Drowning Instinct(30)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Well, Mr. Anderson had said his door was always open.

Time to find out if that was true.

c

County Road J turned out to be mainly rolling farmland, the fields fallow now, the withered stalks plowed under to form dun-colored quilt blocks. Here and there, fields of pumpkins shone an iridescent, impossible orange under that clear, bright, October sun. I passed sad farmhouses and tumble-down barns and listing silos. Other farms were better off, the barns painted a deep russet or a flawless, eye-watering white.

Mr. Anderson‘s mailbox guarded the mouth of a dirt road that snaked north over a rise hemmed by hardwood forest and disappeared. From the map I‘d pulled up on Google Earth, Mr. Anderson owned about a hundred acres and his house perched on the southwestern shore of a large kidney bean of a lake. The Google images had been taken during full summer because all the trees were leafed out and the open fields were a deep emerald green. The woods extended from the lake on all sides and then gave way to open land to the east but more woods running north and west. A small stream drained into the lake at its northernmost point and another coiled away to the south. There seemed to be at least one more building way to the west, almost drowning in the forest, so maybe it was a summer cottage or an old hunting cabin. The nearest house was a good three miles east, but there was parkland off Mr. Anderson‘s property, with another lake and plenty of running trails, and that‘s where I headed.

If you‘re thinking that I was daring something to happen, Bob, you‘d be right. At the time, I told myself that I just needed some new scenery to keep my workouts fresh. But I know the truth. I was hoping I might run into Mr. Anderson on the trails. He said he ran on his property and in the park, and I was a runner and lived sort of out here. So we would just happen to run into each other and then . . .

Then what?

Come by, he‘d said, anytime. Did he really mean that? I thought he did. I also half-sensed that we were dancing around something, doing a complicated series of steps to some ancient rhythm that he knew but I didn‘t yet understand. Or maybe I was dancing alone, the whole scenario unfolding in only my imagination. Like so many other things.

d

Even for a nice day in October, Faring Park was virtually deserted, with only one other car—not Mr. Anderson‘s. I changed into my running shoes, stretched, then took off at what I knew was an easy seven-mile-an-hour pace. I followed a meandering wooded trail that, in three miles, would empty onto another east-west trail and that would eventually take me to the edge of Mr. Anderson‘s property. Total distance, there and back, was a little shy of seven miles. Crossing onto Mr. Anderson‘s property—running to his house, say—would add another four miles there and back. So, eleven altogether. It was doable. I just didn‘t know if I would.

Like math and science, running has never been hard for me. I don‘t listen to music when I run. The more I sweat, the clearer my mind becomes, as if all thought, good and bad, oozes out in salty rivers. After a while, there is nothing but the surge of my heart. My muscles are warm, my strides effortless, and I am flying, skimming the earth. I don‘t think; my head empties, and that is best of all.

I met no one on the trail. I knew when I‘d reached Mr. Anderson‘s land because there were placards stapled to the trees: Private Property and No Trespassing. I could‘ve continued. The trail unfurled like a brown carpet. I could run onto his property, loop around the lake, just happen to be passing by as he stepped onto his deck, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, to admire the view. Then he‘d do a double take and shade his eyes and his lips would curl in a happy, surprised grin:

Jenna, what are you doing out here? You ran how far? How fast? Your split was . .

. my God, that’s terrific time! I didn’t know you could run that fast. Hey, if you’ve got a sec, come on in; I’ve just put on a pot and I was thinking about how nice it’d be to have someone to share this….

e

I made great time back to the car.

f

That night, talking to my mother on the phone:

―Your father and I really need to get away,‖ she said. They‘d made it to Bayfield too late for the last ferry to the island, so they were staying in town and just about to head out to their favorite restaurant. ―I think we might stay an extra few days. You don‘t mind, do you?‖

―What about the store?‖ But what I thought was: What about your boyfriend?

―Evan‘ll handle everything. I haven‘t had a break in, well, I don‘t know how long.

Thanksgiving‘s coming up and things will get even crazier. I need the time away.‖

―I understand. Don‘t worry about me. I‘ll be fine. There‘s plenty of food and whatever I need, I can always buy.‖ I had a stash of birthday money I‘d planned to spend on some new clothes, but my mother had been too busy and shopping on my own was too pathetic even for me.

―There‘s emergency cash.‖ Mom told me where to find it and then added, ―You‘ll be good driving to school?‖

―We‘re out for the week.‖

―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Right. I forgot.‖

Big surprise there. ―When do you and Dad think you‘ll be back?‖

―Is Thursday all right?‖ After I told her that Thursday was fine, Mom asked again what I‘d done all day but then interrupted to say that Dad wanted to go eat. ―And have his first martini,‖ she said. ―Talk to you tomorrow.‖

―Sure,‖ I said. ―Tomorrow.‖

25: a

Monday.

There was no work I could pretend to have. I was way ahead in all my classes except English. High time I got serious about my project, though I didn‘t have a clue what I was going to write about. Alexis‘s book had arrived at the school library the day before break, and I had yet to crack the spine. So I turned the radio to an NPR station—Mozart, I think—and settled onto the window seat in my bedroom.

I expected something dry, a recap of what I already knew from my Google search with some anecdotes tossed in for interest. Instead, the very first chapter was about the rescue of a female beluga whale that had gotten tangled in a snarl of illegal lobster traplines off the coast of Canada near the St. Lawrence Estuary. By the time the rescue team arrived in Zodiacs, the poor thing had been struggling for hours to stay afloat. Belugas travel in pods and her podmates were frantic, crying in high-pitched whistles as they circled their companion. As Alexis watched, some tried slipping beneath the female to keep her from drowning but couldn‘t get close enough to help without getting entangled themselves.

The only way to free the whale was to cut the ropes and that meant getting into the water with all those whales. Belugas aren‘t huge, only fifteen feet when they‘re fully grown, but any given beluga may weigh as much as three thousand pounds. If the pod panicked when the divers got in the water, or the trapped female began to thrash, the divers wouldn‘t have a chance. But if they didn‘t help, the female beluga would drown. There really wasn‘t a choice. While the Zodiacs took up positions between the pod and the trapped whale, Alexis and three other divers slid into the icy water. As soon as they did, the trapped whale became virtually motionless, as if she knew she must. Silent now, the other belugas circled, waited, watched. For more than an hour and in brain-numbing cold, the divers hacked at the nylon rope, mindful that the beluga‘s podmates might swarm in to protect their companion; that a moment‘s lapse in concentration or careless placement of a knife might injure themselves or the whale.