by Merry Jones
He put the plates away. “I have some news about the case.”
I froze, a blender in my hands. “About the women? What?”
Nick reached for the soup bowls without being asked.
“Yeah. I thought you should know before it hits the news.”
So he hadn’t come home to see how I was; he’d really come to tell me some news. Why couldn’t he just have said so? When would he just be honest? Angry, I shoved the blender into a cabinet and grabbed a colander. I was racing to put my kitchen in order, not wanting to know anything more about the women, not being able to resist finding out.
“The preliminary autopsy reports are in.” Nick lifted the saucers onto the shelf. “They didn’t drown. They were dead before they hit the water.”
I held still, hugging myself, feeling chilled. “Then what happened? How’d they die?”
Laying a stack of soup bowls beside the saucers, he turned to look at me. “They fried.”
The colander slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the floor. Fried? What was he talking about? Oh, God. I stooped to pick up my colander; Nick got to it first. I grabbed it from him and held it against my belly.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” How could I be okay? Was he kidding? “Just clumsy.”
“It looks like it was the heat. They literally baked to death. Probably locked in a closed compartment in the hot sun, most likely a truck or a van. It’ll be on the news, so I’m giving you a heads-up.” He put the cups away gently, two at a time.
They fried? My skin itched. I couldn’t breathe. “Thanks. Thanks for telling me.” Out the kitchen window, the sun beamed white heat. Vans were parked everywhere along the street. Construction vans. Delivery vans. Vans with unknown purposes. All were locked and closed up tight. I crossed my arms, trying not to imagine being left inside in the heat, what it would be like, dying that way.
“You ever use any of this stuff?”
Stuff? Nick was pointing at the china.
“Not really,” I said. “It was my aunt’s.”
“We should use it.” He held up a cup, examined the delicate roses on its side. “It’s nice.”
He put it back on the shelf, and after replacing canisters and stoneware, cutlery and cans, Nick promised to be back after work, kissed my cheek, and left. I stopped sorting silverware to call a glazier about the office window. But I got stuck, phone book in hand, and stood in my kitchen, looking out at the street, watching steam rise off sweltering parked vans.
TWENTY-THREE
JUST BEFORE FIVE O’CLOCK, I PICKED MOLLY UP AT KAREN’S AND drove Nick’s car to the river where, as promised, I took Molly to Harry’s water-ice stand. The sun was relentless and there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. Harry’s helium balloons hovered motionless over his truck like dabs of color in a still life.
“Cherry, please.” Molly held up the dollar I’d given her. “Small.” Harry’s small dishes were the size of Molly’s head.
“How are you, little lady? Nice to see you.” The unofficial mayor of Boathouse Row, Harry tended to ramble. “It’s sure been busy, with all this heat. Believe me, people can’t get enough to drink. You don’t want to get dehydrated. It’s dangerous. You want to keep drinking. And if you have a pet, be sure to give him water. Don’t leave him in the car. It’s too hot. This early in the year… who’d have thought it would be so hot in June? What’s August going to be like if this keeps up?”
Harry went on, maintaining a nonstop one-way conversation as he scooped out generous mounds of red slushy ice and handed the overflowing cup to Molly, whose eyes had widened with each scoop.
“Say,” he addressed me. “Didn’t I see your picture in the paper? What’s your name again? Wait—I’ll remember.” He clapped his forehead, thinking. “Something different. Zoe? That’s it. Zoe Hayes, right? The lady who found all those floaters? Those dead women?”
I nodded, starting to usher Molly away.
“She is. That’s her.” Molly was bragging. “My mom thought there was just one, but really there were nineteen.”
“Take care, Harry.” I gave Molly a gentle shove forward. “Thanks.”
“Wait—wait just a second.” He grabbed my arm, reminding me of Sonia, and leaned toward me confidentially. “I gotta ask you something.” He lowered his voice, as if to prevent Molly from hearing. “You know how it is; they call me the mayor of the Row because I’m supposed to know everything that goes on here. But honestly, this thing knocked me over, took me totally by surprise. Tell me, is it true what they’re saying? That the floaters were slaves?”
I blinked, off-guard. How much did he know? And why was he cornering me? He held my arm, still talking. “What? Hadn’t you heard that? Well, it’s true. I’m serious. They say there’s a slave ring operating right here in Philadelphia. On this river. Can you believe it? Have you heard anything about that?”
“No. Just what was in the papers.” Thank God Molly was completely absorbed in digging out her water ice, not paying attention. Why was he talking about the slave trade in front of her? “I don’t know anything.” Again I started to move away.
“Well, between you and me”—he leaned closer, so close that I felt his breath on my face—”I’ll tell you what I heard. I heard that those women got dumped in the river because the guy who was transporting them panicked. He messed up and let them die of the heat. In his damned truck. Now, how goddamn dumb was that? You wouldn’t leave a dog locked up in a car in this heat. But this dumb ass left a bunch of women to bake to death.”
I’d stopped breathing, recalling a lifeless face drifting in the water. How did Harry know so much? Had all of this been in the papers? I didn’t know, had lost track of the coverage. But then Harry would know more than most people because he was Harry, unofficial mayor of the Row, aware of everything that went on there. To him, the story was just headlines and hot gossip. He wasn’t deliberately harassing me by talking about it; he was just being Harry.
He watched me, waiting for a reply, but I didn’t have one. I shrugged, lacking words. “Well, we have to go. See you, Harry.”
But he kept on talking. “Seriously, think about it. Whoever that driver is, he’s gotta be in some very deep shit. unless he can make that delivery good somehow.”
What was he talking about? Make it good? How? By bringing back the dead?
“Rumors are flying up and down the Row. And everyone asks me, ‘Harry, what’s going on?’ They expect me to know. ‘Harry knows everything,’ they say. But this time, I got nothing to tell them. So, Zoe, maybe you can help me out.” He met my eyes. “There must be something you can tell me.”
Other than that he was being insensitive and pushy? “Sorry, nothing. Molly, it’s time to go.”
“Oh, come on. Do me a favor; think for a second. Anything. Like maybe there was something in the water with them? Some cash maybe? Or identification? Or—hey—maybe there was a survivor? Even one?”
I shook my head no, no, no and no. “There’s nothing to tell. And I really don’t want to discuss it, Harry. It was awful.”
Harry winced, making a “tsk” sound. He looked bereft. “Okay, then.”
“Look, I have a sculling lesson. I’ve got to go.” I started to lead Molly away. Cherry syrup ran down her chin; I turned back to Harry’s stand to grab a napkin.
“Enjoy your lesson, then, Zoe. Zoe Hayes. I’ll remember it from now on. Which boathouse do you row out of again? Humberton?”
“Yes. Humberton.”
“You must know Tony, then. He’s house manager there.” “That’s right.”
“I know a ton of Humberton people. Larry Dumont. John Smith. George Plummer. Preston Everett—” “Preston Everett’s my coach.”
“Everett? Really?” He sighed. “You know, he used to be great.
Great coach. Great rower, too, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him now.”
Coach Everett had developed a substantial paunch.
“He was a champ. Gold medal in the Oly
mpics. Coached the Olympic team. Everyone thought he was destined for the stars. Who’d have thought he’d end up like this, coaching novices for a few bucks a pop? The guy doesn’t even row anymore. It’s a real shame, if you ask me.”
A young man on Rollerblades skated up and asked for an iced tea and a soft pretzel.
“Hot today, isn’t it?” Harry asked him, reaching inside the truck for a fresh pretzel.
As soon as his back was turned, I hurried Molly away. Her lips were dyed cherry-red.
Harry pointed at me. “See her?” he asked the skater. “That’s the lady who found the floaters. Those nineteen dead women. You heard about that, right? You won’t believe what she told me about them . . .”
I walked on, pretending not to hear. Molly turned and looked back.
“Mom, Harry’s talking about you.”
“Shh—I know,” I whispered. “But I don’t want to talk anymore.”
Molly nodded. “Harry has good ice, but he talks too much. He’s kind of nosy.”
I tousled her hair, pleased at her insight. “I think so too, Molls.” We walked on in silence, Molly slurping up her melting water ice, until we got to Humberton’s front door.
TWENTY-FOUR
EMILY COULDN’T COME BECAUSE OF A PIANO LESSON, BUT LISA, Susan’s eldest, was waiting when we arrived. I slipped her ten bucks for baby-sitting Molly and left them watching a rerun of Seventh Heaven on the television in the lounge. They weren’t alone upstairs. A couple of rowers lingered at the juice bar; a few worked out on ergs in the adjacent exercise room. The girls would be fine for an hour while we rowed.
Downstairs, the boat bays were crowded with rowers. I stood at the bottom of the steps, trying to spot Susan.
“Hands on.” A tanned woman with a platinum ponytail shouted commands; three other women obeyed, taking hold of a quad.
“Overheads,” she yelled, and the four lifted the long white shell into the air, walked it out and across the dock, and set it gently into the water. Grabbing a pair of oars, I followed them outside, watching them work together with ease and familiarity. I wondered if I’d ever be as confident or graceful with the equipment.
A woman I’d never seen before walked past, carrying oars.
“Going out?” She smiled.
I nodded, yes.
“Looks great out there, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does,” I said, but she’d already moved on.
It was a busy time on the dock. Rowers of all ages and skill levels rushed to get their shells out, commenting lightly about the unseasonable heat and the calm conditions. They seemed friendly but preoccupied. Intense.completely focused on the process of getting their equipment together and shoving off the dock. Not fazed or deterred by the deaths discovered in the water. I watched them, wondering what I was doing there. I was an outsider, a stranger. Not part of this tight community. I looked away, past the people to the river, watching small silver ripples tickle the surface. How quiet the water seemed now. How soothing. How unlike the choking black murk of the other night.
“Zoe—” Susan appeared from nowhere, frazzled. “You’re five minutes late. You all right?” I hadn’t seen her since before her carjacking. The skin on her legs and arms had been scraped raw; plum-sized purple bruises covered her left side.
“Are you?” I eyed her wounds.
“I’m fine. Ready to go?” She held her oars awkwardly, almost bumping them into a tall young man walking by with a 27-foot-long single shell effortlessly balanced on his head.
“Oh, man.” Susan seemed unaware of her near collision, but she froze, staring at his bottom. “Check out his stern.”
I smiled at the nautical terminology. She was accurate, too; his stern was tight and meaty. And his spandex unisuit, rolled down to his waist, exposed a rippling back and shoulder muscles. I thought of Nick, the firmness of his thighs, the solid bulges revealed by his rowing clothes.
“What is he, twenty?” She sighed. “I could be his mother.”
“So?” I shrugged. “Men date women twenty years younger all the time—they even marry them.”
Her eyes remained fixed on the half-naked guy’s butt. “Go ahead, Susan. Introduce yourself. Flirt with him.”
“Are you kidding?” She frowned, appalled. “I could never.”
“Oh? So flirting’s okay for older men, but not older women?”
“Zoe, don’t be ridiculous. It’s not about my age. It’s about my status. I’m a married woman. I can’t go around flirting.”
Even so, she kept staring, enthralled. “Look at him. What efficiency of movement. What confidence in his body.”
“What drool on your chin.”
“It’s such a sad waste of stud muffins,” she lamented. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this sport when I was younger?”
As her prey rowed away, two more young men came out of the boathouse, carrying a double. They were buffed and tanned, clad in tight spandex rowing shorts.
“Oh my.” Susan stopped breathing.
“Whoa there, Nelly.” I fanned her. “Settle down.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so distracted if Tim were here.” She thought for a moment. “Hey—do you think we could persuade him to take up rowing?”
I tried not to imagine Tim in tight spandex rowing clothes; the picture was almost as disturbing as Tim in a green condom. I liked Tim, but if Susan wanted to see her round, middle-aged husband in formfitting, skin-clinging, shape-revealing shiny fabric, I hoped she’d do it in the privacy of her home.
“It wouldn’t take him long to learn,” she went on. “I mean, for a middle-aged guy, he’s pretty athletic. And he’d look so cute in a unisuit.”
I wasn’t going to touch the subject. “Why bother Tim? These guys are doing a fine job of displaying the assets of men in span-dex.”
“Forget the spandex. I’ll take just the ass sets.” “Cute. Very cute.”
More rowers passed, carrying shells, shoving off for evening practices. “Heads up, ladies.” Susan and I ducked, since “heads up” actually means heads down. An eight swung just inches over us as the women carrying it set it onto a set of slings on the dock.
Their coxswain eyed us as they whispered among themselves.
“Hey,” the cox finally called. “Aren’t you the new members? You found those dead women?”
Susan and I glanced at each other.
“For sure, it’s them,” said a tall brunette. “I saw their pictures on the news.”
“How awful.” They stepped closer in a slow swarm, like bees.
“Especially for novices like you. We found a floater once— Remember, Paige? We were in the double.”
“A guy jumped off a bridge.” The one named Paige nodded, her pigtails bouncing. “Suicide.”
“It happens now and then,” said the cox. “But so many— nineteen? That’s serious.”
A pause while everyone agreed.
“It’s amazing you two are rowing again.” This came from a freckled woman in a polka-dot unisuit. She seemed covered head to toe with spots.
“If it were me and I were a complete novice like you guys, I’d never get in a boat again.” That came from Paige.
“Of course you would.” Susan bristled at being called a complete novice. “It’s like falling off a horse. You have to get right back in the saddle.”
“A horse? I thought that was a bike,” said a blonde. “Is it horses, too?”
“Well, good for you.” Paige ignored her. “That’s a great attitude.” “Never let anything stop you,” a thin woman with huge brown eyes advised.
“Anyway, welcome to Humberton.”
“We’re a close bunch here,” the thin woman said.
“Just like a family,” the blonde added.
“And every bit as dysfunctional.” Polka Dots grinned. The others laughed a little too hard, too long. “Anyhow, we just wanted to say hello—” “—and if you ever want to talk—” “—about anything—” “—we’re here—” “—every night.�
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The women actually completed each other’s sentences. They even nodded together, wearing identical expectant smiles.
The coxswain glanced at the boat. “Ladies, we’ve gotta shove.” “Nice meeting you,” the blonde waved. The women swarmed off to their boat.
“What was that?” Susan whispered.
Before I could answer, a thunderous voice roared at us. “Why are you two novices standing around yammering on the dock?” Coach Everett was about twelve feet away, but blaring at us through his megaphone. Everyone on the dock turned to look at us, including the women getting into the eight. I felt my face redden.
“Guess what, ladies. Singles today.”
Singles? Was he joking? We’d rowed in singles only once before, briefly. They were twenty-five feet long and a butt’s width wide, hard to balance, easy to flip. I remembered river water rushing into my nose, filling my mouth, pouring into my ears, and my heart plunged somewhere deep under my stomach, terrified.
“But in the regatta, we’re going to race a double,” Susan reasoned. “Shouldn’t we practice in one?”
“Who’s the coach here, Cummings?” Coach Everett barked into the megaphone. “I said, ‘Singles.’ Cummings, take the John W. Smith. Hayes, you’re in the Sexton.”
“But we’ve got the race—”
“Cummings. What part of the word ‘singles’ confuses you? Singles. Don’t stand there blithering—you have sixty seconds to get your boats out. Get your asses moving.”
“This is absurd,” I muttered.
“Let it go, Zoe,” Susan begged, scurrying. “Just do what he says. He’s the best coach on the river.”
“Move it, Hayes. The clock’s ticking.”
Susan shoved me into the boathouse. “Don’t let him get to you.” “He’s an asshole.”
“So? You’re not married to him. The man knows rowing, and we’re here to learn.”
I glared outside. The eight was gliding away from the dock, strokes coordinated, timing exact.
“Come on.” Susan pulled at me.
Our esteemed coach, Preston Everett, was waiting.
