The Twilight Swimmer (8 page)

She was supposed to apologize for failing to ask about his injury, but she wasn’t in the mood to be prompted.

“How did you get home?” Spider went on. “Zombie-walked the whole way?”

“I got home fine.”

Spider sighed audibly. “I know you got home. I’m asking ‘how’. How did you get home?”

Brandi looked back inside the house where her parents were still sitting at the kitchen table, watching her speaking on the phone. When she caught her father’s eyes, he quickly looked down at his empty plate as if searching for one last morsel of meatloaf. Her mother made no such attempt at hiding her curiosity, going so far as to hold her hand up to her cheek, thumb and pinky extended in the universal hand-sign for ‘phone’. What this gesture signified, Brandi could not be sure. Was she meant to acknowledge that she was on the phone? Was she meant to get off the phone?

“I have to go,” she said to Spider, flatly.

“Okay, I mean--” His voice had gone high and soft, full of disappointment. “Is there some way you need me to apologize that I haven’t covered yet? I’m sorry in that way too, I promise. I’m sorry in the fashion of those words that you need me to say.”

“I have to go,” Brandi said again, her impatience asserting itself in the tone of her voice.

“All right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bye,” said Brandi, hanging up before Spider could say anything more. She sat on the deck for a while longer, still holding the phone by her ear as if Spider was still on the other end. For her mother’s eyes, so she would leave Brandi alone. Brandi stared out across the dark lawn, at the trees that lined it on two sides, and at the small wooden dock by the water where her kayak was tied up. She wanted to bolt straight for it, to drop the phone in the grass and run, but the moment of ecstasy she would feel as she shoved off, her parents screaming and waving for her to stop, would be too short-lived to warrant the consequences. She abandoned the fantasy and returned to quiet observation of the night scene, greens and blacks. And in her head, she heard the first notes of Bolero and began to plan her late night reverie.

Now, hours later, the rising music drowned out the world.

She didn’t hear the glass deck door slide open with a low whoosh. She didn’t hear the wide feet slap wetly on the linoleum in the kitchen, water streaming from wet skin and clothing, dripping and pooling. She didn’t hear the feet slip on the smooth wet surface, then move to the tan carpet of the living room where the texture on the soles scraped, imperceptibly, against the tightly-woven strands of fabric. She didn’t hear the strong hand grip the banister as the wet feet compressed one stair at a time – a slow ascent. She didn’t hear the feet padding down the carpeted hallway. She didn’t hear the doorknob turn. And she didn’t hear the lungs, the lungs so familiar and so foreign, draw in short, rapid breaths as the eyes, brilliant gray, took in the sight of her reclining body.

But then the song ended. Brandi looked up.

The Swimmer was standing in her open doorframe, wearing her father’s khaki pants and flannel shirt. The saturated clothing clung to his long, slender body like a second skin. One sleeve was twisted uncomfortably at his thick shoulder. The pants hung low on his hips, unbuttoned and partially unzipped, the two mechanisms too alien for the Swimmer to have attempted employing either or even recognizing their purpose.

Brandi recognized him a split second later and tried to stop the scream issuing from her throat, but it was too late. It rattled her bedroom window and all but peeled the paint off the walls. Like any scream in a silent night, it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She scared herself with the intensity of the scream, drawing her knees up to her chin and pressing her back against the wall as she took in the sight of her inhuman visitor.

Inhuman. He must be, she thought. He stood perfectly still, his expression vacant. He didn’t seem to understand the significance of her terror. He was not frightened in return, or eager to quiet her. He merely stared at her with his gray eyes blinking rapidly, observing her reaction to his arrival with detached interest. But no, it was more than that. There was the hint of a smile on his lips.

Brandi had no time to wonder at his strange reaction, or even his intentions. She heard her father’s heavy frame roll off her parents’ bed down the hall. She heard him grumbling as he barreled out his bedroom door, her mother’s shrill voice following him with what should have been admonishments to hurry and reach their imperiled daughter. More likely, she was shrieking warnings that if Brandi was under attack, he should bring his gun.

His gun.

Brandi leapt from her own bed, embarrassed by the shorts and camisole that barely covered her body. No time to worry about that. She raced across the room to the Swimmer and grabbed his slender wrist, pulling him inside the room and closing the door with her foot. She tried to drag the Swimmer across the wood paneled floor and toward the closet, but he was heavier than he looked, sturdy on his broad feet. She couldn’t budge him.

“He’s coming,” she shouted in a whisper. “Please!”

The subtle smile on the Swimmer’s lips turned up a bit more, and he looked down at her with amusement. She tugged at his wrist with her full force, but he hardly felt it.

“Brandi!” Her father’s frightened voice was a boom in the hall, the firing of a cannon, the collapsing of a skyscraper. He was seconds away from bursting through the door.

Finally understanding her efforts, the Swimmer released the tension in his legs and took a step forward. Brandi flew off balance and tumbled into the closet, crashing into a rack of hangars and falling into her hamper. She crawled out and beckoned frantically for the Swimmer to take her place. He took a step toward the closet, but was moving much too slowly.

“Brandi!” Her father’s voice again, right outside the door. His hand on the knob. One second. Maybe less.

The Swimmer didn’t dive into the closet like Brandi hoped. Instead, he effortlessly tore off the wet clothes.

“What are you doing?!” Brandi shrieked, her panic heightening by the second.

Without answering, he took a step back and leaned against the wall, very casual.

“Oh no,” Brandi whispered.

Conrad burst through the door with such force he nearly lost his footing. He was in his boxer shorts and a dirty white tee shirt, and he had managed to grab his police issue handgun before vaulting out of bed and down the hall. He held it at his thigh, ready to raise and fire.

“Dad, no!” Brandi screamed, even louder than the first scream. “Don’t shoot!”

Conrad didn’t hear her. He was scanning the room, looking for the intruder that had assaulted her daughter inside his home. The bed was empty. The closet was empty. He looked left and right, up and down. He looked at the pile of wet clothing – his – lying on the floor. He looked up at the wall where the Swimmer had leaned against it...

Brandi followed his eyes, expecting to see the Swimmer standing there, naked and pale, that strange smile on his face inviting her father’s wrath and, perhaps, a bullet. But all she saw was the bare wall.

The Swimmer was gone.

“Where is he?!” Conrad yelled as he performed a quick spin, scanning the room a second time.

“There’s no one here!” Brandi yelled back.

“What?”

“There’s no one here!” She sat down on the floor, suddenly exhausted.

“Then what are you screaming for?” Conrad engaged the safety on his gun and lowered it. He clutched his chest, twisting the tee shirt between thick fingers. Brandi’s mother appeared at the bedroom in her nightgown, her hair in its signature ponytail. She was shaking her head vigorously. As usual, Brandi did not understand what exactly the gesture was meant to communicate. Disappointment that there was no intruder? A moment later, Cody was at his mother’s hip. Improbably, at his age, he was sucking his thumb.

“Can you all just… please leave my room,” said Brandi, burying her face in her hands.

Her mother was instantly apoplectic. “You wake up the whole house and then you’re the one who’s put out? You’re the one who’s being inconvenienced? Answer your father. Why are you screaming bloody murder at one in the morning if you’re not being bloodily murdered?”

“I had a nightmare, okay? Can’t I have a nightmare without getting interrogated?” Brandi climbed to her feet and stomped across the room. She grabbed her father by the shoulders and pushed him back toward the door. Awkward on his heels, he didn’t try to resist.

“Then what are you doing on the floor?” her mother pressed.

“I don’t know, mom. I guess I was sleepwalking too. I’m sorry I don’t have nightmares the way I’m supposed to. Would you all just leave? Leave!”

“Brandiwine,” said Conrad, his voice heavy with concern.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I woke you,” said Brandi. “Goodnight.”

Conrad nodded and stepped out of the room. He bumped into Cody, saw his son still working on his thumb, and stooped to pick him up. He carried him down the hall, back to his room. Brandi’s mother lingered for another moment, studying her daughter with suspicion.

“Goodnight, mom. I’m sorry.”

Her mother stepped into the room and stood face to face with Brandi, her eyes unblinking. “Do we need to have a talk?”

“About what?” Brandi answered.

“If we need to talk, that’s what we’ll do,” said her mother. “Day or night, if that’s what we need to do.”

“Goodnight, mom.”

Her mother shook her head again. This time it was clearly an expression of frustration. But she also reached out for Brandi and drew her close for an embrace. Brandi set her chin on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes darting to the wall where the Swimmer had been just a few minutes before. And, to her amazement and horror she saw… the wall was moving. The silhouette of the Swimmer, tall and lean, moving almost imperceptibly against the white wall. She gasped, but this time managed not to scream. She could make out the line of his ribcage as it rose and fell with each breath. She could perceive the point of his elbow, the edge of his wrist and the spaces between his webbed fingers.

Camouflage, she thought. Everything but his eyes, which were still visible. Hovering gray circles that looked back at her with something like whimsy. Brandi bit her lip to keep from gasping again.

Brandi’s mother was unaware of her daughter’s fresh panic. “I love you, Brandi. You know that.”

“Yes, mom.”

They broke off their embrace. Brandi raised her palm to her mouth and faked a yawn. Her mother smirked, not at all convinced the yawn was genuine but prepared to accept the meaning behind it. She stepped back through the bedroom door and pulled it closed behind her.

When Brandi turned back to the wall where the Swimmer had hidden himself, he was already abandoning his camouflage. The white coloration he had taken on to disappear from sight took on gray and blue tones, his form returning to view. Brandi remembered his nakedness and, averting her eyes, dropped to the floor to scoop up the wet clothes and thrust them into his slender arms.

“Put these on. Are you crazy?” she whispered. “Wait a second! How did you find my house?!”

The Swimmer accepted the clothing, now tattered but still wearable. He pulled on the pants, once again failing to employ the zipper and button. The shirt was in worse shape, but he managed to slip his arms inside the sleeves and draw the fabric across his chest and stomach, where it clung.

Brandi remembered her own relative lack of clothing, hugged her body and scampered back to the closet. She pulled out her hooded sweatshirt and a pair of corduroys, which she slipped on over her shorts.

“Hello,” said the Swimmer with a smile. His voice was soft, but firm. A clear tone. No warbling or wavering. A pure voice, strong and youthful. “Hello,” he said again, his gray eyes blinking rapidly.

“Oh god, you
talk
?” said Brandi. “We gotta get out of here.”

He had been uncomfortable climbing through the window and onto the slanted roof. She suspected he had never experienced heights before, and while he was capable of walking upright he had never attempted to do so on a steep incline. But he followed her reluctantly to the apex of the roof and down the back side, and managed both the jump to the oak tree and the subsequent drop to the back lawn.

When they reached her kayak, he watched her flip the boat over and launch it into the water. But when she climbed inside and beckoned for him to do the same, he stood on the bank with a distressed expression.

“Would you please hurry up? My mother is probably spying right now from a dark window. She’s queen narc.”

“Narc,” said the Swimmer, not understanding the word but enjoying the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.

“Just get in,” Brandi urged.

She paddled hard, but not toward the ocean. She didn’t want to pass so many houses, and she didn’t want to navigate the difficult ocean currents with unfamiliar weight on the boat. It was built for two people, but she had never paddled out with anyone but her sister, and the Swimmer was much larger. She worried that they would topple over in even a small wave, and the water was getting colder every day.

She paddled west, past the last house on the inlet and into the narrower passage of water, shallow and clogged with marine grass, that larger boats couldn’t traverse. The sandbars were too frequent, the twisting course of the water too meandering. Even when the rains had been heavy and the level of the water rose, the waterway was a risky venture for most any vessel. Her father had once tried to pilot his sailboat inland, to the family hunting cabin at the edge of the state park. His rifle and supplies tethered to the mast, his daughters playing cards on the bow, he had traveled about a mile before he first snagged the bottom of the hull. The sudden jolt nearly sent Brandi vaulting off the deck and into the murky water. Conrad got the boat moving again, but their passage only got more treacherous. And with each minor collision, Conrad became more certain that he’d made a terrible mistake and the boat was in trouble. He managed to turn the boat around, to the frustration of his daughters who were eager to spend their first weekend at the cabin with their father. But two hours later, he had piloted the boat only a half-mile back to safe water. His rudder was bent severely and hardly functioning, and he was not at all surprised when the wind suddenly died. His off-board motor would do them no good with so much heavy reed, water lily and cattail eager to clog the props, and so he jumped out and hauled the small boat to shore. It was a mighty effort for even a large man and two enthusiastic girls to portage the boat out of the marsh and up to the nearest road.