Beneath Still Waters Page 4
finishing it. “Months before the flooding, there had been
strange stories about the town, that something was . . .
wrong with it.”
“Wrong? What do you mean?” Susan took out her steno
notebook.
“I’m not too sure. My parents didn’t like talking about it.
They just said it was a good thing that the town was under a
couple hundred feet of water. Real good. Later, though, I
did some checking in the old papers saved on microfilm.
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31
And I find out that on the very day of the opening of the
dam a kid disappeared.”
“Disappeared? I don’t understand.”
“Neither did anyone else. But one of the stories in the
paper said that some of the boy’s friends said that he had
planned on sneaking into the town on the last day.”
“You mean, he was drowned, trapped in the town?”
He caught the waitress’s eye and held up his empty tum-
bler, tilting it back and forth, indicating his need for a refill.
“No one knows.” He smiled.
Susan now took the first sip of her chilled white wine,
the tiny beads of sweat slipping downs its side.
“So why are you here?”
“Because despite my disheveled appearance, I’m a
writer too.”
“Oh, really? What kind?”
“Everything and anything that pays more than five cents
a word. But mostly stuff for magazines like Outside, Na-
tional Geographic, Natural History, all the outdoor publications. I do my own photographs of faraway places and
animals.”
But I’ve been known to do press releases for the local
McBurger. “Hey, kiddies, come see the all-beef clown!”
No need, though, to tell her about that.
“Sounds exciting. So what brings you to Ellerton?”
The waitress arrived and put down his second drink. He
took another sip.
Easy this time. Take it slow.
“ ‘The Town That Drowned’,” he said. “The true story
behind what really happened in 1936. If . . .” Another sip.
“If I can find it.”
“Oh.” Susan looked at her watch. “Hey, I’ve got to go.
My daughter’s getting home from day camp. She gets real
upset if I don’t get home on schedule.” Susan stood up.
“You’re married?” He tried not to let his disappointment
show.
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m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
“No.” She smiled gently, maybe even encouragingly.
“Divorced.”
He grinned.
My lucky day. Already the next week was looking a lot
better.
“Well, then, how ’bout we meet here in the a.m. and see
if we can rouse Mr. Fred Massetrino. Say nine o’clock? We
can interview him together, while I scout out the dam.”
“Agreed.” She smiled and extended her hand. “And
thanks for the wine.”
“My pleasure.”
He watched her leave, enjoying feeling almost human
again.
Then he sat down. He’d be plotzed soon if he didn’t eat
something. He picked up a grease-speckled menu.
He scanned the gourmet entrées. Ah, there it is. The
classic hamburger deluxe complete with fries, lettuce, and
tomato.
A true American delicacy, he thought, and he signaled
the waitress to come and take his order.
Fred Massetrino sat alone at the White Horse Bar, staring
into his sixth or seventh beer of the day; he stopped count-
ing a long time ago. Some smiley-faced reporter on the
tube was talking about another baby that crawled through
an open window, plummeting to its death on the hot side-
walk.
Nice story. Real newsy.
This was followed by an ad for the beer-drinker’s beer.
But any beer is the beer-drinker’s beer. Oh, yeah. He
downed his glass and let it come down hard on the bar to
catch the bartender’s attention.
’Cause I’m having more than one.
He dug out another five-dollar bill to lay on the bar to
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
33
keep his somber party going. The bartender, a dopey-looking
string bean whose pants seemed to just about stay up, tapped
the bar, signaling that this one was on the house.
And Fred nodded. Thanks, man. Big deal. I only had to
drink five beers to get a fuckin’ freebie.
Dammit, tomorrow he had to get it together. He was
gonna get screwed royally if he didn’t stay in his office.
Someone, sooner or later, was going to blow the whistle
on him.
And he had missed his appointment with that lady re-
porter.
Hell, he was risking his job, his pension, all the god-
damn time he put in for the County Water Commission as
site engineer. All going down the tube.
Yes, he thought with a smile. Site engineer. Nice title,
even if he really was the site caretaker, custodian, garbage-
man, picking up the crap left by the kids, checking the fence,
putting up new signs that read: no entrance for any pur-
pose whatsoever.
But that wasn’t it, that wasn’t what was really bothering
him.
No. It was something else.
Something that made his fat stomach go loose when he
walked beside the lake in the morning. Something that
made him think he heard someone calling him when he sat
alone in his office. And he’d think he’d heard someone
whispering, giggling, calling—
“Fred . . .”
And every time he’d leave his office and go looking
outside, there’d be nobody the fuck there. Nobody. Just
the damn lake, all choppy and churning like it was alive or
something.
And that’s the weird part.
Oh, Jeez, I’m losing it.
It seemed alive. Like the damn lake was watching him,
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m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
watching him as he checked the fence (until he stopped and
ran, really ran like hell back to his office). And he thought
he saw things in the water, sometimes the water turning so
clear on blue-sky days that he thought he saw the tops of
houses, or the dead, waterlogged branches of a tree, and
then—oh, Jesus, no—some puffy, water-bloated head
floating right up, looking at him.
Oh, God, he was losing it. No doubt about it.
Too many years hanging around that weird lake.
But he had to be there, had to be in his shit-can office, or
he’d lose his job, his dream of retiring to Florida, the
whole sweet deal. Tomorrow. He’d get a grip on himself to-
morrow.
And now he just kept chugging down his brewskies,
glad to have the White Horse to keep him sane.
That is, if he still was sane.
Tom reclined on the blanket close to Emily, ignoring his
goose bumps.
“I’ll have you come up to Cornell for the first big week-
end.” Truth? Why? He didn’t know. “It’s homecoming, and
they always book some big comic or a rock act.”
“Great,” Emily said. He could hear that she wasn’t con-
vinced. Sure, she was no fool. She probably had more than a
vague idea of what could happen to their relationship once it
went long-distance. He moved right along. “I’ll be rushing
the frat houses by then, checking them out. Maybe we’ll
have some hot parties to go to.”
There was a pause. And he braced himself.
“Where will I stay?”
He reached over and placed his hand on her stomach.
“You could,” he said slowly, “stay with me.”
“Tom, we talked about that. I’m not ready yet. I mean—”
Shit. More fun and games, huh?
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
35
He withdrew his hand. “I know, I know. Soon you’ll be
ready to let me sleep with you. Soon. Only thing is, you
can’t tell me when.” He stood up and let his pent-up frus-
tration spill out. “God, you know how many guys would
have dumped you a long time ago with that kind of atti-
tude?”
Cock teaser. He almost said it. But he held back, not
wanting to get too low.
“Well, so could you. I’m not about to be bullied into—”
“Fine. Then why don’t you go screw yourself. I think
I’ve had enough crap, waiting for you to be ready to fuck.”
He looked at her. “You know, I’m getting a little tired of
playing with myself after our dates.”
Emily stood up. “I want to go home.”
There it was. He’d pushed all her buttons, all the wrong
ones.
He looked away, out to the lake, almost dark now. He
could hear her putting on her clothes, stuffing her towel into
her bag.
“Oh, you do? Well, I want another swim. So you can
just wait.”
Prissy little bitch. Always in charge, always calling the
shots.
He moved to the water.
“I’ll wait in the car,” she announced as he turned. She
walked away, following the trail to the fence and the car.
Screw it. Let her cool her heels.
He walked a few steps into the water.
Chilly.
Almost too chilly.
But before he could decide to chuck the whole thing, he
dived into the water, surfacing to slice through the water
with powerful, practiced strokes.
Not so cold once you were in it. Kinda nice, actually.
But what a bitch. How many goddamn months had they
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m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
been going out? And he never pushed her. Never. But there’s
a limit to how long a guy can wait, for christsake. This is
1986, after all, not the freakin’ fifties. Then, as he treaded
water, he felt himself begin to simmer down. Emily was a
serious girl. And when she finally slept with a guy, that
would be it. Forever. Maybe she was old-fashioned, com-
pletely out of sync with the rest of the world. But she was
special. Real special. Maybe even worth waiting for. He
decided to swim back, catch her, and apologize (once
more!).
He was good at that. He put his head down and brought
his legs up to swim back. He kicked and pulled through the
water, glancing up to see how close he was to shore.
The shore didn’t look any closer. He seemed to be in the
same damn place. He swam some more, feeling the choppy
water spitting and gurgling around him. He looked up.
What? There was the shore, and their blanket, and the
brown food bag. But he just didn’t seem to get any closer,
no matter how hard he kicked. He tried some more kicks,
some more strokes—
Some more fear.
What the hell is going on here? He looked up out of the
water. He should call for help. No, he’d feel too stupid
with the way he’d acted. He swam harder. But the shore was
still far away. His stomach grew tight. What the hell was
going on?
“Emily! Something’s wrong. I need help.”
He waited. Could she hear him through all the trees?
“Emily!” He heard the leaves rustle with the sudden
breeze.
Great. Well, he knew he could tread water a long time
if he had to.
If he couldn’t get to shore, for whatever screwy reason,
he’d tread water till Emily came back looking for him,
until—
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37
What was that?
He felt something around his feet, just barely touching
his toes.
Probably a small pumpkin seed swimming around. The
lake was filled with the tiny fish. But then he felt it again,
around both legs—tiny, feathery touches all around him.
He tried to look down into the water.
But he couldn’t see through the now dark, totally
opaque surface.
Shit. I’m getting out of here. And he started swimming,
real hard now, as hard as he could toward shore.
But his legs didn’t move. The small, feathery touches
around his legs, those “little pumpkin seeds,” had turned to
something hard now, holding on to his legs, almost holding
him like—
He brought his right hand down to feel what he was
caught in, to push it away, to free himself. His head kept
bobbing slightly under the water.
His hand traced a path down past his hip, past his thigh,
trying to feel what in the world held him tight.
What the hell?
It felt all sort of doughy, and soft, like, like—
Flesh. Gone puffy. Rotten.
“Oh, God,” he said. And he screamed, his voice echoing
over the lake. “Emily! Help me! Emily!”
And then he couldn’t bring his hand up. It just wouldn’t
move.
Oh, Jeez. No. This can’t be happening. This can’t be—
His free hand was paddling the water crazily. He was
barely keeping his head above the surface, and he gulped
down whole mouthfuls of water.
And then he splashed his free hand down. And he felt
something close around it. And then, almost gently, begin
to pull him down.
No, please.
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m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
He screamed.
But it was cut off by the water filling his wide-open
mouth.
And then there was only the churning sound of the lake
water slapping against the dam, and the occasional throaty
hum of a car quickly passing by.
T H R E E
He looked down at her face.
Like some slinky strumpet from a black-and-white fifties
thriller, her face caught the glow of the motel sign through
the narrow slits of the blinds. Her eyes were closed, and the
tip of her tongue pressed against her upper lip.
She’s got all engines firing, Max Wiley thought. But is she thinking about me?
Was she running some catalog of bronze beefcake
through her mind? Yeah, so that other thrust was another hot
picture. A lifeguard. Click. The pizza boy. Click. A slide
show of studs.
She opened her eyes, her face grim, determined, hell-<
br />
bent to nail down the big O.
I’m trying, baby. I’m trying.
He leaned forward (oh so glad that the three sessions a
week at the Ellerton Sports and Racquet Club kept the
beginnings of a paunch in check).
She was so young. Short blond hair and a lean
dancer’s body. He deserved this. Sure, he’d set up his own
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m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
consulting engineering firm (billing a couple of million a
year), and he was mayor of one of the sleekest towns in
suburbia.
(And a devoted father too. Sure, always taking the kids
to a ball game or a movie, whenever there was time, when-
ever he wasn’t—)
She gasped, and Max Wiley let himself go, falling onto
her thin frame, their sweaty bodies sticking together. He
lay on top of her, coming down, and he caught a look at his
Rolex.
“Jesus,” he said, rolling off her, grabbing at his watch.
“I gotta go. It’s already past midnight.”
He stood up, immune to the lure of any postcoital lan-
guor. His wife knew he screwed around—no evidence, but
she was no fool—and it was best not to push it. He had a
good thing going. He had his cake. And he ate it.
As often as possible. He picked up his clothes, neatly
draped on a chair.
Jamie Collins lit a cigarette, letting the sheet slide off
her breasts.
“Couldn’t you wait until I was out?” The power she had
over him was gone . . . for the moment.
“I like a smoke . . . no, I love a smoke after sex.”
He shook his head. For six months they’d been meeting,
at all sorts of odd hours, hitting every fleabag motel within
a forty-mile radius. Always careful, he never let his pecker
get in the way of his judgment.
Usually. But after he met Jamie, being interviewed for
her community college law class, he quickly offered her
some part-time work at his company. Some filing, some let-
ter writing (what a god-awful speller), and fun and games
in the land of suburban sex.
Yes, he was simply joining a long line of politicians,
from FDR to JFK to poor Gary “Monkey Business” Hart.
Nothing went better with politics than backdoor bimbos.
But young . . . these days they had to be young.
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
41
Inexperienced and germ-free. These days he didn’t look
at anyone over twenty-two or twenty-three.
Jamie was slipping into her skirt, a blousy plaid number
in the new short style that Max was decidedly in favor of.