on him. I was nodding off real quick, listening to Sam grunting and shuffling across the aluminum. The movement of the boat over the water was as lulling as a mother rocking a cradle. And I was feeling like the baby within. Last thing I heard was a lot of thrashing in the water, then a real big splash.
That must be some big fish. That’s what I was thinking when the sleep hit me. As big as a Labrador. I smiled in my sleep. That’s my boy.
Then some five or ten or maybe sixty minutes later I push my hat back from over my eyes. I’m squinting in the sun and rubbing the sleep away and feeling those beers and smiling at my boy. Then I realize I’m not. No boy at all. No Sam. And no fishing rod either. Just seven empty aluminum cans and the life jacket I hadn’t bothered to put on my son.
I sobered up in the worst way a man can. I scanned the horizon, far, far away where the shoreline was just a narrow horizontal smudge, pine-colored and squint-so-you-can-see-it. I dove into the black water and paddled as far as I could, downward, and didn’t come close to touching the bottom. Way out there, finding Sam was about as likely as finding those Tacoma keys.
My lungs were about to burst. My head was filled with pressure. I came to the surface for air. How I wish now that I never did.
There is more than fish and lake weed beneath the surface of the water. More than snapping turtles and a thousand lost fishhooks and lures sitting on the bottom of the lake. There is a whole hell of a lot beneath that water, laying unseen to the eye, but seen every night in a repetitive nightmare. There was a no end of the little bits of me in that lake. So many pieces. So many fragments. Probably my very soul.
James Callan is a great ape and the descendant of deep ocean microorganisms. He has never been to Greece, but has a frequent, recurring dream of standing in the long shadow of the Parthenon, a blood-red sun bloated on the horizon.