Stillriver

by Andrew Rosenheim

  But not enough people to manage it. According to Donny, who joined Michael where he stood stacking filled sandbags, Cassavantes had called for help from the unit of National Guardsmen stationed in Muskegon. But the Muskegon river was threatening to swamp the city’s business district, and the protection of that was seen as the higher priority; his request was turned down.

  ‘Muskegon’s more important than the wireworks?’ asked Michael with a cynical laugh.

  ‘And even than the bungalows,’ replied Donny in kind.

  ‘Shit,’ Michael said. ‘That’s Cassie you’re talking about.’ He looked at the wide disc of water stretching towards them across the plain, and shook his head.

  ‘I can’t see they’re in any danger there, can you?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Michael. ‘The problem with floods is you can’t ever tell. Especially in the open countryside. This is probably the dam water here,’ he said, pointing at their sopping feet, ‘but it’s still raining and there’s more to come. Let me have your phone a minute, will you?’ Michael dialled Cassie on the mobile but got her answer machine, so he left a message asking her to call him ASAP. It was now ten thirty.

  He kept trying her at odd moments throughout the morning, but got no answer. Then he saw Donny walking along the edge of the field towards him, holding his mobile phone aloft. ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘Hold it steady – the reception’s no good.’

  He took the phone and said hello.

  ‘Michael?’ He could barely hear the voice.

  ‘Cassie? Are you okay? Where are you? I don’t want you in your house right now. Go to my house as soon as you can. Are—’

  She interrupted. ‘We’re at Nancy’s. Sally and me. Jack’s at Donny and Brenda’s with their kids.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, slightly nonplussed.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got some bad news,’ she said, and he waited tensely. She doesn’t want to see me any more, she wants me to stay overseas for good, she’s decided she doesn’t love me. ‘Maguire just called. They held the identity parade, but Ethel didn’t pick out Raleigh. She didn’t pick out anybody – she said the man she’d seen that night wasn’t there.’

  He was both so relieved that she wasn’t blowing him away and so stunned by the news that he couldn’t say anything. ‘Anyway,’ Cassie went on hesitantly, ‘I told Maguire I’d tell you. And I thought you might be worried, I mean about the river and where we were. So now you know.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘don’t go yet.’ He tried to think of something to say, though his thoughts were starting to race with her news. ‘Are you okay out there?’

  She gave a faint, tinkly laugh – a nice one. ‘Michael,’ she said, ‘Sheringham’s is on a hill, remember? You go back to work now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I love you, Cassie,’ he said loudly, hoping she heard him before the connection was broken.

  Ethel was wrong, he thought, but what did that mean? That she’d been confused, and possibly not seen anyone at all? Or seen someone else? But if wasn’t Raleigh, who could it be? They were back to square one. Maguire must have been absolutely furious when Ethel let him down, though with other cops present (and doubtless a lawyer or two for Raleigh), he would have had to keep his cool. Now he wouldn’t even be able to get his warrant to search Raleigh’s house, for without Ethel’s identification, what did he have to show just cause to search the place?

  By noon volunteers from town began to come along in what seemed to Michael remarkable numbers. There must have been two hundred of them. Most of them were men: he saw all three Bogle boys for the first time in twenty years, Benny Wagner, who nodded from afar, and even Larry Bottel, who spent more time talking to the girls making coffee than he did moving sandbags. For the first time since coming back, Michael felt happy to be in such public company, since they were concentrated on a shared task that had nothing to do with his father.

  The diggers came in, too, trying to push makeshift mounds of loamy soil around to diffuse the water. It was miserable work, for the fresh wind off Lake Michigan meant the rain came in at an angle and was impossible to avoid. By two o’clock the floodwater was above the ankle, and by four o’clock the front line stood in it up to their knees. But it didn’t go any higher, and reports from town suggested that although the septic trough was now one vast lake, the water had yet to seep into the surrounding neighbourhood. And then shortly after five thirty, the water actually seemed to be going down, very gradually, just as everyone began complaining about how exhausted they were. Soon it was receding visibly.

  ‘I’m surprised by this,’ Michael said to Donny when his friend made one of his periodic visits to Michael’s place on the line. ‘It’s still raining, and yet the water level’s going way down real fast. What’s happening?’

  ‘Cassavantes may know. Let me ask,’ said Donny.

  He came back a few minutes later. ‘Much as our work is appreciated, it’s not what’s stopped the water coming through. Cassavantes got two front end loaders from Fennville and they’ve been digging at the landslide. It’s taken them two hours but they’ve managed to reverse the flow back to normal – well, sort of normal. The north branch is flowing again, and apparently flowing real hard.’

  ‘What’s he gone and done that for?’ Michael demanded. ‘The level in the trough wasn’t rising any more. There wasn’t any danger. Why didn’t he ask me?’

  Donny shrugged. ‘Probably couldn’t bear the thought of your being right twice.’

  ‘Well, this way he may lose the bridge.’

  ‘At the Junction?’

  ‘Yes, at the Junction. Shit. That’ll take six months to rebuild. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To see the bridge. You’ve got your truck, don’t you?’

  ‘No, it got co-opted into bringing sand up from the beach.’

  ‘Let’s walk, then. It can’t be more than a mile.’

  Donny shook his head. ‘I don’t want to walk two feet, Michael. I’m beat. Sorry, but you go look if you want to. There’s nothing we can do about it now anyway.’

  Michael looked at his friend impatiently, then saw how tired Donny was. He was breathing hard, and his face had lost its pinkish colour. Behind him he heard a boy shout, and suddenly Donny’s youngest son – Clayton, who was two or three years older than Jack – rushed by Michael and hugged his father at the waist. ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ asked Donny affectionately.

  ‘We wanted to see the flood, Dad,’ said Clayton. ‘Where’s it gone?’

  Before Donny could answer, his eldest boy, Jeffrey, rode up on his bike. To Michael’s surprise, a little behind him, running to catch up, came Jack, wearing an oversized slicker Brenda must have lent him. He ran towards Michael, but when he saw the frown on Michael’s face he stopped short.

  ‘Donny,’ Michael said, ‘Jack shouldn’t be out here. It’s not that safe.’

  Clayton piped up now. ‘It’s okay, we’re looking after him.’

  Michael shook his head and Donny said, ‘Relax, Michael. The boys know what they’re doing. They’re careful.’

  ‘He’s only six, Donny. He should be home – it’s getting dark soon.’ He could tell that Jack was watching him carefully.

  Donny said, ‘Shoot, Michael, what’s going to happen to him? The flood’s over, you said so yourself. He can’t come to any harm. Let him stay with the boys. This is Stillriver, not New York.’

  Michael looked at the strained expression on Jack’s face, and he felt his own tension relax as he relented. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but Jack, you come here.’ The boy looked at him warily, until he saw Michael reach out with his arms. He ran forward to let Michael lift him up and talk to him face-to-face. ‘I hate to think what your mom would say,’ said Michael, tickling the boy, who giggled. ‘You stay close to Clayton and Jeffrey, you understand? And while you’re here, do whatever Donny says.’ Jack nodded, and impulsively Michael hugged him before putting him back on the ground. ‘Have a good time, and for Chr
ist’s sake don’t tell your mother I said it was okay for you to be here. Or that I said “for Christ’s sake.”’

  Donny laughed. ‘Well,’ Michael said to him, setting off towards the Junction, ‘I’ll be back when I’m back.’

  ‘Take my mobile,’ said Donny, handing him his phone. ‘That way you can call me if you start to drown.’

  Michael set off and walked up the slight incline towards the corner of the Meadows, passing the furthest group of men, who had stopped momentarily to rest, smoke a cigarette, and drink half a cup of coffee before returning to the monotonous stacking of sandbags. They looked at Michael with curiosity, but since he didn’t recognize any of their faces he kept walking, turning west and downhill towards the ravine that carried the north branch of the Still down towards the Junction and Stillriver Lake. The rain was lessening, though it still stung as it blew in against his face, borne on the harsh wind coming off the big lake to the west.

  At the head of the ravine there was a path of sorts, which wound its way down from the upper edge through the dense wild blueberry bushes and scrub brush that thrived in this undisturbed canyon. Michael moved carefully on the sandy path, digging in his heels with every step, grabbing for support from the slithery branches, sometimes actually getting down on all fours when the footing seemed especially treacherous.

  Although he could not see the north branch of the Still he could hear it, even in the wind, and as he came up over a small outcropping of rocks, there was a gap in the brush and he suddenly saw the river below him at the bottom of the ravine. It had been transformed. It was wider, naturally, but it was not the expanse of the flood-filled water that struck Michael so much as its accelerating speed. Gone was the usual placidity of the Still, normally closer to a large stream than a river, with slow moving currents that seemed to stop and stand still in deep, dark and quiet pools. The present river was in turmoil, a white, rushing, tumbling mass of water that steamed in the darkening air. The scene resembled pictures of high mountain rivers raging in the Rockies, or the Swedish rivers he had seen, fjord feeders, racing madly to bring their waters to the vast containers of those Nordic lakes.

  But now it was this river that wouldn’t stop, and as he watched its torrential progress, Michael felt a corresponding urgency take hold. He looked ahead and saw he had very little trail left to descend, and realized, too, that where the river turned at the bend a few hundred yards ahead of him, careening at high speed like a racing car precariously cornering, he would be able to see Stillriver Lake and the Junction.

  He forced himself to move slowly, resisting the temptation to join the river in its mad downhill race. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the last trailside bush and found that the trail ended abruptly at the edge of a small cliff, a ledge really, roughly five or six feet above a wide, flat pan of sandy gravel riverbank that adjoined the Still. Though obscured by the bend in the river, the Junction was less than a quarter-mile away; to get there he would have to move along this flat section of gravel, which made him nervous, for it was next to the river and only inches above the surging water level. The water was moving so fast and at such a steep angle down the hill he had just descended that Michael couldn’t help but worry about translatory waves, and indeed he soon saw one about a foot high rush past him, sloshing over the gravel. But there was no other way forward, and having come this far he wasn’t going to turn around and trudge all the way back uphill. He’d have to move quickly and hope for the best.

  He paused to catch his breath. The rain had stopped and he listened as the wind picked up, moving in and out of the trees on the upper reaches of the canyon, clearly audible now above the rushing noise of the river in spate just below him. As a little boy he was frightened of storms, and his mother would come down the hall to his bedroom and comfort him. ‘Listen to the wind,’ she’d say. ‘It’s talking to you. Try to hear what it’s saying.’ But he heard nothing now except the susurrating rise and fall of the wind’s breathing. He looked up, as if for guidance, but the sky was darkening and the cover of cloud obscured any early stars. There was no moon.

  He felt the mobile in the pocket of his coat, a nylon windbreaker he’d bought in Germany. He wanted to call Cassie again, to tell her the sad news about his father’s past, and to let her know that yes, he was going to Dubai, but that he was determined to come back after that. He would be in Stillriver for Christmas with her and Sally and Jack. After that he didn’t know – he had to make a living, after all, and he couldn’t see how Atlantic County could provide one. But even if he had to go abroad again without Cassie, he would return to her, and to Stillriver. God knows how they would cope with a life that saw him semi-commuting to construction sites four and five thousand miles away; God knows what he would do when Ronald Duverson got out of prison. But this time he was not going to give up. This time he wasn’t going to run away.

  Time to move. He got down on his knees and turned round, then let his legs hang over the small cliff while he held on by his arms; when his feet finally hit the riverbank he let go, stumbled, then stood up. As he started to walk along the gravel he saw something ahead of him, something low and curled up against the base of the cliff that curved at the bend in the river ahead of him. An animal? Dog? Bobcat? He expected it to run away at his approach, but as he drew near the figure moved only a little, and peering ahead in the failing light Michael realized he was looking at the figure of a man.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ the man shouted when Michael was about fifty feet away.

  The voice sounded slightly familiar, but Michael couldn’t see the man very well in the failing light. He called out, ‘Listen, you better get out of here. The river’s still rising and that’s no place to sit.’ He wasn’t going to bother to explain about translatory waves. What was this guy doing here? ‘Come on,’ Michael added impatiently, ‘the Junction’s just around the corner.’

  ‘That’s real thoughtful of you,’ said the man, now slowly getting up. He seemed to be holding something in one arm. ‘I appreciate it, truly I do. Thanks a million, little buddy.’

  Michael stopped walking and stared as the man finally stood up. ‘I have to say,’ Michael said slowly, partly because he was so astonished, and partly in an effort to stay calm, ‘that I’m real surprised to see you.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ replied Ronald Duverson, who now stood about eight or nine feet in front of Michael, barring the path towards the Junction, with his arms hanging down by his sides. He wore light brown cut-offs without a shirt; his pectorals were heavily contoured and his stomach flat. There was a tattoo of a lightning strike over his heart. On the ledge behind him there was a yellow slicker, which he must have been wearing in the rain.

  Michael said, ‘How did you know I was coming this way?’

  ‘I was up there,’ said Ronald, pointing towards the Meadows. ‘I saw you heading over and figured you were going to come look at the Junction. “He loves bridges,”’ he said in a mocking imitation of Cassie’s voice. ‘When you stopped to talk to some kids, I took the opportunity to get down the track real fast. I’ve probably been two hundred yards ahead of you all the way down.’

  ‘I thought you were doing six years for killing an innocent motorist.’

  ‘Innocent?’ Ronald laughed. ‘He swung first. Bad mistake in my view.’

  ‘So how the hell did you get out?’

  ‘The door to my cell was opened; I walked down the corridor, out through the yard, the locks went beep beep beep, the big door opened, and hey presto, I was a free man again.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Ever heard of parole, asshole?’ Ronald said with sudden venom. Ronald’s face had aged and his complexion looked rough, but there was a leanness to his jaw and to the tendons in his neck which suggested the super-fitness regime of a prisoner who has twenty-three hours a day to do pushups. Michael noticed that Ronald had never bothered to get his teeth fixed – the front two were still chipped.

  ‘But you got turned down.’
/>   ‘I wonder who told you that. Probably another man’s wife. Probably another man’s wife you’ve been fucking.’

  Michael suddenly understood. ‘You didn’t get turned down, did you? You got paroled. You didn’t have to escape because they let you out.’ He said this almost admiringly, thinking, how clever. No law official was going to be looking for Ronald; there would be no APBs out for someone who had the right, however recently granted, to walk the street. And, conversely, those with cause to fear Ronald’s release would sleep peacefully, believing that he was still safely behind bars.

  ‘I’m due back next week for my meeting with my parole officer. He’s very pleased with my progress since leaving the joint. I haven’t got a job yet, but he says I’m making real efforts and something’s bound to turn up sooner or later.’

  ‘So you’ve come all the way up here just to . . . see me.’

  ‘That’s a real sweet way of putting it.’ His smile was chilling. ‘I just missed you the last time you were in town. I didn’t think you’d leave so soon. If you’d stayed one more night I was due to come calling.’

  ‘The last time? You mean after my father was killed? But what were you doing here?’ And Ronald began to smile again. Then he lifted his right arm to reveal a short-handled sledgehammer, which he held by its tapered wooden handle. As he moved his arm there was a shimmering sound as it brushed against his hip, and Michael saw that his right hand was enveloped in a long latex glove, the translucent kind used by dentists and nurses since the arrival of AIDS, skin-tight around the fingers but loose above the wrist. What had Ethel said? Rustling – that was it, and that was the word for the noise Ronald’s arm had just made. It had been that sound Ethel had heard in the basement.