by A. P. Fuchs
* * * *
Years ago, Carry sat in the living room of their home. Fae would never forgive him. How could she? He had been responsible for their son. It had been his job to make sure their boy was safe. And he had made sure, hadn't he? He had told Philip to sit down, told him even before they crossed the lake that standing up in a canoe while on the water was dangerous, had said . . .
Shouldn't have gone without lifejackets, he thought. But they did anyway instead of waiting for his neighbor to return them. He had been too excited to take Philip out on the lake.
"But I still should have watched out for him," Carry said.
Fae was upstairs. She hadn't spoken to him for nearly two weeks. After Philip's funeral, communication just kind of stopped. It wouldn't be till four months later when the regular everyday talking started again.
In the end, Carry supposed, it had been for the best. Fae needed time to deal with what happened. You couldn't just get over it. What parent could? The four months were what it took to just speak to him never mind trying to look into the eyes of the man who let her son die. But they did get past it. Eventually. It took years, long talks, longer arguments, sleepless nights and even some outside help before everything went back to normal. They considered having other children but both knew they could never parent another child after losing the first.
What parent could?
* * * *
Carry's heart felt like it sunk into his stomach; his fingertips began to tingle. A moment later, his pulse sped and he didn't know how much time had passed before he realized his shirt was clinging to the sweaty skin of his back.
His elbows still ached from flinging his line out on the lake. His mouth was dry.
"Can I come in?" the shadow said.
Carry quickly closed the door and welcomed the sudden relief of shielding himself from who was on his doorstep. Safe and alone in his home. Wait---he didn't close the door. He was still staring at the shadow. The outside light didn't have to be on for him to know what color suit the man was wearing, didn't have to be on to know who---Why couldn't he close the door?
"I'd like to come in, Carry, if I could," the man said.
Carry was shocked the man knew his name but yet he wasn't all that surprised either.
"No, you . . . . No, you can't come in," Carry managed to say.
There was silence between them. Shame bathed Carry's heart because he still hadn't closed the door.
"Why not?" the man asked
"I know who you are," Carry said. He had heard the stories before, campfire tales about the Magic Man and his ability to make the pain---the heartache---go away.
"Then you know what I can do for you."
"No," he said and, gripping the doorknob tight, closed the door. He stared at the door's wooden paneling a long while, repeatedly reassuring himself that, yes, the door was closed and he hadn't just imagined it.
He turned and headed for the bedroom.
Two knocks on the door.
Don't debate with yourself, Carry thought. Just go to bed. He'll be gone by morning. If you ignore him he'll go away. But Carry didn't want him to go away because he knew why the Magic Man had come to see him.
Philip.
Philip was the reason. Was always the reason. Philip was why Carry didn't like getting out of bed in the morning. Philip was the reason each breath was sometimes an effort, as if the built-in need to breathe---to stay alive---was a curse rather than a gift.
Philip. Always Philip. It was always hi---
Carry was at the door again and he watched his old, wrinkled hand move toward the doorknob as though watching a movie. He felt the coolness of the brass in his palm, but still refused to believe he was the one in control. It would be much easier to believe the Magic Man was controlling his actions, forcing him to open the door and finish the conversation.
Just a talk, Carry figured. I can hear his side of things then tell him no. If I don't listen, if I don't hear him out . . . . His thought finished with a twist in his stomach. Regret. That's what would happen if he didn't at least hear what the Magic Man had to say. The chance might never come again.
Carry opened the door.
The man was gone.
* * * *
That night Carry lay in bed, watching the moonlight brighten then fade against his ceiling. The only sound was the wheezing of his breaths as he tried to relax.
Philip.
He should have said yes. Should have at least listened to the man with the dark long hair and beard. Should have---
Two knocks on the door. A smile creased Carry's lips. He was about to leap from bed---as quick as any old man could---and go to the front door, but when the two knocks came again, he realized they were against his bedroom door.
His heart sped up. Just breathe. Just--- "It's open," Carry said. The moonlight against the ceiling stopped fading and remained there, bright against the stucco, as if Time's passage had suddenly ceased.
His bedroom door creaked open and the Magic Man stepped in.
"I can bring him back, Carry," he said. "I can make the pain go away."
* * * *
The water glubbed around him, the same sound you heard when jumping into the deep end of the pool, the same sound that rushed past your ears and disappeared to somewhere above. And for a moment, Carry thought it was the first time he had heard that sound, but then remembered he heard it at least a dozen times in the last hour, if not more.
If it had been an hour that passed.
He opened his eyes on reflex, his eyeballs suddenly met with the icy cold of dark lake water. He squeezed his eyelids shut and got a nose full of water when he tipped backward and slowly did a somersault.
Frantic, he tried swimming to the surface, his old arms carving through the water as hard and as fast as he was able. A rush of wave pushed him back down with each thrust upward. He kicked, his power generating in his hips and thighs, running down his legs and out through his feet.
Up, up . . .
Cold water pushed him back down.
Not like this! Should have said no, he thought. But thoughts were all they were. If only he could translate them into speech. If only he could tell somebody---but no one was down here beneath the water's surface. No one was with him in the lake.
He opened his eyes again and was greeted with the dark murk of dirty water. He squeezed his eyes shut. Shivers ran through him, starting at his fingertips then shooting straight through his arms, shoulders, his whole body. His muscles tensed.
Just relax, swim upward, he thought. Arms up and out and push down and---The water pressed against him.
Carry jolted when his lungs instinctively tried to take in a breath.
No! Can't! His thoughts were lost to the pressure against his rib cage and the sudden headache forming above and beside his eyes. He clenched his jaw, fighting to keep the water from coming in. His chest muscles lurched and his lips opened---barely---just enough to let the metallic taste of lake water sit upon his tongue. He thought about spitting it out but didn't want to risk any more of the filthy water coming in.
How did he end up like this? Why had he given in and asked the Magic Man for help?
Philip. Just to see him again.
"I can bring him back," the Magic Man had told him. "I can make the pain go away."
"How?" Carry remembered asking. They were still in the bedroom, the Magic Man just inside the door, Carry in his bed.
At first it didn't seem as if the Magic Man would answer, but just as Carry was going to ask again, the Magic Man said, "Leave that to me. I've done it before, countless times. You said yourself you know who I am. That would mean you also know what I'm capable of."
"I also know that what you do comes with a price."
The Magic Man removed his purple fedora and ran a hand over his long, matted hair. He put the hat back on. "I only ask you do something for me in return, that's all and that's fair."
Carry closed his eyes. Though he had closed the door on the Magic
Man before, he didn't know if he could do it again or if the Magic Man would return a third time. This could be the only chance he had to see Philip again, to have him brought back to life or to perhaps have the whole incident averted in the first place and have the memories of a life without his son replaced with new ones. But at what cost?
I can't say yes. If I do . . . "No," Carry said.
"Then you don't love him as much as you think you do."
Carry's heart fell to pieces. He loved his son, more than anything, more than even . . . Fae. Her death didn't hurt as much as Philip's had. Then again, he also hadn't been responsible for her death either. He loved him. Philip. He died with him that day on the lake.
Philip. He was everything and always.
"I-I love him," Carry said.
"No, you don't." The Magic Man turned toward the bedroom door and disappeared into the dark.
Philip. The name echoed in Carry's mind, but it wasn't his voice that put it there. It was the Magic Man's, that smooth, deep and melodic voice, one backed with confidence, compassion and the reassurance that his word was gold.
Carry got out of bed and went into the dark.
A pinch at the back of his throat and Carry was coughing. His limbs shook from stress and fear. He was drowning.
Just like Philip had.
The lake water rushed into his mouth and filled his windpipe with ice and doom. He reflexively coughed and inhaled a lungful of water. His lungs pounded from the pressure, from being over-filled. Shivers ran through him. His spine turned to steel.
Desperately trying to swim upward, Carry opened his eyes when he couldn't move his arms or legs.
There was nothing above him, only the dark of the lake.
* * * *
It started again.
The water sped past him as Carry fell further and further into the dark, the sounds of air bubbles whisking by then bursting above, making him think he'd only sunk down a few feet. When he opened his eyes, the muddy brown of the lake above, so deep and dense, told him he was a lot further below than that. His old bones turned to cold rods of iron beneath his skin. He could barely move.
Push yourself, he thought. He raised his arms and tried to swim upward, the weight of his nightclothes pulling him back down.
Fingers fumbling for the buttons to his top, he kept kicking his legs, trying to move upward. The buttons wouldn't come undone. The cold water froze his fingertips and all he felt was vibrating, fatty numbness as his fingers tried to grasp the buttons.
Move! He kicked and swam several feet upward and, like before, a rush of water sent him back down, down, down---He landed on his bottom against something soft. Biting back his breath, he felt beside him. It felt like dead, rotting fish but he knew it was only the lake's floor. He took a scoop of mud in each hand and squeezed his fingers into a tight fist.
Should never have said yes to him, he thought. And for a brief moment, he thought Philip wasn't worth it. Wasn't worth dying for. Stop it! He's everything. It's my fault, my responsibility. It was me, it was---
His lungs filled with frigid water. He coughed, and bolted---floated---off the lake's floor, his scream muted by the water around him. Lungs bursting with pressure, pain and a sensation he couldn't put into words but only brutally feel, he opened his eyes and felt his life slip away.
* * * *
"Did you find what you were looking for?" the boy asked.
"No, not yet," Carry said.
"Why not?"
"Because it isn't there."
"Then you haven't looked hard enough."
Philip.
His son was here with him beneath the water. It wasn't so cold anymore.
"I'm sorry," Carry said. He knew he shouldn't be able to speak under water, but he could.
Philip was in a seated position, floating in front of him, the boy's clothes moving loosely around him like some kind of sheet over a ghost. His dark hair floated upright in smooth, rhythmic waves, and though it was dark, Carry shuddered when he saw how gray Philip's skin was. Gray and pruned from spending too much time beneath the water.
What am I looking for? Carry thought. He'd been down here so many times before, more than he cared to recall. His lungs didn't hurt as much. Perhaps having to do this over and over was building up some kind of endurance and he could hold his breath for longer stretches at a time.
"Dad?" Philip said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry."
Though there was water all around his face, Carry swore he felt tears creep up to then leak out of the corners of his eyes. "It's not your fault."
"I should have listened."
"And I should have caught you."
"Dad."
"Philip!" Carry reached out to grab him when he began floating away, slowly disappearing into the murk. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't swim fast enough and before he was even able to propel himself forward, Philip was gone.
"No," he said, and the moment he opened his mouth, lake water rushed in. "No," he tried saying again, but this time only heard a muted grunt.
Don't give in, don't speak, don't breathe, he told himself. Stomach lurching, his innards filling with the metallic, filthy taste of lake water, he tried swimming toward the surface.
What just happened? Was Philip really there? Did the Magic Man come through? He wanted to cry because he knew the answer was no and that it was all in his mind.
Opening his eyes, he glanced upward, hoping to see the surface of the lake. Instead there were only the small bubbles dribbling from his lips, floating upward.
I want to go home, he thought. His lungs ignited and he thought that if he could figure out some way to swallow his tongue, at least for a short while, he could seal off his windpipe and stop the water from coming in. He even tried doing so but when he bent his tongue back, it pressed against the roof of his mouth, creating a small opening between his lips.
More water rushed in.
Ah, hell, he thought and inhaled. He choked, tried to cough, but nothing came of it and instead his throat felt like it was going to burst.
I want to die. I'm sorry, Philip, but I can't keep doing this. Not anymore. This has to stop.
Despite how much he knew it was going to hurt, Carry sucked in more water, filling his lungs to the brim. In less than a minute, he knew, he'd pass out. And, if what he had read about drowning was true, two or three minutes after that, he'd be dead. At least those were two to three minutes he wouldn't have to consciously experience.
Then I'll have to do it all over again, he thought.
He waited for the dark.
* * * *
Carry's back hit the water with a hard slap and he tumbled downward, fast at first but as the water cradled him in its icy arms, his descent slowed and, soon after, his feet touched bottom. He shuttered when his toes curled around that sick, mushy gunk at the bottom of the lake. He knew it was mud but it still felt like dead fish.
As if I've ever stepped on dead fish, he thought. Making a joke in spite of his circumstance made him feel a little better.
What would Fae have done if the Magic Man approached her with the chance to see her son again? Would she have said yes? Could she have said yes if she knew she had to drown for a lifetime just to see him?
Carry's eyes shot wide when he remembered the Magic Man didn't say how he was going to bring Philip back. Would Philip even be alive? Would the Magic Man somehow find Philip's body at the bottom of the lake and present to him a bunch of bones covered in a boy's clothing?
Don't think about it. Just get this done, Carry thought. He didn't know how many more times he could do this or how many more times he even wanted to. How many times he had to. He didn't even know how many times he had already done this. His heart broke when he realized he didn't want to do this anymore. It was enough. He was tired of feeling warm then suddenly freezing when his body submerged in the lake and those stupid air bubbles rushed past his ears. He was sick of his lungs pounding after a minute of not having
any air and pounding even harder---burning---as he tried to hold his breath a moment longer.
All for a boy who died over fifty years ago.
Philip wasn't worth it. No life was worth dying for. And though he'd never been a selfish man, Carry was proud for being one now.
He closed his eyes and gathered his strength. Maybe the Magic Man was listening.
When he spoke, his words were nothing but muted noise. Still, he knew what he was saying and he hoped the Magic Man could somehow make it out. "Please, I'm sorry. I was wrong. You win. I don't want to see my son anymore. No more. Just let me out. He isn't . . . . You're right. I don't love him as much as I---"
He waited to see if anything would happen.
Nothing did.
Fine, then I'll get myself out.
Carry breathed in.
* * * *
Carry hit the water like before. How did he end up here? A moment ago he was in the canoe with his father and saw a branch and grabbed hold of it and---Not my father. It was Philip who grabbed the branch. It was Philip who---Just to see him again.
It all came back to him and he remembered why he was here. The Magic Man could not win.
Carry breathed in.
* * * *
The moment his memory returned and he knew he had plunged into the lake hundreds---if not, thousands---of times before, Carry gulped back the water and waited for death to come.
* * * *
The icy water shocked his system.
Carry welcomed it to his lungs.
* * * *
Carry breathed in.
* * * *
Carry drowned.
* * * *
Carry wouldn't let him win.
* * * *
He'd died countless times, each time willingly, but with each time, the Magic Man did not come.
Carry let the pain take him away.
