The Cabin at the Lake
The lake was silent, the late afternoon sun dripping like honey from the cedars. She watched the bugs drifting lazily between the barcode shadows, illuminated intermittently. She breathed it in, the provocative scent of autumn. She knew there was no one within fifty miles of here, apart from the occasional lost hunter of course. The stillness was occasionally perforated by finches chattering in the canopy above skittish deers and foraging bears.
In her youth she had found solitude galvanising, it had enabled them to skinny dip, sunbathe naked and also experiment with clumsy, alfresco sex over lightning felled trees. Now, she found it stifling. Yet, still he insisted that they make the annual twelve hour drive out here so he could spend a whole silent fortnight fishing. Gone were the days of rug-wrapped, night-long conversations at the lakeside which were kindled by the fat moon, pregnant with best wishes and promises.
Through her soles she could feel the slats of the dock beneath her feet, sturdy and solid. The little jetty has been here since before they bought the cabin all those years ago, during that era of naivety and innocence when he had had a full head of hair and she had been beautiful. They came here every autumn, year upon year, the conclave of oaks gossiping breathlessly about the decay of the nuptials. She could almost see the five-gates scratched into the trunks by an invisible, incarcerated hand.
She untucked her hands from her pockets and toed the edge. The water was crystalline clear, the surface deceptively serene. He had once told her, in his thick Yooper accent, that it is fed from underground springs and it is these that produce not only the glassy transparency but also the deadly undercurrents. One summer they had almost lost their eldest to the lake, but had managed to pluck him free in the nick of time from its siren grasp.
After an hour or so, the sun tilted sufficiently to take the glare off the surface, disrobing it to expose its enticing depths. It is quite shallow around the dock, the bottom strewn with rocks and weeds. She could just about make out the plateau edge as it dropped off sharply into the murky abyss. Who knows what cursed creatures spiralled down there, Dante’s menagerie of the deep.
She watched a white perch dart in between the undulating foliage. When it turned a certain way it caught the light, causing it to flash like a tiny beacon. She regarded it as it experimentally nibbled at his finger, bouncing back and forth cautiously. She wondered idly if the algae had begun to settle on him yet. The perch worked its way past the glinting wedding band and onto the index, flitting in and out of its private mangrove roots.
Claret maple leaves ambled in the breeze, soporific under the heady, afternoon light. A whole year of dutifully swallowing sunshine rewarded with one short flight of fancy. They came to rest on the surface of the lake, as clawed as her husbands’ hands. Beneath the surface, a line of bubbles erupted from between his purple lips and made an erratic dash for the surface. She pondered if that was in fact his last breath, journeyed from the heart or bowel.
He looked like a twisted marionette, his outstretched arms gently rocking as if he himself was conducting the ebbs and flows. She had heard that death looked like sleeping, but he didn’t look like that. His face was gnarled hard with anger, his eyes knotted with hate. It was the same expression he had debuted at the lightning flash of comprehension, that pin point when he had understood that she wasn’t going to save him. That, in fact, she was just going to stand there and watch him drown. He had made his bed, and now he was lying in it. The gentle lake water couldn’t do much to dissolve the loathing.
The slanted light traced his every contour with dappled illumination. With its many fingers it prodded and poked, investigating his bloated frame as it resigned itself to the waters. The light fingered his heavy woollen jacket, it had one side wrenched up, the zip caught from when he frantically tried to claw it open. Desperate attempts to shed his clothes and prise off his boots interspersed with gulps of air and mouthfuls of water. A product of overwhelming saturation.
He had thrashed for what seemed like an eternity, flitting between frantic pleas of help to screaming profanities. He never really was a strong swimmer. At one point she had almost buckled, but she knew it had already gone too far, saving him then would have meant death for herself. After a while he had stopped shouting and began just gasping, his head bobbing low in the water, his limbs flailing uselessly in his heavy winter clothes. He had sunk not long after that, it was the first time he had taken his eyes off her.
So there she stood, trying to feel what she thought she should be feeling. A mute swan coasted past her before skidding ungracefully to a stop on the water. It then paddled off, its breezy exterior veiling the frenzied underwater propulsion. Its wake drifted right over him, momentarily distorting his face, making it look like he was smiling. She was glad when the surface stilled.
She looked at her watch, 7:30pm. He would have been fishing for at least another hour, right up until the cosmic fistful of roe slipped beneath the trees, eking out the last of the light before trudging back to the cabin for a strained supper. She had until then to decide what to do.
As twilight unfurled, the scenery around her darkened as a maturing bruise. The moon was already watching, it had been for a while. She wrapped her cardigan around her against the evening chill, any warmth had slipped away with the marmalade sun. Venus blinked on, suspended as a distress flare at the arc of its parabola. She peered over the edge, his spectral face stared back. It reflected the creeping moonlight as a dime, punched holes for eyes. Soon she wouldn’t be able to see him at all, even now the inky water was claiming him, weaving his murky death shroud from the watermilfoil.
She took one last look, but she knew that she wouldn’t remember him like this. The years of a loveless marriage weighs far heavier than this image of his capsized mask. It was him who had sunk her, the difference being that his finale had lasted minutes whereas she had been drowning for years. With a final glance she turned, strode along the jetty and headed towards the cabin. Once inside she turned on the lights, shut the door and took off her boots. She put on the kettle and flicked on the stereo, it buoyed her instantly.
She broke down and let me in
She poured the boiling water into the mug and watched the tea steep, reaching tendrils.
Made me see where I've been
She looked at the wall clock. 8:28pm.
Been down one time
Been down two times
She plucked the torch from its hook on the wall and placed it on the counter.
I’m never going back again
She took a deep breath, and picked up the phone.
