Beneath Still Waters Read online

  and rugged, tanned features—might have a real opportunity.

  He turned her switches.

  She smiled at him, hoping he wouldn’t read it as mere

  flight-attendant formality. When she leaned over to pull out

  the life vest, she was aware of his eyes traveling the extended

  arch of her body.

  “Since we’ll be traveling over water,” her friend Sally Jo

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  89

  announced over the PA, “life vests are available directly un-

  der your seat.” Karen wrapped her sample life vest around

  her neck.

  “I’ll get you another drink just as soon as this is done,”

  she said quietly, leaning down to him.

  “No problem. I always like to know as much about

  safety precautions as possible.”

  He had reserved two seats—not that he needed them. She

  could see that underneath his elegant, cream-colored suit

  (perhaps a Giorgio Armani) he was lean and muscular. His

  hands looked powerful, with long, tapered fingers and well-

  defined veins. No, he was simply someone who wanted pri-

  vacy and had the means to pay for it.

  “We hope you enjoy flying with American. The flight

  attendants will begin serving complimentary beverages

  just after takeoff.”

  She put away the vest and sat by the main door for take-

  off. Once the plane was in the air, she walked past him, to the

  back and the DC-10’s mini-kitchen. Sally Jo was there, with

  Jack and Allison, preparing the rolling “booze-mobile,” as

  she called the drink cart.

  She grabbed the ship’s manifest from its slot and flipped

  through the pages.

  “I wanted to find out who’s the guy in 2-A. He’s just my

  type.”

  “That’s a rarity. I thought you didn’t date customers,”

  Sally Jo said.

  Karen grinned. “I don’t. But for every rule there’s an ex-

  ception. This guy’s gorgeous, and if he’s buying two seats

  across the Atlantic, he’s not exactly impoverished.”

  “Gold digger.”

  “Ah, here it is. Martin Parks.” She looked up at Sally Jo.

  “Now to think of some clever conversation for later, during

  the movie—”

  “When the lights get low, why not invite him up to see

  your etchings?”

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  “Coming through, ladies . . .” Jack’s petulant voice star-

  tled Karen.

  “Sorry,” she said. He was so damned serious about the

  job, Karen couldn’t believe it, as if he actually swallowed all

  the propaganda about being part of the in-flight team. We’re

  glorified waitresses, she thought. We’re paid to hand out tiny steaks and moist towelettes. That, and keep smiles plastered

  on our faces when the plane starts bobbing like a cork.

  ( See? We’re not scared, ladies and gentlemen. No, sir.

  And we fly all the time. )

  “C’mon,” Sally Jo said to her. “The sooner we have

  everyone served, the sooner you can strike up a friendship.”

  The flight proceeded smoothly, outside of a few bumps

  when they hit their northernmost point. She was too busy

  to say much to Martin Parks, but she was glad to see that

  he had not put on his headphones for the movie.

  After dinner the cabin lights were lowered, and every-

  one seemed to be watching the movie or dozing. Karen

  pulled the curtain that separated first class from the car

  section and looked down at her well-tailored passenger.

  “Get you something?”

  He looked up at her casually, almost too casually. Per-

  haps he wasn’t interested. There was no wedding ring, but

  maybe he had someone waiting for him. Or, God forbid,

  maybe he was gay. All the good-looking ones were.

  “No,” he answered. “Not at all. You must be tired,” he

  said slowly. “Standing up . . . on such a long flight. Why

  not have a seat?”

  He seemed courtly, almost old-fashioned. He couldn’t

  have been more than thirty-eight or so. Yet he seemed re-

  fined in a way that most of today’s hotshot, mile-a-minute

  executives couldn’t even dream of.

  “It’s against company regulations. But, heck, for a minute

  or two it won’t matter.” She slid down into the seat next

  to him.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  91

  He smiled at her (and for a moment it seemed as though

  he knew what she was going to say).

  “Do you travel often?” she said, immediately embar-

  rassed by her dumb pleasantry.

  He laughed, making it worse. “Oh, my, yes. I’ve traveled

  an awful lot.” He looked right at her. “Too much, I think”—

  and here he laughed out loud—“I think I’m already to settle

  down. Find a nice quiet town someplace.”

  Now Karen started to question her pursuit of this man.

  Things weren’t proceeding as they should. No, he should

  appear flattered, or maybe a bit flustered. They both should

  be acting very coy.

  But Martin Parks seemed to have expected her advance,

  and now it was—what?—merely amusing him. He seemed

  to be toying with her.

  “I better check the other—”

  His left hand, which she had previously admired, reached

  out and closed around hers gently. “They’re all asleep or at

  the movies. Why not keep me company a bit longer? I find

  you attractive.” He smiled.

  She nodded, thinking, This is ridiculous. What am I

  worried about? I’m with a planeload of people. “I . . . I am enjoying being with you.”

  “Sure you are. Perhaps—and correct me if I’m wrong—

  you assumed I was wealthy?”

  “No . . .”

  He squeezed her hand. She tried to wriggle away, but he

  ever so lightly held her in place.

  “Come, tell me the truth. I’ll know when you are telling the truth.”

  She looked around, worried about passengers seeing

  them.

  “Mr. Parks, please let go of my hand.” She allowed her

  voice to rise, and an elderly couple across the aisle looked

  over. Strange as it seemed, she was on the verge of getting

  92

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  angry at Parks. He might be wealthy, but he was obviously

  strange, almost sinister.

  “Yes,” he went on, “you were thinking about dinner

  maybe, after the flight, and perhaps even something more.”

  “Please,” she said. “I’m sorry. Just—”

  He came close to her, his face—so calm and intelligent

  before—now touched with an odd glee, enjoying playing

  with her. “So what about it, my sweet Karen, shall we get

  together after the plane lands?”

  She looked back to the old couple, now talking with

  each other, oblivious to her problem.

  (I should stand up, just pull away from him. That’s what

  I should—)

  “Well. . . ?” he asked, squeezing harder, no longer gentle.

  “Please, Mr. Parks, I—”

  His face went stony and the blood seemed to drain out


  of it, and Karen, without realizing it, moaned.

  The plane dropped.

  One minute it was flying smoothly, halfway through its

  downward arc over the North Atlantic, and then it became

  the world’s worst roller coaster, plummeting through the

  air. It lasted maybe a second or two, but it was enough to

  send meals flying into the air, bits of overdone filet mignon

  slapping people in the face. Hot coffee and cold drinks

  flew above the seats, scalding passengers who were star-

  tled awake, adding to the screams.

  The screaming was louder than the incessant whine of

  the engines, a crazy mixture of wails and yells and high-

  pitched shrieks.

  Nobody heard the ping of the seat-belt light coming on.

  “Well . . . ?” Parks said, still holding on to her, his smile

  an ugly thing now.

  She was crying, her mascara going all smeary. “My . . .

  my . . . p-assengers. I have to—”

  She didn’t wonder why she could hear his voice over all

  the screams.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  93

  Then, just as the pilot came on the PA to calm everyone,

  saying, “It’s okay, folks, we just ran into a little—” the plane

  started weaving, left and right, wildly. The wings dipped,

  like a dinghy in the middle of an ocean gale. Those people

  with their seat belts unfastened, tumbled over the people

  next to them, into the gap of the center aisle, trapped in

  weird, unhealthy-looking angles. Karen fell onto Parks, real

  close to him—

  (Just like she wanted to be.)

  He stared at her, sneering, and then—as if it were just a

  passing thought—it changed, his smile returning.

  The plane leveled out.

  “No?” he said. (Still audible above the terrible howls

  that filled the cabin.) “You’re not my type, anyway.” He

  laughed, a small titter at first, then growing into a full-out

  belly laugh.

  He let go of her hand.

  And she pulled back, standing, crying.

  He looked at her, all business now.

  “I would like another martini, though.” He glanced over

  his shoulder and waved his hand backward. “When things

  settle down back there.”

  She staggered away, through the curtain, back into the

  mayhem of tourist class where the hurt and burned passen-

  gers were still screaming. She went back there slowly,

  shakily, away from Martin Parks.

  “Herbal tea is about all I can manage at night. I do have a

  nice selection, though. Rose hips, Apple, and Sleepy Time—

  don’t you just love the picture on the box?”

  Dan politely picked up the box of tea and spent a moment

  glancing at a bear dressed in a striped nightie and nightcap.

  Reverend Winston’s living room was tiny, just about enough

  space for two people to sit, surrounded by walls and a floor

  filled with stacks of books. This, the rectory of his parish,

  94

  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  St. Mark’s, was on the second floor of a small two-family

  house. Dan could hear a TV blaring from the room below

  them.

  “Very cute,” Dan said, smiling, putting the box down on

  the small coffee table (on top of a worn copy of Hazlitt’s

  History of Medieval Europe).

  “Yes,” the reverend said. His eyes looked bulbous, al-

  most froglike, under just about the thickest pair of lenses

  Dan had ever seen. The good vicar was an old man, with

  thin white hair sparsely covering his head and a wrinkled

  face that seemed to carry a line for each year of the man’s

  life. When he got up, he shuffled from place to place, and

  if his parish was made up of people in old-age homes, it

  wouldn’t be long before the reverend would be joining

  them there.

  Dan took the teacup, now filled with its poultice of

  caffeine-free spices floating on the top. He poked a finger

  in the cup and submerged it.

  “Let it steep for a moment.”

  Dan nodded. “You seem to be a fan of history.”

  Reverend Winston looked around at the books that en-

  circled him. “Decidedly. History offers a . . . solace. Some-

  thing like religion. It says that mistakes can happen but

  humanity somehow corrects itself. And no matter what

  darkness mankind itself may enter, somehow there always

  seems to be a way out. A salvation, if you will.” He looked

  at Dan. “Somehow there’s always hope. And that is the

  business I’m in.”

  “Speaking of hope, I was hoping that you might help me

  with my story. The local library was really devoid—”

  The minister’s hands fluttered in front of his face. “Oh,

  that’s not a library. It’s just a few rooms with books. You’ll

  have to go to White Plains. . . . They have a real library.”

  “But I was told that you have researched the story of

  Gouldens Falls.”

  Winston put down his teacup. “Yes, I’ve done some

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  95

  reading about it. Some. I’m not sure how relevant to your

  story it might be.”

  In such close quarters, Dan quickly sensed the reverend’s

  discomfort.

  He leaned forward. “My story, Reverend, is ‘The Town

  That Disappeared.’ I’ve yet to find a good reason for their

  putting a dam here. It was done so quickly. It should have

  taken—”

  “Years. Yes, and it was approved”—Winston smiled at

  Dan—“almost overnight. I wondered about that too.”

  “And it was built so quickly.”

  “Some people couldn’t even get their homes moved,”

  Winston said wistfully. “Not enough time, they were told.

  Can you imagine that?”

  “No.”

  “Others just took the money and ran. Some to Ellerton.”

  He paused. “Others went much farther away.”

  “My parents came from the town.”

  “And what did they tell you?” Winston’s eyes blinked.

  “Nothing, really. But they seemed to think it was a good

  thing the town was drowned.”

  Winston shook his head and took another sip of his tea.

  He licked his lips. “They weren’t alone, Dan. Not at all.

  There was a kind of . . . superstition about the town, a

  feeling—”

  “A fear.”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. People had a bad

  feeling about the town.”

  “Why?”

  Winston pulled himself to a standing position, struggled

  to get out of the all-too-easy chair bolted to his behind.

  Dan stuck out a hand to help pull him up, but Winston ig-

  nored it.

  “Got to stay independent,” he said, smiling. “For as long

  as possible, anyway.”

  Dan watched the vicar walk over to a large bookcase.

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  m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o

  His gnarled fingers traveled along the spines of oversize

  books and albums before stopping at a brown leather vol-

  ume, at least a couple of inches thick. Winston pulled it

 
down and cradled the heavy bulk under his arm. He low-

  ered himself back into his chair—going down was obvi-

  ously as tricky as getting up—and flipped open the album.

  Pay dirt, he thought. If he was lucky, this old book could

  save the article. Now, if he could just get his camera down

  there.

  “I’ll let you take this, of course, if you’ll promise to take

  good care of it. It’s taken me, why, I guess, almost ten

  years to collect everything here.” He was flipping through

  the plastic-covered pages. “But I’d like to show you some-

  thing . . . before you leave. Then I do have to get to bed.”

  He flipped some more. “Something that I think is impor-

  tant.” He stopped. “Here.” He turned the book around,

  rested it on his knees. Dan came off his chair and crouched

  next to the man. Winston’s hand shook as he pointed at a

  yellowed, almost brownish newspaper article.

  “Jackie Weeks, that’s his picture.”

  Dan looked. The boy wore a toothy grin and close-

  cropped hair. Freckles covered his face. He wore a striped

  shirt.

  “He was never found?”

  “Never. The story soon got out that he went over the fence

  and slipped into the town the day the water came. It took, you

  know, nearly three weeks for the entire reservoir to fill. But

  by the end of the first day, a foot of water covered the entire

  town, like some great flood brought by torrential rains. They

  looked for him then. Before the water got too deep. Even

  while speeches were going on. Policemen and firemen in hip

  boots sloshing up and down Scott Street, past the post office,

  the movie theater. But Jackie Weeks was gone.”

  “Strange story.”

  The reverend paused. And Dan thought that his pasty

  skin seemed to look even whiter. The bony fingers shook.

  b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s

  97

  “But I’m afraid that’s not the story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The reverend pointed again at the picture of Jackie

  Weeks. “This boy went in, all right, and . . . something

  happened to him. But he wasn’t alone. Two boys explored

  Kenicut that day—two. Poor Jackie, rest his soul, ended up

  staying there forever.”

  The way Winston said forever made Dan’s skin feel

  cold, like a stray breeze blowing through the window and

  chilling his sweaty skin.

  The reverend spoke quietly. “The other boy got out.”

  Winston flipped the pages of the album.

  It was a photo. A placard read, gouldens falls ele-