The Girl of the Lake

by Bill Roorbach

  Timothy was sitting up straight, that famous posture, his shoulders pulled back by the straps of his pack, head back, too, legs buried in the rocks that had accompanied him, hips twisted more than perpendicular to his shoulders. Jean didn’t have any moment at all of thinking he was alive, no need to check his breath or heartbeat. He was dead.

  HIGH UP THE CANYON wall she saw the last sunlight climbing, orange. It would be night very soon. The stream roared and echoed in the canyon. Timothy smelled like defecation. Also spaghetti sauce—their jar for dinner must have broken inside his pack. But the spruce smell and the oxygenated stream smell was strong, too, and a breeze moderated the stench. It wasn’t like she was going to eat. She sat a long while in perfect calm, perfect acceptance, which was not like her and which she tranquilly thought must be shock. In a way it was easier that he was not in need of first aid. She didn’t cry anymore but simply sat and thought, long elegant lines of thought with no bearing on the emergency: she remembered meeting Tim at her brother’s best friend’s wedding. Horrendous blue tuxedoes, all of them. She and this handsome groomsman made love steadily, it seemed, for the next three weeks, till he had to go back to New York and his internship at Goldman Sachs, which turned into a job when his MBA was done. Very remunerative, as he liked to say. Things she was ambivalent about: investment bankers (Professor Della Sesso had often talked about such people, called them bloodsuckers in a beautiful accent, and ricattatori, roll that first r); suburbia (Timothy’s dream was Greenwich, Connecticut, ask Uncle Bud his opinion of that place); any one of Timothy’s friends, including her own brother, who was a certified pig.

  And her brother, come to think of it, was exactly like their father, as was Timothy, when you thought about it, from banking to suburbia to his chilly reserve. Why was she with him? “You are beautiful,” Uncle Bud had whispered. “You are capable. Does he make you feel either? What can I do to convince you?”

  She didn’t touch the corpse. The sunlight climbed out of the canyon, was gone. The stream grew louder, comforting in a way, but hiding who knew what scary noises. A lone bird sang briefly, good night. And then it was dark, and darker. And chilly, then cold. Jean dug in her pack, found her flashlight, pulled her sleeping bag out awkwardly, unfurled it from its stuff bag. Such a good sleeping bag, old gift from Uncle Bud, bright blue. She got herself in there, moved more rocks, leaned back as if to sleep. But despite all, she was hungry.

  The bulk of the food was in Timothy’s pack, as was the little gas stove. In her pack were useless things like couscous and expensive freeze-dried chicken divan in foil packets. Oh, but gorp—there was a one-quart baggie of gorp—and this she ate in little absent increments till it was gone. And she drank water from her metal bottle. And felt she could sleep some, get through the night somehow. If Timothy weren’t such a show-off and always in such a heat to win they’d be camping right now. Or if they’d left the first pond just one second earlier or later? They’d be camping. Thoughts of the campsite, which she’d been picturing for two months, brought her to Uncle Bud, that idiot, sending them into danger and Timothy to . . . this.

  Then again, the whole backpacking trip was her idea, her own, and she’d fought for it over going to Timothy’s horrendous family reunion on the Cape, and that bunch, oh, that bunch would blame her squarely, squarely. Every happy thought she’d ever had of marrying Timothy these two years had foundered on the image of that screwed-up family. She sat and thought the same moody thoughts as always about him, added these to Uncle Bud’s observations of last night, only last night.

  All moot now.

  The stream down there was loud, luckily loud. She was spared the gurglings and belches of the dead, sounds she knew well from working at the veterinary hospital every summer through high school, back when she was going with that kid, Bruce, who was no Timothy, but sweet and talkative and a listener—funny you could ever miss Bruce, but she missed him now. Timothy did not twitch, did not jump, all that was over.

  JEAN WOKE WITH A start, kicked her feet out and sent rocks tumbling, sat up, reached for Timothy’s hand, found it—so cold, and worse, stiff. She let it go with a shudder—it was not in his possession any longer, it was not his, or him, but a disgusting object.

  Oh my God, oh my God. She wanted to feel his spirit was with her, but she was profoundly alone, hard stars above, no known constellation, just the hard line of the killer cliff and across the narrow gorge the jagged line of the tops of fir trees. She listened to the stream a long time with deliberate concentration.

  How could Timothy be so clumsy.

  How could he be so stupid.

  SHE WOKE TO THE sound of the stream. High above, a group of stars was familiar, but unnamed. Funny, but she could relax. She’d been so unfair! He wasn’t to blame—the trail was unsafe. He was hurrying for her—he knew how much she wanted to be at the campsite, be set up in their tent, be eating, cooking. He was so good. Such a good person. She would marry him despite all. Best if Mountain Rescue found them together here. She’d never leave his side. She’d sit here through the days it took to starve, and in a few weeks Uncle Bud would look up from his Jameson’s and remember where his old truck was and call the family, who’d call the police, who’d call Mountain Rescue, who’d come out looking and certainly find the truck (probably they’d already be well aware of the truck and wondering about it)—find the truck and follow the trail clear to the campsite on the beaver pond—no sign of Timothy and Jean. Perhaps the scrap of a cairn she’d built would alert them. She should have written a note—how stupid—several hikers a day must pass; someone could be going for help right now. But no. Things were exactly as they were.

  Perhaps after days of futile searching, the youngest member of the ranger team, the most insecure of them, would notice the cairn, the plight of rocks, and they’d all be led to the tragedy—broken Timothy and his girl, starved at his side, his bride in death. Oh, she loved him! And she reached to touch his hair, which felt lovely, soft and fine as always, accepted his condition, which would be hers soon enough.

  But not soon enough. She should write a note in the morning and cut her wrists to be his bride. She’d be his bride by his side in death the endless night.

  SHE WOKE TO DAYLIGHT next, birdsong. The stream, too. She blinked and stretched and was surprised they’d slept under the stars and sat up and remembered. She wriggled out of her bag, made her way out of Timothy’s sight, peed behind a boulder, clambered back, had a long look at him. His face was no longer his. His fingernails were all broken from trying to stop his slide. She worked to get his pack off him, struggled with the resistant arms. The smell was no longer so bad, or she’d adjusted. His upper body was simply loose on his hips. Oh, Timothy! She worked around the spill of red sauce, found the loaf of raisin bread he’d allowed, wiped it off, crackers in a small box, block of cheese, block of chocolate, found his compass, retrieved the little stove just in case, their little tent, his hunting knife, the keys to Uncle Bud’s truck (in Timothy’s moist front pants pocket), stuffed all this in her own pack, stuffed her sleeping bag in its sack, tied it carelessly to the pack frame, pulled the pack on, balanced step by step and rock to rock and got out of there, quickly backtracking upstream and all the way to the drop-off by the waterfall.

  She tied their rope to her pack so she could pull her belongings up if she made it, attempted a hopeless free climb with the rope in her mouth, fell four times, not even close. So she tied the free end of the rope to an oblong rock, tried to toss it over the one practical branch of the high spruce up there—impossible. She stacked rocks to make a climbing platform—exhausting. After an hour she had a solid block of stone only a few feet high. To get her all the way up the drop in that fashion would take days and days and all her strength.

  She gave up, made her way back to Timothy. She’d had what he would call a paranoid thought. Digging in his shirt pocket, she found his tiny blue jar of pot. Fast, she emptied the powdery potent stuff to the wind, threw the jar into the stream. His rol
ling papers, into the stream. She felt in a rush of horror that she was abandoning him so sat a while beside him.

  Unbidden thoughts: there were other boys. She’d even recently been going back and forth with a certain college flame on Facebook, but that was nothing. She’d be a tragic heroine, very attractive in that way. She’d be wary of love, magnetic in that way. She stood, pulled on her pack, made her way carefully through the rocks he’d brought down with him, rehearsing the story she’d tell and basking in the sympathy and wonder she’d receive. Sinful, disgusting thoughts. She shut them off. She tried to pray for Timothy but hadn’t prayed or been to church since she was ten. Her last confession (to Father Mark, a saint) was about stealing Barbie accessories at a slumber party. Timothy! So impatient and disdainful. Just as Uncle Bud had said: the dude was just like her dad. There were other kinds of men. Start with Uncle Bud. Subtract the tragedy of him, and the drinking. That beautiful house he’d built! The far cabin where he was holed up now, bottle in his lap. Timothy called it a shack. Timothy thought him soft. Think of all the men she hadn’t met!

  Sinful thoughts, disgusting.

  And now flashes of yesterday’s sex assaulted her, and Timothy’s fall, too, the way his fingernails dug in, sex and fall somehow equally unpleasant, even horrible, braiding into one thought. She stepped faster, picking her footfalls, a good old athlete, scrambled down the scree, got to the stream, drank from it, the hell with giardia and all microbes forever, drank deeply, washed her face, struggled to stand under the new weight of her pack and the growing feeling that this was all her fault, secondary feeling that it was all Bud’s, and worse, that Bud knew it would happen.

  Had she slept even two hours last night?

  She headed downstream. There was no trace of a path. But a stream always went somewhere. By the time the sun got into the canyon an hour had passed. She’d find help. The stream would cross a road. She’d find help and they’d recover Timothy and she would be something of a tragic heroine and perhaps even Professore Frederico Della Sesso would see this new thing in her eyes, the deep sadness and horror in her eyes and take her crush seriously as he had decidedly not, take her in his arms there in the oaken doorway of his dust-mote and sunbeam and bookshelf office somewhere in Paris. Bad thoughts. He had called her Jean d’Arc, their little joke. She closed him out, pushed on. By noon she was out of the canyon and the forest had opened somewhat. The walking got easier for a mile or so, gently downhill alongside the stream. But then the stream widened, became a bog. She slogged her way halfway around to where it was more of a pond, stood on a lone knoll, looked out over the water, and was at last overcome. She tugged her pack off, threw it down violently, threw herself on the ground after it, wailed and wept, clutched the mossy duff. Then came a vision as if from above of herself in this position, the dirt of the forest sticking to her tearstained cheeks, herself spread out on the ground in grief and remorse and horror. The rangers would listen attentively to her, when she finally found them. They’d be older guys and have bluest eyes, three sweet men, beautiful eyes.

  She cried more, at her own shallowness, felt a wave of love for Timothy, felt in the same wave that she came back to her true self (“You are not yourself,” Timothy would say when she was upset with him). But what if the true self she’d always known was false? Jean stood, crossed her arms over her chest, grasped her own ribs in confusion. And started walking. She’d go back to him. Only as an afterthought did she return for her pack, only absently shrug it on, aware uncaring that it was open and that things were falling out of it. She walked very slowly, deep thoughts of Timothy, his humor for example—a certain joke (“All your intelligence is in your brains, Jeanie”), his tricky smile. She was starved. She stopped at a sunny rock, pulled out crackers and their block of cheddar cheese (these had been on his back!), ate feverishly, found their bag of baby carrots, gobbled them all, a pound of them (his dead back!), sucked at her water bottle, found their large chocolate bar, ate half of it. There’d be raisin bread for later. Uncle Bud had offered it, and though Timothy said no—too heavy—she’d accepted the small gift. She lay back on the rock in tears.

  WHEN SHE WOKE, HER mission was pure again: get help. She retraced her steps around the bog to where she’d thrown the pack down, picked up her sleeping bag, her wading sneakers, four blue pairs of panties still neatly folded, the keys to Uncle Bud’s truck. What had she been thinking?

  She carried on, climbing to higher ground, made her way around the bog till she saw the beaver dam and climbed down to rejoin the stream, which was three times wider than in the gorge. She fairly jogged, singing loud then louder, whatever song came to mind, “My Favorite Things,” for one, screamed it out as she ran among trees in the old forest, leapt boulders, pushed aside underbrush, downhill and always down alongside the stream, singing as hard as she could to stop her thoughts of Dr. Della Sesso, which had grown pernicious. Frederico. His gaze had always lingered on her eyes. Now he’d find her so dolorosa, so tragica. “Origin of the World.” He was Italian but lived in Paris. She’d been there herself, a month in junior year, hadn’t been able to commit to a year or even a semester: Wayne. Who couldn’t kiss.

  There was a ranger station in Carrabasset. You could get a ride there, and the kindly men would explain that this was no longer a rescue but a recovery, no rush. The other rangers would all gather around, they’d pat her face, they’d kiss her eyes, and Frederico would come to fetch her, fetch her back to France. She snapped herself awake: Carry on, Jean, carry on.

  The stream fell through a steep glade, quite straight for hundreds of yards, but just before it turned and flowed out of sight, promising nothing but more hard bushwhacking, Jean could just discern a hard horizontal, painted red: a bridge. She made her way to the road—narrow, nicely graded gravel—and simply lay down, her will collapsing, flopped herself down pack and all, lay there frozen by her thoughts, exhausted, killed.

  In an hour, two, hard to say, a father and young son from nearby Quebec on their way to the store in Kingfield for camping supplies (she’d learn later), stopped their Subaru and leapt out to her aid. She heard their guttural French Canadian accents—so different from the French of Paris—heard them clearly as they leaned over her asking each other what had happened here, touching the pulse point of her neck to be sure she was alive.

  She opened her eyes to see the boy, who might have been eight, saw his sweet concern, cherubic, like something on a chapel ceiling, blue brushstrokes all around his head, the wings of angels.

  “I never loved him,” she said.

  “Alors,” said the father.

  “I never loved him one bit.”

  “You are shivering,” the father said. The shivering seemed to make him cross.

  “I only want to sleep,” Jean told him.

  “Elle veut dormir,” said the son gently.

  “We will take you into town,” the father said, gruffer. They helped her sit up, helped her out of her pack. The boy put it in their car, then father and son helped her to her feet, so unsteady, helped her into the back seat. She curled up and lay across the nice leather, let them cover her with her own green sleeping bag, which the boy had untied and unrolled.

  Murder Cottage

  I WAS DOWN THERE so much for tide-pool research, camping in summer, that dumpy motel in winter, that I started to think of getting an apartment of some kind, one of those cool places over an old drugstore or in an abandoned mill—stilled machinery, homeless cats. But, really, in those rural Maine burgs there aren’t any rentals, or only terrible ones, trailers and broken houses, the drugstores all gone to big box, the old mills now malls or past saving. I thought of house-sitting some richie’s shore house, but turns out that’s not easily done either, several leads that all foundered on my teaching, that I’d have to be back in Bean Town for the fall, when all the caretaker duties really begin: winterizing, leaf management, constant reassurance.

  But then in the Bluebird Diner I picked up the Pennysaver and, idly paging, spotte
d an ad for a house. Ninety-nine thousand, which seemed to me a desperate number. The photo accompanying the ad was grainy, of course, but showed a rustic-looking and tiny building alone on a rock, grayed cedar shingles, the ocean in the background. Clearly, something was wrong with the place.

  The real estate agent, one Bonnie LeDoux, very cheerful, confirmed my intuition immediately, right on the phone: “It’s an outstanding value,” she said. “But there’s a bit of history to it. Ready? The couple who owned it, they were murdered. Newlyweds. Shot in their beds. In the house. And that’s made it hard to sell. The Bangor Savings Bank owns it. Six years on the market.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Shot in their beds. They caught the guy immediately, so that’s not a worry. It’s just . . . well, I don’t know. People are superstitious.”

  “I’m a scientist,” I said.

  “The most superstitious of all. I mean, if superstitious means believing things that aren’t true!”

  “I’ll let that go.”

  She had an open, hearty, honest laugh, laid it on me.

  At the house twenty minutes later, I was amazed. Especially with the view off across rocks to the ocean. Two acres of rocks, in fact, with patches of dirt where things could grow and did—lavender and beach plums, sedges and alder—also a rock beach. We looked at the house itself last. Bonnie was a robust gal, tall and pink cheeked, jeweled jeans well filled, that good humor in every joint, kept punching my shoulder with her knuckles, strong. “They weren’t found for a week,” she said. “You should have smelled it.”

  “You smelled it?”

  “Yup. Along with real estate and driveway plowing and blueberry picking, I’m a first responder. You need more than one job down here.”