A House at the Bottom of a Lake

31

James dove in first, no doubt in an effort to show Amelia he was on board with her idea, though he didn’t feel much different inside. And yet the moment his shoulders split the cool water, as the surface spread like lips, sucking him in, James understood there was really no other option. Because the only other thing to do would be to not come back. And they couldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. This was their clubhouse, their tree house, their secret, theirs.

Swimming toward the muddy lake floor, sensing Amelia had broken the surface above him, James recalled a time when he was ten years old. He and some friends had a clubhouse of their own. They called it Potscrubber and Potscrubber was no more than a huge cardboard box, cut open, placed against two trees, creating a bivouac, a shelter for their secrets, too. The box itself had once been used for a dishwashing machine and the label potscrubber was on the inside of the clubhouse, always in sight.

James reached the bottom, lowered his flippers to the mud, and felt the familiar sinking, the becoming one with the foundation of the plot.

Their plot.

He thought of the spider they found in Potscrubber.

Derrick looked it up in his encyclopedia and said it was poisonous. Called it a brown recluse and said one bite could kill a man. Jerry said Derrick had the wrong spider, said they looked alike but that wasn’t it. Derrick didn’t want to go back. Said they should leave Potscrubber, too, just leave it there in the woods. Wasn’t any good anymore.

But Jerry wanted to get rid of it. And so did James.

The friends returned to Potscrubber.

Amelia touched down beside him and they turned to face the house together. They shone their lights into the darkness on either side of the house first, as if looking for (someone in the yard) movement. Their beams extended into forever, or nothingness, as both felt the same. They illuminated the front windows. They were very aware that they were looking for someone. Checking (is anybody home?) for faces. That’s what they were there to do.

To introduce ourselves.

James thought of the spider bites on Jerry’s arms and legs. The chunks the doctors had to take out of Jerry’s right thigh and left biceps. How his clothes hung slack ever after.

Amelia tapped James on the shoulder.

Are you ready? she seemed to be asking.

James nodded. He was ready.

Amelia swam ahead, through the half front door.

James followed.

In his light, flecks of mud rose in a circle around her flippers. In her light, he saw the inside of the house, piecemeal, in parts. It had been a week. A week without.

It felt savory, the brief images, relief.

Suddenly Amelia turned around and swam back to James. She gripped him by the sides of his head and pressed her mask against his. Peace. James and Amelia. Back underwater. Back in the house.

What had he lost after all? Nothing. He’d lost nothing.

Amelia said something, words he couldn’t understand. Then she was off. Swimming into the darkness.

And James followed.

Deeper.

Deepest yet.