The Paper Palace(75)

Now, as I hurry past the swimming pond, I can see the old men laboring across the water, strokes in perfect synch; two bright blue snapping-turtle heads in a dreary sea. It must be freezing.

I’m almost out of the park when I hear shouts behind me. A woman with a small dog is waving her arms, screaming. A man on the far side of the field hears her, breaks into a run, but I am closer and reach her first.

“He’s drowning,” she screams, pointing to the pond, frantic. “I can’t swim.”

Down below in the pond I see only one blue head.

“He was over there.” She points. “He was right there, calling for help. I can’t swim.”

“Call 999,” I shout.

I’m in the pond before I have time to think, kicking off my sneakers, leaving my raincoat and heavy sweater somewhere on the ground behind me. The water is warmer than I expected, fresher. I surface six quick strokes from the old man. He is treading water, shivering with shock. His terrified eyes search the surface for a sign of his friend.

“It was our third lap,” he says. “We always do six laps.”

“Get back to shore,” I say.

I go under, eyes searching the gloom for a spot of inconsistency, of color. I break surface for air and dive again, deeper this time, down to the reedy bottom. Ahead of me, I see a hint of blue.

The paramedics arrive just as I reach the shore, breathless, dragging the old man’s limp weight. Two of them wade in to pull me out, but I shake them off. “Save him,” I gasp. “Please save him.”

His friend stands shivering on the little wooden dock. The woman has wrapped her coat around him. We watch the paramedics pummeling his sad white chest, breathing into him. I hold my breath, wait for that sputtering of water to cough from his lungs, his eyes opening in surprise, as if he has just spat out a live frog. In the muddy shallows, his blue rubber cap laps the shore.



* * *



—

Peter is already home when I come in, lying on the uncomfortable sofa, reading. He must have just gotten home, because there’s only one cigarette butt in the ashtray and his mug of tea is still steaming. I stand in the doorway, barefoot, dripping a puddle onto the coir mat.

“You got caught in the rain,” Peter says, putting his book down. “I’ll light the fire.”

I’m frozen in place, my heart a sodden heavy thing.

“C’mon then,” Peter says, coming over to give me a sloppy kiss, “let’s get you out of those wet things.”

“An old man drowned in the swimming pond.”

“Just now?”

“He swims there every day. With his friend.”

“And you saw this? Poor possum,” he says.

I am numb, too numb to feel. “He hadn’t even reached the bottom of the pond. He was still floating down when I got to him.”

“Hang on a minute,” Peter says. “Wait. You mean to tell me you went in after him yourself? Into the men’s swimming pond?”

“The water was dark, but I saw his bathing cap.”

“Christ, Elle.” Peter fumbles for a cigarette, lights it.

“The paramedics were already there when I got him to shore. He looked like a fetus—one of those things they keep in formaldehyde.”

“You could have drowned. What the hell were you playing at?” he says, his voice gruff with love and worry.

I look away from him. I wish I could tell him, explain it. I needed to save him. A drop in the bucket. But I can’t.

He wraps me in his arms, holds me tight. “Let’s get you into a hot bath.”

“No. No water.”

Peter peels my wet clothes off where I stand, carries me to our bed. He climbs under the covers with me, fully dressed, spoons me. I like the feel of his shirt, his belt buckle, his pants, so cloth-like, so concrete, pressing against my naked flesh.

“You should take off your shoes,” I say.

“I’ll go make you a cup of tea. Don’t move. In fact, I’m never letting you out of this flat again.”

My skin refuses to warm. I pull the covers closer around me but my body keeps shaking. I can’t stop thinking about his body drifting down, the amniotic embrace of death, how graceful he looked as he fell. I listen to Peter filling up the electric kettle, the jangling of silverware as he opens a drawer. I imagine every little movement he is making: carefully choosing a teacup he knows I will like, dropping in two PG Tips bags instead of one, steeping the tea forty seconds longer than I would, pouring in enough milk to make it the correct shade of pinky-beige, not too pale, stirring in a heaping teaspoon of sugar.

“Whiskey in or on the side?” he says, bringing me my tea.

“I need to go home,” I say. “I’m sick of the rain.”

“What rain?” he says.





24


   1993. September, New York.


The cat has stretched herself out on a sun-washed windowsill next to a pot of red geraniums. Her long tail brushes back and forth like a trailing vine, strewing loose flower petals from the sill onto the hardwood floor below. One of them has landed on her back and perches lightly atop her soft tortoise fur, a splash of red paint. The telephone rings, but I ignore it. There’s no one I’m in the mood to talk to. I hate everyone today.