Night Swim

by Jessica Keener

  When she first came to our house, I thought her ugly and stout but I knew differently now. She was tough and steadfast; more importantly, she cared.

  “You have everything?” she asked, as if she heard my thoughts. She turned from the stove and waited for me to answer.

  “Yes. See you tonight. Right?” Betsy honked twice out front. I grabbed my books.

  “Where else am I going to be?” She pretended to be insulted and we had our first laugh together.

  I felt grateful towards her.

  ~~~~~

  As the summer wore on, I grew to like how insanely fast Betsy drove on the highway; grew accustomed to her world of perkiness and glossy lipstick. I loved how my hair snapped in the wind, the air currents thrashing against my blouse. For the first time since needing a bra, I began to go without. I didn’t leave the house this way. I got in the car and it became my ritual with Betsy to unbuckle my bra and slip it into my book bag. My breasts had grown another cup size and pressed harder against my cotton shirts.

  We each had our secrets to bear: Betsy wore a bikini under her skirt. She posed every afternoon for Mr. Donald, the photographer teacher. The old man had a perverse obsession with her. Each afternoon, new versions of Betsy in glossy, 8 x 11 black and white photos filled the backseat of the Thunderbird: Betsy leaning over a tree limb, Betsy sitting with her legs spread on a school bench; Betsy bending over with her back to the camera.

  “He says it’s for art,” she said, nonchalantly. “And he pays me. Hey, if it gives him a thrill who cares.” She slid her palm up her thigh. “Thank God I don’t have any cellulite.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t have to.

  At school, I went through the motions of classes until Gregory and I slipped away during free time in the afternoon. We went to the marsh. On the second day he pulled a rolled joint from his pocket and lit up as soon as we walked deep enough through the trees and grasses.

  “You want to try this?”

  I nodded and watched him pinch the joint between his lips, then studiously light the cigarette until a smoky perfume rose out of it. I remembered how Peter and Kenneth did it, holding the smoke and coughing and now I watched myself do the same. The sun was veiled and this made the oak leaves deepen in color. I walked toward the marshes. I wanted to stand in the tall reeds, where the cattails stood high as my shoulder. I wanted to become a field of cattails, dance with the reeds.

  “This is where history happens,” I said, taking Gregory’s hand and pulling him with me. I walked toward a thick bush of cattails and stood in the middle, surrounding myself in the greenery. “Let’s say you’re fighting in the Civil War.” I pulled a stalk off. “Are you thinking about dying? Your favorite, home-cooked dish? Or kissing your sweetheart?”

  I turned and kissed Gregory.

  “Let’s say this is Paradise,” he said. “You’re Eve. I’m Adam. Let’s take our clothes off.”

  ~~~~~

  This became our ritual. Every afternoon from then on, we crossed the soccer field to the remote end of campus, split a joint, and returned to the same small clearing by the marsh. It was far from the center of the campus and sheltered. Except for small animals rustling and a bird’s disturbance in the twigs, no one paid attention to us. Gregory took pictures of me lying on the ground with my arms raised above my head. Then he lay down beside me on the pine needles. Each day we shed another piece of clothing: my blouse, his shirt, my underwear. He kissed my naked breasts and slid down my stomach, licking me where no boy had ever touched before. Layers of gloom peeled away. I abandoned myself to this lightness, opening my legs as Betsy did on the bench in her bikini, a feeling of wings fluttering between my thighs until I swam into another explosion. I touched him too, until his legs shuddered and his breath exhaled in a strange rhythm. Then, we became quiet and still.

  When it was time to go, I dressed and walked out ahead of him, crossing the soccer field that grew hotter and drier as summer wore on. Brown grasses flattened to the ground. I climbed the small hill and passed the quadrangle where kids hung out, either on a bench or in small couplings in the darker shadows of the trees. I knew everyone’s faces but few kids by name. At the end of the day, I returned to the parking lot and waited by the Thunderbird until Betsy sauntered between the crossword puzzle of cars and nonchalantly threw another stack of photos in the backseat.

  ~~~~~

  The weekends were hardest. Day students stayed home while the boarders went on trips. I told Gregory not to call me at home. I didn’t want Father or Dora asking questions. I didn’t want Gregory connecting to my old life. I didn’t want to explain myself or ruin the Eden we had created for ourselves. I never mentioned Mother. I only wanted the present, everything as is, no worries, no darkness and ambiguity. No past.

  On Saturday mornings, I went to the Soquaset library or the music store and bought Top 40 singles and sheet music with my weekly allowance. I memorized songs by the Byrds, Neil Young, Carole King, Simon and Garfunkel, The Doors. I bought yards of cheap flowered cotton material at the sewing store and made ankle-length skirts for Gregory to reach under.

  I sewed in the cool air of our basement, pushing the pedal of the simple Singer sewing machine. Father still had not moved back upstairs. He taught summer classes during the day. At night, he went inward, drinking tall glasses of vodka with lime, retreating to his office to listen to Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. He listened to the same songs over and over. Or he stayed out with Delgarno. I stopped practicing piano preferring to sing in Peter’s room, to my invisible audience or Elliot, to Gregory in the marshes.

  Peter wrote to say that California was a dream. Mountains. Pacific waters. Seals lounging in rocky coves in San Diego. “I belong here. Writing songs, sidewalk gigs. Love you. Peter.”

  Because of Gregory, I didn’t notice the weeks passing until it was the final week, and then, on my last night at Stonehill Father said I could stay over. The headmistress assigned me to an empty room. One of the boarders had gone home early.

  Despite a foggy night and threat of rain, the buffet dinner was held outside on the tennis courts. Tables covered in red cloth offered pasta salads and barbecue chicken breasts. Gregory and I took a nostalgic walk around campus. We crossed the soccer fields for the last time.

  Once the daylight dimmed, the clouds grew dense and settled low to the ground. It was eerie and thrilling. I couldn’t see past a few yards. I wanted to walk deeper into the fog as if plunging into the middle of it would allow me to capture its haunting soul, delay my inevitable return to school in September. Fog bleached away the sensation of time, melting its edges. I didn’t want the night hours to end.

  Gregory took a joint from his pocket and lit up. I drank up the smoke, the ether substance that lightened me like breathing helium. The weather obscured everything, even smoke, and the smell from the marsh flooded the air with a sticky stench of rotting grasses. I inhaled and waited for the oozing sensation to lift me up on the fog floating in layers all around me. The sound of distant laughter, a student calling out reached us as if from a neighboring town.

  We claimed the swampy edge as our own and found a stump of a tree to sit on, searching for specters. A scarf of fog moved in circles. Gregory hugged me. I leaned into him. He reached for my shirt and pulled it over my head.

  Tonight, we left our clothes next to the tree stump. The grass was dew soaked, tickling between my toes. Gregory came up behind me and leaned his hips against my buttocks. I had felt him so many times like this, but had not let him in and time was running out.

  I turned and nudged him closer between my thighs.

  We heard more distant calling.

  “What are they saying?” he asked, pausing.

  “It’s nothing.”

  I pulled him closer.

  “Remember this,” he whispered.

  We stood together, not moving except to close the gap between us until he was all the way in. He groaned, his knees easing down. Then he slipped out and slid down my thigh.
r />   “Sarah —”

  I knelt beside him.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  We reached for our clothes, got dressed and smoked another joint, folded together on the moist ground. No worries about time. I could have been anywhere in the world, queen of my own country. We heard voices shouting again and then it grew silent. I fell asleep.

  I awoke to an urgent sound, someone calling my name. It was early morning. My mouth dry, I nudged Gregory awake.

  “Go ahead of me. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria for breakfast.”

  I walked back across the soccer field, to a small, grassy knoll just beyond reach of the dormitory windows, most of which were dark, except for one. Mrs. Corey paced outside, smoking, calling my name.

  I stood behind a tree debating whether I should answer her or wait until daylight.

  I walked down the hill and crossed the driveway.

  “Sarah! Come here, now! What do have to say for yourself?”

  I looked at the ground, at her shoes clotted with moss. “I was walking with Gregory. I’m sorry. It was such a beautiful night with the fog. I’m sorry. It sounds crazy but I fell asleep.”

  “Not good enough, Sarah. I’m very disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry. Nothing happened.”

  “I was about to call the police. I’m calling your father to pick you up — ”

  “Betsy can drive me home.”

  “Don’t say another word, child. Come with me.”

  I stood and waited for more. But she turned and I followed her into the dorm lounge. She went into another small room and called home. On the one hand, I knew how very stupid I had been. And what about saying good-bye to Gregory? This would be impossible. I turned to look out the window as the dawn light brought the trees out of their shadows. On the other hand, Mrs. Corey and this school seemed already in the past like everything in my life. I didn’t care. It seemed inconsequential, stupid that a walk in the woods — and I didn’t think my sex life was her business — warranted a call to the police. This wasn’t a dire situation. No one was dying or dead. I knew about that.

  “It’s my fault, Mrs. Corey,” Gregory said, knocking on the door.

  “It’s mine,” I said.

  “Gregory! I’m calling your father next.”

  Mrs. Corey ordered him out. She led us both outside and instructed me to sit on a bench. Then she pointed Gregory toward a path that led to his dorm. I watched him walk away. Mrs. Corey sat on the bench beside me and we waited in silence. We had nothing left to say to each other. I was sorry to upset her but facing Father would be much worse. I dreaded his arrival.

  While I waited — and Mrs. Corey did look pitiful — she chain-smoked, her hair was matted, her face oily from lack of sleep, I sat contrite, accepting blame. I understood my fault in this, but life was important and on this night I made a decision I didn’t regret. The night held its warmth and I cradled it on my skin, steeping in the pleasure of Gregory’s touch. Around me, pine trees lining the fields understood me. They didn’t stir or twist like Mrs. Corey. Nature was accepting. I felt calm until I heard him. The car sped up the gravel road in a crash of pebbles banging against the car fender, tires scratching the road. The car stopped. The door opened and thumped shut. Silence and then he was in front of me.

  “Get in, Sarah.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Get in before I smash you!” He tugged on my elbow and pulled me across the driveway and into the front seat, then slammed the door. I leaned as far away from him as I could. He ignited the car and started driving out.

  “Goddamn it, what were you doing?”

  “Walking.”

  “Who’s the boy? Who’s the goddamn boy?”

  “No one.”

  “Who’s the boy you were with all night?”

  He lifted his hand off the wheel and smacked the dashboard.

  I shrieked. “Stop this! Stop this car. Now! You’re scaring me!”

  He lurched out the main entrance to the country road but as he slowed to turn a corner, I opened my door, leapt out into the soft wooded embankment, and ran.

  Father honked and caught up to me, yelling to me through the window to get back in the car. I kept running alongside the road, until my lack of sleep started to weigh me down, and the road ahead began to look endless, a long line of fir trees and pale, white-dotted lines. No houses in sight.

  “Put your head on and get in this car because I’m going to follow you until you do. Do you understand me?”

  I slowed to a walk but I refused to look at him. “Get away from me.” I kept walking.

  He accelerated and drove ahead then turned sharply off the road and braked. He opened his door and got out.

  “Sarah, get in the car.” He pointed to my side of the car. He started walking toward me.

  I turned around and ran again but then I tripped on a tree root. As I got up, I saw the sun rising. I could see its shoulder as it wended its way up through the vegetation. Not a single car had passed us.

  He touched my arm and grabbed me, spinning me around and holding me by the shoulders.

  “Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “Get out of my life!”

  This punctured him. He didn’t let go but everything in him sagged to his knees just as that day with Peter at the dinner table. He looked at me but I looked away, at the sky turning orange and blue. The fog had been a temporary thing. Now the sky showed itself; a huge streak of colors over the trees that touched distant lands. I wanted to go to there.

  He huffed, coughed, and spat into the dirt.

  “Ach.” I turned away.

  “Please, Sarah,” he whispered. “I am begging you as your father. Let’s go home. We’ll talk when we’ve both calmed down. I’m not going to leave you here.”

  I knew he meant this and I was tired. I nodded. I got back in the car.

  We didn’t speak the rest of the ride home. At home, I pushed open the kitchen door, passing Dora at the sink, and Elliot and Robert, their legs wrapped around bar stools. They had just come down for breakfast. I pulled myself up the stairs. I wanted sleep. A shower. Gregory. The smooth protection of my childhood sheets.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saving the Fish Tank

  So beautiful and lonely here in the house.

  Dora made the rounds upstairs with the vacuum cleaner. She opened and closed Mother’s bedroom door and when she plugged in the machine it punctuated the silent morning like a backhoe digging up a tree root. Back and forth the noise scooped under and around furniture as Dora strong-armed the vacuum further into Mother’s dressing room. Dora vacuumed so long the whining pitch seemed like a new version of silence.

  I lay in bed wondering what to do about the family beach outing. Certainly, I did not want to go.

  “Sarah! Robert, Elliot!” Father called up from downstairs. “Get your swimming suits on!” His insistence on a Labor Day trip to the beach, one we took every year, almost made me forget — that delicious wisp of forgetting before remembering — that Mother had died so many eternal months ago.

  No one answered except for Dora who turned the vacuum off. Now the house itself seemed to listen with me. A few minutes passed and he called again.

  “Let’s go! Everyone up!”

  Dora turned the vacuum back on and the reverberations washed through the house. A grid of shadows from the sun and windowpanes cast a fence on my bedroom wall. I watched it carefully to see if it moved.

  Elliot would want to go. He liked the beach with its glut of sand fleas, crabs, stones, shells, and circling gulls. Elliot was not one to refuse anything. That was not his way.

  Robert opened and closed his bedroom door.

  “Not coming!” he called with a slam.

  Again, no one responded but the mood had been set.

  “Everybody goes!” Father called up again after a short delay. This was followed by thudding footsteps.

  He knocked on my door and ope
ned it abruptly.

  “I’ll stay with Robert. He doesn’t want to go,” I said.

  I propped up on my elbow. Father looked around my room. Unlike his office downstairs, I kept my bedroom neatly tucked in; my clothes stacked in careful layers in drawers, the way Mother liked it.

  “Robert is coming. I will see you both down in twenty minutes.”

  Father went to Robert’s room and opened the door to a hurricane of objections. My twelve-year-old brother threw something against a wall, a small object like a sneaker. Another object hit the wall. Father slammed the door again and charged downstairs.

  Hearing this, I resigned myself to the trip and got dressed. I put my bikini on under a yellow cotton sun-dress. I slipped into leather sandals.

  Dora headed back downstairs, the vacuum thudding on the carpeted risers. She would go to the living room next, then the dining room — she liked to work the enclosed rooms first, finally ending up in the front hallway before wrapping the cord and storing it once again in the downstairs coat closet.

  Then I heard Sherry quietly padding upstairs from a night of staying over in father’s pull-out couch in his office, her feet light as a guest’s exploring a new house for the first time: toes politely touching the floor, legs moving quickly but with measured distances so as not to appear anxious or overeager. I heard her open and close my parents’ bedroom door.

  I peeked out my door and went into the hall to listen. Robert was silent in his room too, except for something scraping on the floor. I moved closer to my parents’ bedroom door until I heard shower pipes cranking open in the master bathroom, the swishing of water behind closed doors. How dare she! With the shower going full blast now, I knew Sherry would not be able to hear me sneaking into Mother’s dressing room. I stood, forehead pressed against the locked bathroom door while Sherry hummed “Begin the Beguine” by Cole Porter, a favorite of Father’s. The humid, warm air crept under the door. I felt little breaths of moisture on my toes, the smell of minty soap.