donât know whatâs become of Artie and Virginia. He put his hand on her shoulder again, turned her, and ushered her into the main room of the cabin.
âI donât want to go outside, she said. I donât really like it here. His desire had turned to discomfort. He went out alone.
It was windy, blowing from behind him across the lake. He didnât see the boat. A thought he didnât like approached his mind, and he deliberately didnât think it. Harold walked slowly around the cabin, but if Artie and Virginia were nearby, he would have heard their voices. He had an image of them lying on a simplified forest floorâthe stage set of a forest floorârolling and grappling in passion. He wondered if Artie had discovered that Virginia was a paid companion. On the side of the cabinâthe side with the bedroom windowâwas an ell, because the bedroom was not as wide as the house. Leaning against the wall in the ell was a rusted iron shovel, and behind it were the two oars Harold had noticed before.
They werenât much, as oars went. They had no pins, nothing to fit into oarlocks, but a skilled rower could manage, balancing them on the side of the boat. Probably Artie couldnât row, but that was irrelevant because Artie had not taken these oars. Harold continued around the cabin, back to where heâd stood facing the lake. The thought heâd rejected returned, an image more than a thought: Artie, the day before, struggling to swim, choking and sputtering. Harold swam with his eyes open and missed little.
It started to rain and lightning flashed. He knew he should stay away from the water. The boat was definitely gone. He searched the lake, now gray with raindrops, and at last he thought he saw the boat across the lake, far from shore and empty. Harold called, Artie! Virginia! He tried to call loudly but could not do it. Except for that rally in 1930, Artie did the shouting. He considered discussing the problem with Myra but didnât want to. He wished for binoculars, then knew he didnât need them. Nobody was in the boat. In the wind, Harold took off his pants and shirt and shoes and socks, and waded into the lake in his shorts. With rain falling into his open eyes each time he turned his face to breathe in, he began his angular, reliable crawl, elbows wide, in the direction of the boat. Cold and fear made his breath catch in his throat. He gave great gasps. In his mind he saw his mother weep and shout. He was terrified of the lightning but equally afraid of what might have happened. Artieâs mother and his mother wept and shouted together. I had to try and save him, he explained in Yiddish to his mother as he swam. I knew it was too late, but I had to try and save him. He said it in Yiddish, in English, in Yiddish again to both mothers. After a while the use of his muscles and the rhythm of the stroke eased him slightly, and he breathed evenly. He didnât ask himself how he proposed to find Artie if he wasnât in the boat. He would be in the boat, huddled against the bottom. Or heâd be shouting from the nearest shore, singing something ridiculous. Or dog-paddling near the boat, and Harold would tow him back.
This trip was Haroldâs doing. He knew Gus and saw a possibility when Gus said he owned a little cabin. Harold had read Thoreau. He was trying to live like a nineteenth-century person in America, not one of the shouting, crowding immigrants who were his people. Gus was not Jewish: a newspaperman whoâd once been Haroldâs editor, he was a sturdy, offhand Irish guy whose family ran a business he didnât want to work in.
Distances look shorter over water. The lake was not big, and Harold was ordinarily a tireless swimmer, taking regular breaths each time his left arm cleared the surface of the water. Yet this swim took a long time. He stopped and paddled to rest and look around. The boat was closer. It was definitely a boat. The storm
âI donât want to go outside, she said. I donât really like it here. His desire had turned to discomfort. He went out alone.
It was windy, blowing from behind him across the lake. He didnât see the boat. A thought he didnât like approached his mind, and he deliberately didnât think it. Harold walked slowly around the cabin, but if Artie and Virginia were nearby, he would have heard their voices. He had an image of them lying on a simplified forest floorâthe stage set of a forest floorârolling and grappling in passion. He wondered if Artie had discovered that Virginia was a paid companion. On the side of the cabinâthe side with the bedroom windowâwas an ell, because the bedroom was not as wide as the house. Leaning against the wall in the ell was a rusted iron shovel, and behind it were the two oars Harold had noticed before.
They werenât much, as oars went. They had no pins, nothing to fit into oarlocks, but a skilled rower could manage, balancing them on the side of the boat. Probably Artie couldnât row, but that was irrelevant because Artie had not taken these oars. Harold continued around the cabin, back to where heâd stood facing the lake. The thought heâd rejected returned, an image more than a thought: Artie, the day before, struggling to swim, choking and sputtering. Harold swam with his eyes open and missed little.
It started to rain and lightning flashed. He knew he should stay away from the water. The boat was definitely gone. He searched the lake, now gray with raindrops, and at last he thought he saw the boat across the lake, far from shore and empty. Harold called, Artie! Virginia! He tried to call loudly but could not do it. Except for that rally in 1930, Artie did the shouting. He considered discussing the problem with Myra but didnât want to. He wished for binoculars, then knew he didnât need them. Nobody was in the boat. In the wind, Harold took off his pants and shirt and shoes and socks, and waded into the lake in his shorts. With rain falling into his open eyes each time he turned his face to breathe in, he began his angular, reliable crawl, elbows wide, in the direction of the boat. Cold and fear made his breath catch in his throat. He gave great gasps. In his mind he saw his mother weep and shout. He was terrified of the lightning but equally afraid of what might have happened. Artieâs mother and his mother wept and shouted together. I had to try and save him, he explained in Yiddish to his mother as he swam. I knew it was too late, but I had to try and save him. He said it in Yiddish, in English, in Yiddish again to both mothers. After a while the use of his muscles and the rhythm of the stroke eased him slightly, and he breathed evenly. He didnât ask himself how he proposed to find Artie if he wasnât in the boat. He would be in the boat, huddled against the bottom. Or heâd be shouting from the nearest shore, singing something ridiculous. Or dog-paddling near the boat, and Harold would tow him back.
This trip was Haroldâs doing. He knew Gus and saw a possibility when Gus said he owned a little cabin. Harold had read Thoreau. He was trying to live like a nineteenth-century person in America, not one of the shouting, crowding immigrants who were his people. Gus was not Jewish: a newspaperman whoâd once been Haroldâs editor, he was a sturdy, offhand Irish guy whose family ran a business he didnât want to work in.
Distances look shorter over water. The lake was not big, and Harold was ordinarily a tireless swimmer, taking regular breaths each time his left arm cleared the surface of the water. Yet this swim took a long time. He stopped and paddled to rest and look around. The boat was closer. It was definitely a boat. The storm
Similar Books
The Ladies of Longbourn
Rebecca Ann Collins
The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim
Julie Campbell
Claimed by the Highlander
Julianne MacLean
Anthropology of an American Girl
Hilary Thayer Hamann
Raw Edges
C. J. Lyons
Destiny Lingers
Rolonda Watts
Task Force Bride
Julie Miller
Spring Rain
Gayle Roper
Falling Away
Allie Little
