Beneath Still Waters

by Matthew Costello

  Out there, near the center of the reservoir, he could see

  small whitecaps.

  (Like it’s alive.)

  The movement of the water was erratic at first. It grew

  choppy, looking more like a small sea under a stormy sky.

  But then it started moving in a slow, steady, circular

  pattern. Around and around . . . slow, steady . . . building.

  A whirlpool.

  Then, across the water, he saw some people climbing a

  hill. Two . . . no, three people. Clumsily climbing up a hill.

  Perhaps Susan was there. Perhaps Rogers.

  And, if he was especially lucky, perhaps Martin Parks

  himself.

  Samantha lay down on the ground.

  “C’mon!” Susan pleaded. “You can’t stop now!”

  The green of the trees had darkened, as if they were

  changing with the coming of night. She put down Joshua,

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  ending the terrible pain in her shoulders that just grew and

  grew.

  “I can’t walk anymore.” Samantha moaned.

  Claire, her Claire, looked at her . . . looking for an

  answer.

  Susan looked back where they had come from. No one

  was following.

  No one she could see.

  She looked at the jumbled mass of boulders, bedrock,

  and thick trees around them that were twisted into strange

  shapes.

  She saw a small cave. Barely visible. A tiny crevice in

  the rock.

  She looked at Claire . . . her Claire.

  She went over to her and spoke quietly, stroking

  Claire’s cheek as she tried to explain.

  “Claire, honey, I can’t carry the two of them. They’re

  just too heavy. You see that, don’t you?”

  Her daughter nodded, but her eyes looked confused.

  “The highway has to be just over that hill, right there.

  And up there”—Susan pointed to a large outcrop of rock

  above them—“I think I see a small cave.”

  Claire looked at it.

  “I’m going to hide Joshua and Samantha there, and you

  and I are going to go get help. Okay?”

  Claire kept staring at the cave, then looked back at her.

  You’re my baby, she wanted her eyes to say. My baby. I have to think of you first.

  “Okay, honey? Understand?”

  Claire shook her head. “No, Mom, we can’t leave them

  alone. Not here.”

  “We have to, baby. We can’t just sit here. We’ll get help,

  we’ll come back, and—”

  “I’ll stay.” Claire got up and went over to where Joshua

  was sitting. The boy was shivering. “I’ll stay . . . keep them

  quiet—”

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  Susan shook her head. “No, honey, no—”

  “You should go now, Mom. The quicker you go”—she

  put an arm around Joshua—“the quicker we’ll be out of

  here.”

  “I’m—” She turned and looked around. Still no one

  seemed to be following them.

  She looked at Claire. Her brave, wonderful Claire.

  ( I love you. )

  “C’mon, then. Let’s get you up there. And keep quiet,”

  she snapped. “Don’t let anyone make a sound.”

  Claire took Joshua by the hand. “C’mon, Joshua. We’re

  going to rest a bit.”

  She climbed up, half dragging the exhausted children

  up the leaf-covered slope.

  Max Wiley’s wife was dressed as the Good Witch of the

  West, as played by Billie Burke in The Wizard of Oz.

  Thank God she didn’t talk with that same high-pitched,

  obnoxious, singsong voice. It was bad enough how she

  looked, with her fluffy dress that threatened to cover the

  stick shift, and all that synthetic, curly blond hair. His car

  phone was already lost to her crinolines.

  He tried, though, to be jaunty with her, cavalier. (Though

  he wished to hell he had Jamie with him, dressed as some

  leather-skirted kitten with a whip. Oh, yeah, a devil and a

  dominatrix, oh, yeah.)

  But that would never do at the old Stonehill Country

  Club.

  He entrusted his car to the platoon of teenage valets, all

  of them good-evening-ing him to death, desperately afraid

  of losing some of their tip.

  His wife had some trouble navigating out of her seat.

  (And he saw some of the snot-nosed teenagers snickering

  at her—or were they snickering at him?)

  His was a nifty costume, though, with his rubber horns

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  and devil’s tail. But it felt a bit silly walking into the old

  club—usually such a reserved joint—in such a garish outfit.

  So what? Once they entered the main hall, which

  looked like the giant lobby from the Loew’s Orpheum, his

  old stomping ground in the Bronx, he was delighted to see

  a gaggle of cowboys, pirates, witches, and astronauts. An

  elderly clown at a nearby table turned and looked at him as

  he entered the room.

  (Is there anything weirder than an eighty-year-old fart

  dressed in a clown costume? That guy can just about keep

  his oatmeal down, and he’s stumbling around the dance

  floor, martini in hand, with a sloppy, oversize grin painted

  on his face.)

  The cute hostess, not in costume but dressed in a very

  chic formal gown, led him and his wife to their table.

  “Well, look who’s here, Satan himself.” It was Barney

  Cleat, president of the Mutual Bank Office of Ellerton.

  Drinks too much and laughs too much, but still a useful

  “friend.”

  Laughing at the joke, Wiley took his fork and jabbed at

  the air.

  “And your lovely wife . . . who are you, Marion?

  Shirley Temple?” Barney cracked up at his own joke.

  Fuck. You.

  Wiley escorted his wife to her chair. “I’ll get us some

  drinks, Marion.”

  Anything to get away from Barney.

  And his wife, for that matter.

  ( A discreet little divorce a few months after the election,

  that’s the ticket. Then a new lady of the house more in

  keeping with my new role in life. )

  He navigated to one of the four bars.

  “A dry sherry and a vodka on the rocks with a twist.”

  He looked around. At $150 a ticket, this bash represented

  the best Ellerton had to offer. Why, there were families here,

  moneyed families, that went back to the eighteenth century.

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  Some of their houses, in fact, once had rested in

  Gouldens Falls.

  The bartender handed him his drinks.

  Max made his way back, smiling at people who nodded,

  grinning at all those who said, “How are you, tonight,

  Mayor?” He slowly sipped his drink.

  Until he saw Martin Parks.

  Not in costume.

  Parks was off to the side, near the Lamont Chester

  Orchestra, which was playing a big-band rendition of “I

  Wanna Hold Your Hand.” He grabbed a free-floating bus-

  boy and gave him his wife’s drink, and directions on

  where to find
her.

  Then he went over to Parks.

  “Glad to see you could make it. No time to get a cos-

  tume, eh?”

  “Right.” Parks laughed. “No time. And no interest.”

  Max winced at the apparent rudeness.

  “I can introduce you around,” he said eagerly, trying to

  impress Parks. “The best Ellerton people are here, the very

  best. They’ll give you a good feel for the town.”

  Now Parks seemed to wince. His face darkened, as if a

  cloud had passed over the light. His hands fidgeted at his

  side.

  “I have that already, Mr. Wiley. A very good feeling for

  the town, and the people.”

  God, it looked like his lip actually curled into a sneer.

  He was beginning to have second thoughts about inviting

  this snob here.

  “Well, if you want to meet anyone, just let me know.

  Um, just—”

  Everything stopped. The music. The clatter of plates

  and spoons. The chatter. All of it frozen.

  Except for Max and Martin Parks.

  Parks stepped right up to his face.

  “I have to go now. But I hope you enjoy my little surprise.”

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  Parks walked past him.

  (Past the people who didn’t move, the horns and violins

  that made no sound.)

  Step. Step. On the tile floor, the only sound echoing

  inside the 1920s-style ballroom. Plaster cherubs grinned

  down lasciviously at Max. Strange, tan-colored fruit dan-

  gled from the corners.

  A frumpy witch sat to his left, soup spoon poised at her

  open, gummy mouth.

  I’m mad. I’ve lost my mind.

  And then it started again. The noise, the sheer, blessed

  clatter.

  The ice in his drink had melted.

  He turned to walk back to the bar, shaking now. A refill

  was definitely in order.

  Someone stepped on his tail.

  “Ouch,” he yelled. “Watch what the hell you—”

  He looked down, at his tail. Just a piece of ropy mate-

  rial. Someone had just walked on it.

  And he’d felt it.

  ( I’m crazy. Bonkers. I’m losing it. )

  He put his empty drink down next to a Humpty Dumpty

  who gave him a slightly concerned look through his egg-

  shaped head.

  Max gathered up his tail. He squeezed it.

  ( Oh, dear God. Oh, no. I’m crazy, I’m—)

  He felt it.

  The same sensation he would have felt if someone had

  squeezed his wrist, oh so gently.

  He moaned.

  “You okay?” Humpty asked.

  Max nodded. But wait! He had a brainstorm. An-

  other . . . test . . . of his sanity.

  He brought his hand up to his horns.

  (They don’t know . . . they don’t know, he kept thinking,

  looking out at the costumed scions of Ellerton.)

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  Slowly, gently, he grabbed the rubber horns and yanked.

  Lightly at first. Then good and hard.

  He screamed. They hurt, as much as his nose would if

  he tried to twist it off.

  The two horns throbbed with pain.

  Humpty Dumpty stood up. At another table a gorilla

  moved his chair back.

  Max was on his knees, wailing, screaming, babbling at

  the slowly growing crowd of onlookers.

  He was trying to say something. It was totally unintelli-

  gible to them. It was too mixed up with moaning and

  screaming.

  But what he yelled in that Art Deco ballroom with the

  puffy little cherubs gloating was: “You. Too. Youuu . . .

  toooo!”

  The cave wasn’t so very deep.

  She had cleaned a few beer cans out of it, and some

  greenish chunks of glass. Now they all sat together, Claire

  between Joshua and Samantha, her arm around them ( just

  barely reaching).

  Joshua’s shivering grew worse. His teeth chattered.

  Samantha just sort of sat there, so quiet now. Too quiet.

  But it was enough of a cave so that they wouldn’t be

  seen from down on the trail. And if everyone stayed nice

  and quiet, they wouldn’t be heard.

  If that would save them.

  If such things mattered.

  Claire felt older. Like a mother. It made her fear go

  away somewhere. Not gone. Just . . . there, off to the side,

  waiting. She pulled them closer to her, sharing their

  warmth, trying hard not to count every second while she

  waited for her mom.

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  She was down the hill.

  But there was no highway there. Nothing except more

  trees, a new trail for horses, and yet another hill.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Susan said. “Where am I?”

  East had to be back there somewhere. So west had to be,

  yes, straight ahead. Over the next hill. And the highway,

  just past it. Sure . . .

  But she wasn’t sure. She just had to keep on going.

  And I have to remember the way back.

  ( God, can I find my way back here again? )

  She looked around, trying to memorize the various

  slopes, the varied clustering of the trees, half expecting to

  see something else.

  Then she started running again.

  There were lots of people here now, Herbert Blount noted.

  A veritable beehive of people. Such excitement! Everyone

  here at the dam.

  He stepped back.

  The floodlights were on and made the banner glow bril-

  liantly. The low clouds picked up splotches of the light.

  Everyone wanted to be here.

  But he saw it first. A darkish spot, growing, like a stain

  on the wall. The yellowish stone turning a muddy brown.

  Then he saw it move. The stone sort of bulged out.

  And now other people saw it, putting down their sand-

  wiches, and the chattering stopped.

  ’Cause this must be what they’d been waiting for. This

  was it!

  The bulge pressed farther and farther out, pushing, and

  he heard the stone grinding. He saw a tiny chunk of dried

  concrete clatter down the wall. It bounced once, twice, then

  three times before landing by his feet.

  He bent down and picked it up.

  A souvenir! Of the dam.

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  He looked up.

  The stone shot out of the wall, exploded, flying across

  the plaza. It went over his head, back there, back where the

  late arrivals to the plaza were gathering.

  Maybe it would land and crush a car.

  Or pound someone into the grass. Flat as a pancake.

  Like some funny trick being played on the Roadrunner.

  Beep. Beep.

  Then the water. A solid stream, as thick as a tree trunk,

  most of it streaming over Herbert’s head. But other water

  spilled, cascaded down the sides, so beautiful—like a wa-

  terfall.

  More stones started to bulge.

  Herbert (and all the other people, the ones not washed

  away by the first blast) stood and watched.

  T W E N T Y - F O U R

  They were out ther
e now. Though no sound reached her, no

  snapping of a twig or shuffling of a foot disturbing dry

  leaves, she knew they were here.

  She prayed that Joshua and Samantha would stay quiet.

  (Joshua slept now, shivering terribly even as his chest rose

  and fell with each breath. Samantha seemed frozen, with

  her spooky, wide-eyed stare.)

  They were here!

  Keep going, she prayed. Just keep moving, right along

  the trail, right toward the army she hoped her mother would

  bring back.

  But no. She knew it was impossible.

  Now she heard them, all right. Hands reaching out, grab-

  bing small twigs, reaching for exposed roots, pulling them-

  selves up, up to the cave. To Samantha and Joshua. But most

  especially, to her.

  She saw it! Right there. Not more than fifty feet

  away. And already a few cars and trucks had passed.

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  Cars and trucks and people who could stop and help her.

  She ran even harder, ignoring the prickers and the

  branches (almost invisible in the dark).

  Happy. Almost crying.

  Except suddenly she saw there was someone already

  there.

  In the road.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see you. Now, if you’ll excuse

  me, I’ll just—”

  In the darkness he started coming toward her.

  “No, no!” she screamed.

  “Susan! It’s me. Dan. Don’t run away. It’s okay. Really.”

  She ran to him, throwing her arms around him. She

  kissed him—not thinking, for a moment, that he could be

  like the others, the ones who had followed her through the

  woods.

  “Hurry, Dan. I left them back there—my daughter and

  two other children. We’ve got to get them!”

  “Show me.” He grabbed the flashlight from his car, then

  ran to catch up to her.

  Another stone block the size of a table shot out, then an-

  other, and the roar of the water drowned out the screams,

  the cries.

  Herbert could still stand, even though the waterfall that

  ran down the side of the dam splashed in front of him like

  a stormy ocean wave.

  It was beautiful. Wonderful. Exciting.

  Then Herbert turned around and looked at all the people.

  They were all being swept away like ants, and he thought,

  as all of them were being washed away by the gigantic

  stream of water—for the first time— why are they all here?

  He turned back to the wall. Other stones started to

  bulge. Not as quickly.

  Why are we here?

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