A House at the Bottom of a Lake

22

Following Amelia through the house, the flippers propelling, James thought: She’s the coolest girl you’ve ever met.

More than the bravery it took to explore the house was the fact that they were now spending nights on the raft.

Behind his mask, James smiled. He shone his beam in a circle around her until it looked like she was swimming through a ring of fire. She was performing for him; weaving through the halls, the rooms, up the stairs and down, through the attic, the bedrooms, and even sometimes above the seaweed gardens outside.

He owed a lot to this house. It’d given him something incredible to show her.

Still following her, he thought of her half-naked body and the dozens of times he’d seen it. How soft her breasts felt in his hands, how sweet she tasted, the weight of her pressed upon him on the raft.

Could today be the day they lost their virginity in the house? And was it up to him to bring it up?

Maybe…

Ahead, Amelia took a sudden left, entering the thin hall that connected the study to the kitchen, the vast magnificent kitchen with not one but two marble islands, where knives remained in their holders, the stove looked ready to use, and the cupboards were stocked with dishes, glasses, serving plates, and bowls.

All of it stationary. As if found in the kitchen of any dry home.

Glue? James asked himself. Rope?

But no hows. No whys.

Because of their one rule, their clubhouse guideline, James hadn’t examined the dishes close enough to know what held them in place. In his father’s hardware store, they stocked sixteen types of glue. There was Glasgow wood glue strong enough to hold a cabin together. But you couldn’t even hang a child’s drawing on your wall with Duncle’s. And the store had everything in between. In fact, James’s dad would have so much to explain down here, his head might explode from the excitement.

But would the pieces of his head fall to the floor… or scatter freely about the house?

No hows. No whys.

Amelia said the house was kind of like the Garden of Eden. Neither of them gave a hoot about religion, but the analogy was spot-on.

Don’t eat the apple. Not down here.

But at seventeen years old, James was curious. He was far from the age when childhood’s magic might return, far from being an old man who didn’t want to ask questions, who happily accepted the unknown and all mysteries.

Probably it was because he spent most days talking to people about how things are put together, the best way to build, the best wood, tools, rubber, and glue.

His father’s hardware store constantly asked how and why.

It’s how it survived. It’s why it existed.

Home improvement.

Home.

And how one stays together.

Ahead, Amelia exited the kitchen by way of a spiral staircase that led to one of the bedrooms upstairs.

James didn’t follow her.

Bringing his arms and legs up, he pushed himself to a stop. Bubbles rose from his face mask. He treaded above the two kitchen islands for a full minute. He thought about Eden. Then he lowered himself to the tiled kitchen floor.

On the counter was a small porcelain beaver. The three small holes on its back told James it was a pepper shaker.

Why isn’t it floating? What’s holding it down?

Training his light on the animal’s teeth, James could sense the darkness behind him. It felt as if the entire house of darkness fanned out from this one point, this pepper shaker that somehow stayed put on the kitchen counter.

Somehow.

The beaver’s wide eyes seemed to stare up into the light.

James ran a finger along its back, over the holes.

He gripped it between his forefinger and thumb.

How.

He tugged.

For a beat it felt like it was going to come up with his hand. James could see the teeth, the eyes, the flat tail rising from the counter like any rational object should.

But it didn’t move at all.

James’s vision wasn’t the best through the mask but it was good enough. Floating above the kitchen floor, he bent at the waist and examined where the shaker met the counter.

Being in the business of adhesives and tools, James had seen a hundred broken objects. He’d be able to spot a fix from across the kitchen. But there was no sign of glue at the base of the beaver.

James looked to the exit, to where he’d last seen Amelia swimming. For a breath he thought he saw her, arms crossed, eyes alight, no mask, no tank, no suit, watching him from across the kitchen.

He felt some shame for doing what he was doing.

He pulled on the shaker again. Harder this time.

No give.

No wiggle.

The shaker did not move.

James pulled a pocketknife from the small pouch secured around his waist. He popped it open. Holding the light with one hand, he wedged the knife where the shaker met the counter. He dug at it.

His flippers rose up behind him as he worked, until he was floating horizontal to the counter, his mask only a few inches from the beaver’s teeth.

He dug at it again.

No wiggle.

No give.

James put the knife back in the pouch and swiveled toward the bigger knives. Their handles jutted out of their wooden holder.

He thought of Amelia. What she would say.

Why’d you need to know? This place is ours, James. Isn’t that enough?

He looked back to the shaker, thinking maybe he should leave it alone.

But the shaker wasn’t on the counter anymore.

“What?”

The porcelain animal floated, eye level, and James watched it rotate in place, as if someone were turning it, showing him the bottom, showing him there was no evidence of glue.

James reached for it.

The shaker floated up, toward the ceiling.

James reached for it again and again it spun away.

He shone the beam in the space surrounding the shaker.

A pocket of cold water rolled the length of his body. James knew the feeling well. He’d experienced it in flooded basements, helping his dad repair a neighbor’s pipes. Water so cold it seemed to grip you with actual fingers.

James sensed life behind him and turned quick.

A distorted face was inches from his own.

He yelled into his mask.

But it was Amelia.

Only Amelia.

Only.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. She was smiling.

She motioned for him to follow her. She was mouthing words. A door, she seemed to be saying. A new door. James held up a finger, telling her to hang on, he had something to show her, too.

But when he shone the light to where the shaker had been, it was back, secure, on the counter.

The big teeth and dumb eyes glinted in his trembling beam.

Come on, Amelia seemed to be saying. You’re gonna love this.

She swam from the kitchen and James followed.