The River Killings (15 page)

“He could have helped,” I whispered. “Instead of just watching us screw up.”

“Trust him, Zoe. He knows what he’s doing.”

“That was terrible, ladies. I’ve never seen a clumsier effort,” Coach announced into his megaphone. Rowers on the dock of Vesper, the boathouse next door, turned to stare at us. “You two are the Laurel and Hardy of Humberton Barge.”

The man was unbearable. Even though Susan urged me to ignore him, I couldn’t. “Coach, what’s with the megaphone?”

“Hayes, don’t dawdle,” he blared. “You have a boat on the dock.”

“Zoe, cool it. . .” Susan begged.

“No. The man’s standing right next to us. Why does he need to shout into a megaphone?”

“Ignore it,” Susan pleaded. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Ladies, if you would,” Coach Everett taunted, “let’s get into our goddamn boats. Please.”

“That’s it.” I was ready to leave. “It’s over. I can’t listen to this.”

“Please,” Susan pleaded. “Wait . . . I’ll talk to him.”

She approached the coach, face-to-megaphone. Her voice was low, too quiet for me to hear. Coach waited for her to finish, looking bored. Then, loudly, he replied. “Tell me, Cummings. Who are you?”

Susan took a step back. “Sorry . . . what?”

He repeated the question, his tone condescending, sarcastic.

Susan was confused. Beginning to sputter. “Who am I? What do you mean?”

This time, he used the megaphone.
“WHO
A
RE
YOU?”

Now Susan was offended. “Who am I? Okay. I’ll tell you. I’m a professional woman—successful. I’m a criminal defense attorney. And I’m the wife of a very successful businessman. And the mother of three healthy children—”

“No, no, Cummings. That’s off the water, and frankly I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are off the water. You could be president of the united States for all I care. Here, on the river, I’ll tell you who you are: Nobody. You’re just a goddamn novice who knows nothing. And here’s who I am. On the river, as far as you’re concerned, I’m God. I am not just your coach; I’m your absolute master. Don’t you dare question what I say or how I say it. But I’ll tell you about the megaphone. I’m using it because I want my voice to burn into your brain. I want you to hear my voice every time you even think about rowing. Every time you get anywhere close to the water or even dream about it. Off the water, you can do or be whatever you want; down here, I rule your butt. Got it? Now shut your face up and get in the boat.”

For an interminable moment, Susan didn’t move. She stood
still, bug-eyed and speechless. I thought she might go after him, pictured the two of them duking it out right on the dock. I even imagined joining in, the two of us tossing him into the river, his megaphone stuffed up an especially delicate orifice. But instead, Susan suddenly spun around and hurried to her boat.

“Fine,” she said. And, without another word, she locked her oars on and wobbled precariously into the old Filippi single.

In hindsight, it seemed clear that we should have canceled the lesson right then. Just walked away, leaving Everett and his megaphone to put the boats away himself. But for some inexplicable reason, we didn’t. I was already in my shell. The river was calm, beckoning. We both felt compelled to get out there and row, and, officially, novices couldn’t row without a coach.

As Susan was climbing into her shell, the coach bellowed again. “Cummings,” he blared. “Look at your boat. What have you done wrong?”

She stopped, staring at her boat. She walked alongside, gazing at it from bow to stern. “Nothing,” she finally said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Nothing?” the voice boomed. “Think, Cummings. Think and look. And revise your answer.”

Again Susan examined her shell. She crossed her arms. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

“You’re sure?” His tone was condescending, sarcastic.

“What? Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Look at your hatches, Cummings.”

Susan looked. Red patches of embarrassment emerged on chest and throat as she realized her mistake. Each end of the hollow hull had a hatch to seal it watertight. In our very first lesson, we’d learned to close the hatches before launching. That way, if we flipped, the shell would float like a raft.

“Your hatches, Cummings. What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re open.” Her voice was faint.

“What? I didn’t hear that.”

“They’re open.”

“Say again?”

“My hatches are open!” Susan shouted.

She was already on her knees, closing them. Coach Everett waited with exaggerated patience, and finally Susan and I each managed to push away from the dock without further incident.

F
ROM
T
HAT
P
OINT
ON,
T
HE
L
ESSON
D
ETERIORATED
. I W
AS
T
OO
busy trying to balance to watch how Susan was doing. The single shell was much lighter and less stable than the double. Every time I moved at all—whether lifting a hand, turning my head, shifting my legs—the boat tipped and wobbled. My shoulders tensed; my hands clutched the oars. Sweat soaked my body, dripping into my eyes, making my hands slippery. Slowly, dragging my oars in tiny strokes, I moved my boat across the river, waiting to overturn, listening for a splash.

Coach Everett followed in a motor launch, demanding that we row with squared oars. Squared oars meant that the blades had to remain perpendicular to the water. Normally, rowers feather or flatten their oars between strokes, holding the blades horizontal to the water, stabilizing the boat the way training wheels stabilize a bike. To row with squared oars required skill, balance and strong technique. None of which, as novices, Susan or I had.

As Coach Everett shouted scathing criticism from his launch, I struggled to stay afloat. My shell rocked and tilted, threatening to spill me out. I forgot to breathe. My entire body clenched, and I was sure I’d pass out from exertion or heat. The surface was calm and flat, but my blades kept catching on the water, tipping the boat. And when I stopped rowing to regain my balance, Everett hollered.

“Dammit, Hayes, did I tell you to stop? Is your brain up your butt? Slow your goddamn slide.”

Don’t let him shake you, I told myself. Ignore the insults. He’s
insufferable, but he knows how to row, so just do what he says. And gradually, a mantra began in my mind, with Coach Everett’s voice chanting each part of the stroke. “Reach out, catch water. Push with your legs. Lean back. Arms back. Finish. Reach ahead, lean forward, slide up slowly, slowly, slowly. Reach out and catch water again.”

Each slight movement, a roll of the fingers, a twist of the wrist, the position of my head, the stiffness of my shoulders made a difference in the stroke. There was so much to think about, so much room to make mistakes. The coach tore at me again and again. “No, not like that. Are you learning-impaired, Hayes? Go all the way up the slide. Onto your toes. More. More. Now, reach out. No—further out.”

The farther I reached, the more off balance I felt. I suspected he wanted me to flip so he could humiliate me further, and I didn’t want to give him the pleasure. In fact, I refused. So, with my shell teetering and body drenched with sweat, I concentrated not on the coach but on my rowing. On the sensations of being in the boat and on the water. And when he finally left me to torment Susan, I continued practicing, repeating his mantra, until, as I was beginning to tip and sway a little less, from somewhere beyond the roaring of the launch’s motor and the coach’s megaphone, I heard Susan shouting.

I stopped rowing to listen. Susan was screaming. “You goddamn son of a bitch,” I heard. “You did that on purpose!”

I feathered my oars, stabilizing my boat on the water, and turned, scanning the water for Susan. Her boat was fifty feet downriver, overturned; Susan was beside it, treading water, shaking her fists at Everett.

“You sadistic egomaniac—you flipped me!”

Coach Everett sat calmly in his launch, talking through his megaphone. “Cummings, you should try another sport. How about sumo wrestling. At least you have the physique.”

Susan yelled back. “You buzzed me! You deliberately flipped me with your wake. You ought to be banned from coaching. From
the entire river. I’ll sue you. I’ll file a complaint with the Schuylkill Navy—With U.S. Rowing—”

Coach Everett chuckled, watching Susan flail in the water. “Quiet down, Cummings. Save your energy. You still have to get back in your boat.”

Cursing and sputtering, Susan lifted an oar and splashed around, trying to right her overturned boat. I rowed over, watching helplessly as she managed to roll the boat over and cross the oars. When she tried to lift herself in, though, she knocked the oars apart, flipped the shell again and fell back into the water. Cold memories tickled my neck; I could feel the river engulfing me, dead flesh embracing me, sodden hair floating into my mouth. I closed my eyes, told myself that no dead bodies were in the water today, that Susan would be fine. And the water would cool her off. The second time she tried, she almost made it.

“Be patient,” I cheered her on. “You’ve almost got it. Take your time.”

Head bobbing in the water, she scowled fiercely, eyes threatening violence if I didn’t shut up.

Coach Everett commented on her every move, noting that she wasn’t a bad swimmer and might have more success swimming back to the dock tugging the boat along with her. Finally, after a few more attempts, Susan hoisted herself up, successfully shimmied back into her seat and grabbed the handles of her oars.

“Are you all right?” I yelled.

She cursed and turned to Coach Everett. “You belong in jail,” she shouted. “Or a mental hospital. You’re insane. I swear, I am never ever under any circumstances going to row with you again.”

Smiling, he saluted her. “Don’t worry, Cummings. You won’t have the opportunity. You’re hopeless. You stink.”

Without another word, feathering her oars, Susan rowed back toward the Humberton dock.

T
HE
L
ESSON
W
AS
O
VER
. I T
URNED
M
Y
S
HELL
A
ROUND
TO F
OLLOW
Susan, and the coach slowly trailed me in the launch.

“Your friend’s a hothead,” he called through his megaphone. “Blaming me because she flipped her boat.”

I didn’t answer. I hadn’t seen what had happened, but I had no doubt that he’d been at fault.

“I can see why she’s so defensive, though,” he continued. “She was the bow, after all. She was steering when your double flipped the other night. Nobody flips a double. You’ve really got to suck to do that.”

I didn’t want to engage in conversation, but I felt the need to stand up for my friend. “That wasn’t her fault,” I yelled. “Her oar got stuck on a corpse.”

“No excuse. She should have avoided it. Nobody flips a double. Yo, Hayes—focus. Keep your hands down.”

Drop dead, I thought. Still, I lowered my hands.

“Better. You actually seem to have some potential for this,” he said. Wait. Had he said something nice? A compliment? unbelievable. I felt myself blush. Stop it, I told myself. Don’t listen to him; he’s an asshole. Concentrate on your strokes. Push your legs and thighs, lean back. Lower your knees and hands. The boat responded, gliding and bubbling smoothly beneath me, and I began to lose myself in the motions.

“So, what did you see?”

What was he talking about? “Sorry, what?” I lost the rhythm, stopped rowing.

“When you found the bodies,” he called. “Was anyone else around? Was there anything else in the water?”

Wait. What was going on? Harry had just asked those same questions. Why? Weren’t nineteen bodies enough? Why would anyone expect there to be anything else?

I shook my head, no, and began to row again.

“Slow down. Don’t take your slide so fast. Let yourself take the ride,” he called. Then he put down the megaphone and watched me row silently, without comment, all the way back to the dock.

W
HEN
I P
ULLED
UP,
T
HE
H
UMBERTON
D
OCK
W
AS
E
MPTY
.D
OZENS
of shoes and a few stray socks, towels and water bottles littered the deck, waiting for their owners to return and claim them, but nobody was around. Susan had already replaced her boat and apparently taken off, maybe gone upstairs to Lisa and Molly. I put away my oars and struggled to put my boat back on the racks; then, without waiting for the coach’s postlesson critique, I rushed upstairs. As I climbed, I noticed how oddly quiet the boathouse was. No music blared from the exercise room; no chatter drifted from the juice bar. I entered the lounge, looking for Lisa and Molly, calling their names. No one answered.

I stopped, scanning the room, registering that no one was there. The leather sofa on which I’d left Molly was vacant. Her empty water-ice cup, her coloring stuff was there. Her bead kit was open; a bracelet lay half-finished on the sofa. But there was no Molly.

The locker room, I thought. Of course. That’s where they must be. Lisa must have taken Molly to the bathroom. I went to the women’s locker room, pulled the door open.

“Molly?” I yelled. “Lisa?”

Only silence answered. And the sound of running water.

Oh, Lord. My belly churned, my head felt light. After everything that had happened, how had I been so stupid as to leave Molly even for an hour? I stood shivering in the steamy heat, unable to figure out what to do.

“Molly?” I called again. “Lisa?”

No answer. Just the shower.

The shower. Someone was in there. Maybe she’d seen the girls. I hurried past the sinks and toilets into the shower room, found a closed curtain, peeked through the crack. Susan stood under the water, rinsing her hair.

“Susan,” I called. “Have you seen Lisa and Molly?” Absurdly, I noticed that her nipples were large and surprisingly pink.