Beneath the Lake Read online

  Before Ray can respond, Warren spins on his knees, digs a camping knife from the bag, flicks the blade open and slices through the rope. He hauls the anchor from the stacked chain, heaving it up to his chest. His mouth opens, but the words are drowned out by an electric hum. The smell of burned copper hangs inside the rain, and a colossal flash transforms the sky and lake and all else bright white. Too many fingers of lightning to count dance across the lake in a symphony of explosions.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ his father says, hugging the anchor to his chest. He rocks back, down between the pontoons, and is swallowed by the lake.

  The coil of severed rope and twelve feet of steel chain sings in a quickening trail across the canvas, chasing the anchor. Ray throws himself forward, diving after it. He snags the last foot of rope in his wet right hand as his momentum and the sinking weight carry him headfirst into the waves, down into the churning silence.

  Into darkness absolute.

  The Eye

  Raymond wakes inside a soft womb, the pale blue dawn creeping over the red skin of Leonard’s tent, the two-man Coleman his brother let him sleep in last night. The morning air is laced with the scents of woods and field flowers and sage weed. His young body slides within the cool soft fabric of his sleeping bag. He rises with the knowledge he is in the kingdom, it is theirs. The heart of summer, where thoughts of school and homework and his father’s business and chores and the boredom of life back home are not allowed, not here, not today.

  The day awaits him like another life, infinite.

  The tent door fills with the mouth of a huge catfish, whiskers and brown-gray hide, a stinking beady-eyed monster that flops into his lap.

  ‘Boo!’ Leonard shouts, falling in with his catch, breaking into peals of laughter.

  Riding on the back of the little Honda, Raymond holds his big brother around the waist. They burn the sand trails, weaving through trees and over fields of sharp grass and yellow flowers, the morning sun chasing them as they startle a jack rabbit from cover. The two-cycle engine screams as Leonard winds him into terror and ecstasy, the ground blurring into a tunnel with the rabbit at its center.

  It is better than Star Wars.

  Between additions to his sand castle, Raymond munches on a frozen Zero bar, the white chocolate making his teeth ache. He watches his parents in their lawn chairs, drinking cocktails, laughing under the shade of their umbrella. Francine is young and beautiful, his father a strong wolf. He leans in to kiss her from time to time, and she whispers in his ear.

  Raymond abandons his moat and wanders into the lake. The water is pure, the sand rigid under his toes. He swims on his back, kicking himself out a hundred yards, two hundred, safe in the cove.

  He looks back to see his father leading his mother up the trail to the top of the point. Raymond knows where they are going, why. Into the camper, while the kids are at play. He is embarrassed for himself, happy for them.

  As the sunset throws pink and purple bands across the horizon, the family gathers around the fire pit atop the point. Colt sits Indian-style in a deep canvas chair, wearing a thick hooded sweatshirt that cups her surf-roughened hair. Leonard is hunched over a log, using a pocket knife to carve its branches into spears. Raymond reclines on the wicker longue, mesmerized by the fire and the scent of his favorite meal coming from the barbecue.

  Dad uses the tongs to worry over the five baseball-cut filet mignon that have been marinating in his special Blundstone-only concoction since they left home, a glass of scotch on the grill’s warm fender. Mom is inside, plattering the boiled corn on the cob, tater-tots and blackened hearts of romaine. They debate using the picnic table, but their current arrangements around the fire win out. They saw into their steaks and occasionally look up to watch the giant orange fireball descend below the horizon, finishing their marshmallow s’mores in the dark.

  Warren, feeling his buzz, enchants them with stories. He is a master storyteller, taking them through some of the strange encounters he had in Vietnam, though never the combat stories, or the ones labeled R&R. He tells them about a suburban husband who lost a hand to his lawn mower, another about an employee who got caught stealing money from the bank. The last is a tale they’ve heard before but never seem to tire of, the one about Dad and Uncle Gaspar’s cross-country road trip after the war, the policeman who chased them for almost three hundred miles across Montana and wound up drinking beer with them all night, all three of them landing in jail.

  Around ten, when they should be exhausted but no one is, Leonard suggests they do the fireworks. It’s a perfect night for it, with no wind, he insists. The sand bar is calling us.

  ‘You know that’s our tradition for the last night, Len,’ Dad tells him. ‘We still have two nights to go.’

  ‘I think we should go for it,’ Colt says. ‘It just feels right tonight.’

  ‘Yes!’ Raymond piles on. ‘At least let us do some fountains and sparklers. We can save the rest for the last night.’

  ‘All or none,’ Warren says. ‘You know how it goes. Once we start, we can’t stop. But I really think we should wait. Waiting makes it better, right?’

  A round of boos and aawww-nnaaaahhhs ensues.

  Dad looks to Mom. Francine shrugs. ‘This is your thing. I don’t trust any of it. Someone’s going to lose an eye one of these years.’

  ‘Not on my watch,’ Warren says.

  Sensing that the final verdict still hangs in the balance, the kids lean forward expectantly. Warren reads the unification in their eyes, and his eyes turn serious as he peers at each of his children over the flames.

  ‘Well, what’s so special about today? I want to hear it, from each of you. Leonard goes first.’

  ‘You’re on.’ Leonard sets down his Dr Pepper and stretches his arms. ‘So, this morning I’m out fishing in my tube, past the cove. Four trips now, I still haven’t landed a striper. Plenty of walleye, perch, some big catfish. But never the striped bass. I spent last month reading up on the tackle, the best bait. Brought out the shad this year. I figured, this year or bust. Well, three hours went by, no striper. I reeled everything in and started changing out my lure, and I don’t know what it was, but something came over me. I just kind of felt like sitting for a while. I set my rod down. The wind died. Everything was so quiet, I could have heard a minnow jump a mile away. Then, maybe twenty feet off, I see this silver-white patch in the water go cruising by. I didn’t move a muscle. A few seconds later, to my left, I see it again. This pale flash. Maybe thirty inches. I couldn’t move. I thought he was gone, and then the water behind my legs sort of churned. He passed right in front of me a couple seconds later, an inch from the surface, and I saw him. Huge striper, at least four feet long, probably thirty pounds, maybe forty. Circling and circling, one eye on me, six or seven times before he got bored and left. And I can tell you, I am absolutely sure, he knew I’d laid my rod down. He let me see him, because he knew. It was the most perfect thing that ever happened to me, no joke.’

  They keep quiet for a spell, imagining Leonard’s great fish.

  Warren nods in appreciation. ‘Not bad. Not too shabby at all, Leonard. Onward with… Colette?’

  ‘Mine wasn’t as exciting as Jaws here,’ she says. ‘But I had the best day. I was sitting under the umbrella, reading my book. I don’t know where the rest of you were, but the beach was completely empty. I was alone. Usually when I read, if the story’s good, I’m completely transported away, like, into the story, you know? But today wasn’t like that. I was really into my book. Hard not to, cause it’s a classic. Gone With the Wind. I could see that world like I was living in it, and I was also here, totally aware of the lake and the beach and the sky. My feet in the sand. It was almost like time-traveling, like I was two people, two places, balancing them both inside me. And for a few minutes, it wasn’t like time travel. It was real. I could step from one time and place into the next at will. I was traveling through time and I lived more than this one life, which I love, but I loved the other one t
oo in different ways, and the whole thing made me happy. So happy. That’s all.’

  Francine is staring at her daughter with some kind of understanding the boys can’t quite get a hold of. She blows a kiss to Colt and whispers something Raymond can’t hear, but he doesn’t mind.

  ‘Raymond, my man,’ his dad says. ‘Got yourself some tough competition here. What was so great about your day?’

  ‘Everything,’ Raymond says. ‘But I know, I know. Have to pick one. So, okay, I walked a long ways up the beach, past the point and the next two camp grounds. I didn’t find any toads, but all the sudden I see this girl.’

  ‘Ooohh,’ Leonard coos. ‘Ray’s got a girlfriend!’

  ‘Shut up, Len,’ Raymond says. ‘It wasn’t like that. She was younger, and I thought it was weird how she was out there all alone. Playing by herself. Well, she wasn’t totally alone. She had this dog with her, and he was crippled or had a busted leg or something, because he was in a little wheelchair made for dogs. Anyway, there wasn’t any danger I could see, but I had this feeling she and that dog were far from home. Camp, I mean. She kept picking stuff up, looking for fossils or stones to chuck, I guess. About the fourth time she bends down, she comes up with something special. I couldn’t tell what it was. Then she did something strange. She stared at me like she knew me, or was noticing something different about me. She waved, and I waved, but… something else. There was this white light around her, different from the sun. Kind of mysterious. And for a second… like, what if she was an angel? Like a real girl, but an angel somehow too? Then she set the thing back down in the sand, leaving it for me. And she ran off, back to her camp site or wherever. When she was gone…’

  He digs into his jeans pocket, holding it up above the fire for them to see.

  ‘It’s like a crystal or something. Looks dark now. But in the sun, you can see right through it. It’s got spiral shape like a seashell, except there aren’t any seashells at the lake, right? I’ve never found one. Never. Not even a crabshell or a crawdad.’

  He passes the object to Leonard, who rolls it between his fingers and smiles before passing it on to Colt. The little oddity makes its rounds almost too quickly, as if they don’t trust it. Raymond pockets it again as he finishes.

  ‘I don’t know if I should take it home or leave it here, on the beach. That girl might want it back, whoever she is.’

  ‘Angel, huh?’ Mom says. ‘I think that’s lovely, Raymond. You should keep it. She probably wants you to remember her.’

  He hopes they can’t see him blushing in the firelight.

  ‘Welcome to your first crush,’ Leonard says, and the rest of them crack up.

  ‘What about it, Dad?’ Colt says. ‘I’d say we’re doing pretty good so far. Give us your best, Captain.’

  Warren knocks back the last of his scotch, offering them a wiggle of the eyebrows and a devilish grin.

  ‘Your mother and I had a nice swim in the cove after lunch. Then we treated ourselves to the famous Blundstone foot massages, and that is always something. When I was in the war, what the jungle does inside your boots… I tell you, I spend all year looking forward to digging my feet into this sand. But that wasn’t the best part of my day.’ He pauses, glancing at Francine, who is frowning in concern. ‘Best part of my day was when I took your mother here up into the camper and we had ourselves a little —’

  ‘Warren, that’s enough,’ Mom says.

  Warren chuckles. ‘Well, it sure beat the hell out of Len’s fish, Colt’s romance novel and the pirate treasure from Raymond’s little girlfriend.’ He leans into his wife and plants a big one on her cheek. ‘I love you, woman. I sure do. My Franny girl.’

  Mom waves a hand over her bosom theatrically. ‘Okay, get back, get back. For Pete’s sake, you.’

  ‘Your turn, darlin’,’ Warren tells her. ‘Saved the best for last.’

  Francine leans forward, running a finger around the rim of her wine glass, rosy and alive and feeling more than she is used to.

  ‘This,’ his mother says. ‘Now. This moment. With all of you. My precious children. My crazy husband. I would not trade this for all the world.’

  Leonard looks down at his feet, bashful. Colt gazes into the fire, stunned. Raymond feels content. Now everyone will say goodnight, off to bed, that was the end. And that will be all right.

  Warren rises without a word, stepping up into the camper. He returns with two triple-layered, extra-large paper shopping bags overflowing with fireworks, a bundle of punk igniters sticking out of his clenched fist.

  ‘Tomorrow night could be windy,’ he says. ‘Shall we?’

  They hop up, cheering, and make their way down to the beach.

  Out on the sand bar, in the deeper darkness approaching midnight, they stand back from the arsenal arrayed. Fountains, roman candles, flat spinners, helicopters, scores of Black Cat bottle rockets, small bricks of jumping jacks and regular old firecrackers, snakes and smoke bombs – it’s all been laid out in stages.

  Before them, the lake is a smooth black mirror.

  Each Mercer holds a punk stick, even Francine, who is scared of so much black powder in the presence of her offspring. Leonard is wearing a bandana, as if he’s been in the bush too long. Colt is hunched over, a runner waiting for the starter shot.

  ‘Ready?’ Ray says. ‘Can we go? Is it time?’

  ‘Almost.’ Warren is either sublimely playing the part of fire marshal and platoon leader, or actually so lost in character he’s discovered a new self. ‘Gather with me. Closer. Down here.’

  They form a circle at the middle of the sand bar, crouching with their father. They can’t see his face, but the whites of his eyes reveal a contagious intensity. Ray feels the gooseflesh of delicious anticipation running over his arms, up his neck.

  Warren flicks the lighter at their center, illuminating their faces in a singular jack-o-lantern glow. Their shoulders touch. The night gathers, holding its breath.

  ‘For our family,’ Warren says. ‘For our love. For today and ever after.’

  They stay that way, huddled in close formation, savoring the moment that is their perfection.

  And then it’s time.

  The rockets transform the black mirror into a universe of stars and comets, blue and orange, green and purple, with flashes of white-hot booms that leave trailing galaxies of smoke. The beach takes the thrusting fire and sparks of liftoff, sending the missiles off without fault or complaint, and the lake douses a rainfall of embers. Geysers of red and green make Christmas trees in June, while elves of pink and blue flutter and dance across the sand twenty-four at a go. A battery of rockets travel two hundred feet above the lake to blow rainbows against the darkness. They ride the night, the fireworks their bulwark against it, claiming it as their own. They take turns running forth to the tip of the point to set off another cannon, hurrying back to stand in alliance, heads back, mouths open, eyes reflecting the bombast of their celebration.

  Just when they think it is over, Warren retrieves his surprise encore.

  Mom holds the flashlight as he unsheathes his Excalibur from a tubular gun case. The homemade rocket has been constructed of tapered balsa doweling, around which five spear-tipped display torches have been bound with electrical tape, a tail delay consisting of five illegal cherry bombs, and a single ten-ounce aspirin bottle packed with black powder snugged inside the cone. The fuse is six feet long and thick as a pencil. The flaming surface of its launch sears the sand with a tentacled bomb shadow that seems wickedly alive. Then it is aloft, hurling into the sky, higher and higher until the orange flame of its booster fades into the dark.

  They wait, and wait, and the sinking feeling sets in. All that work, ending in a dud. They stand in reluctant acknowledgement, slowly coming back into their bodies, trying to make peace with the dismal end to an otherwise perfect celebration.

  The tangles of lightning come first, spearing out in all directions, until each tip mushrooms into a white flash that joins one to another into the
ultimate circle, devouring the night in great bites, eclipsing itself in escalating stages of shattering white. The bombs go off in rapid succession, casting the five of them and the entire cove inside a star. Raymond feels the beach rumble beneath his feet, up in his teeth, through his soul.