How a Woman Becomes a Lake (ARC) Page 5

  First, you have to determine your dominant eye. This is easy. Pick something specific, a bird’s nest, for example, and point at it with both eyes open. Without moving your finger, close your left eye. Is your finger still pointing at the target? Now open your left eye and close your right eye. Has your finger shifted? Your dominant eye is the one that is still pointing at the target when your other eye is closed. Get it?

  His old Remington was too heavy for the boys, but he figured

  they could watch at first. He would buy them BB guns once he got

  some money together and they could go out every Sunday. He would

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  do this at the start of next month, set a little money aside, maybe one gun for them to share at first, see how they took to it. He’d seen guns on sale somewhere, the hardware store maybe—a cheap one would

  do. His boys wouldn’t know the difference. They could spend the

  spring and summer shooting at foam targets; by next winter, he would

  have saved enough—and they would be good enough—to buy them

  each a real rifle. What else was he supposed to do? Take them bowl-

  ing? He could hear Evelina’s voice of disapproval in his head.

  Oh, what the fuck. He was who he was. No, that wasn’t true.

  Every day was an opportunity to become a better person. And today

  was the first day of the year.

  It is a sin in hunting to wound an animal. At some point, you will shoot something and it will not die. It will escape to suffer. To hunt is to have an intimate knowledge of life and death—

  He tried to remember the words of his father’s lecture so many

  years ago, but he found himself thinking of the Swami’s lectures

  instead. Holly had given him one of the Swami’s tapes on conscious-

  ness, which had sat untouched in his glove compartment until the

  night Evelina kicked him out. He’d driven to a lookout, put the tape

  in the stereo, and pressed play.

  Leo had worried that the Swami would be boring but he sank easily

  into the Swami’s words. The Swami said each person must reach the

  source of his thoughts in order to achieve self-realization. Where did his thoughts come from? Leo wondered, alone in his parked car, a can

  of beer in his hand. And how come his thoughts seemed to come from

  a place outside of himself? And how come he couldn’t control them? If they were his thoughts, surely he should be able to control them. Surely, he ought to be the source of them. Whose thoughts were they then?

  And how come he never ran out of them? They were like tidal waves

  crashing upon him, and within him, and it was ceaseless.

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  The brain is a chaotic place, the Swami said, filled with thoughts

  of the past. Yes, yes it is, Leo wanted to shout, yes! And how can I stop it from being this way? Tell me, please.

  After listening to the tape, he wanted, more than anything, to

  see the Swami in person. He imagined the Swami picking him out

  from the crowd as a kind of chosen one, and then travelling the world.

  Leo knew in his heart that he was special. He was not like other peo-

  ple. He would not die, for instance, in some sort of freak accident—a car crash or avalanche. He was on this earth for a reason. In the car, after listening to the Swami’s words, this conviction deepened. He

  knew he had to see the Swami one on one; he had to be really seen by him. He had to be elevated from this basic life.

  Little things, said Holly. Start with little things, little changes.

  Don’t try to change yourself all at once. It was her idea to make the paper boats with the boys. She told him that they should write down

  their resolutions—call them wishes, Holly suggested, every child knows what a wish is—and set them on the frozen lake at Squire Point. Leo

  believed in things like this—in writing down what you wanted, in

  visualization. Visualize a better future. Write it down. He shut his eyes and imagined his life after he married Holly and devoted himself to

  the teachings of the Swami. He was such a finer version of himself in this vision. A man in linen slacks, with a leather wallet. A soft-spoken, patient man. A wise man. He straightened his back and slicked his hair behind his ears.

  Sure, he had flaws, but he’d never done anything horrible.

  Nothing really wrong. He’d only been arrested once, and even that

  was a misunderstanding—he meant to pay for the watch but had just

  forgotten. And he hadn’t actually ripped out some of Evelina’s hair

  the night he left. She’d been screaming at him—for Christ’s sake, her goddamn anger—with her fists up like a boxer, and before she could

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  hit him he grabbed her arm and twisted her away from him, and

  some of her hair got caught on the button of his coat.

  Jesse and Dmitri had come into the room afterwards, when Evelina

  was standing with her back against the wall, wailing, a few strands

  of hair in her hands. A few strands of hair! Calling him a monster.

  Telling him to leave and never come back. There wasn’t time to

  explain to his sons what had happened, and everything he had tried

  to say since— You know, you think you saw something, but—came out like a lie. Evelina was so hysterical when they fought. He was never

  that angry—just got his feelings hurt easily and needed some space

  for a few days—but she’d storm into whatever room he was in, foam-

  ing at the mouth.

  He didn’t mean to be so tough on Jesse. Besides, he wasn’t a quar-

  ter as tough on Jesse as his own father had been on him. That had to

  count for something. It was easier with Dmitri—he was so small,

  sweet, affectionate. His needs were simple. Love me, hold me, feed

  me. Fine-boned, goofy-looking. He loved drawing. He loved it when

  Leo drew robots. He had the little robot drawings taped up all over

  his bedroom walls.

  “Can you draw me a robot, too?” Jesse would ask. But that wasn’t

  what he was asking. Can you love me as much as you love Dmitri?

  That was the question behind every question.

  He did love Jesse. It wasn’t that he didn’t. A few weeks ago, he’d

  drawn them each a robot, and told them to tape the drawings to their

  bedroom walls, something to look at when they missed their dad.

  What was he supposed to do when he came back inside after a ciga-

  rette to find the drawing of Dmitri’s robot ripped to shreds? What

  was he supposed to do, Evelina?

  ——

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  The trail shot out in front of him, empty and white. He was out of

  breath, and he couldn’t see his boys in the distance. He whistled, told himself that they were behind a tree, for some no-good reason invisible to him at this moment. There was no need to be angry, no reason

  to panic. He would not let his mood ruin the day. He would not let

  his anger seep into this day, the first day of the year.

  “God damn it, god damn it,” he said, trying to shake off his mood.

  Why should he be angry? Why should he be afraid? He had felt so light a few minutes ago, before he’d started thinking
about Evelina and the boys. The Swami said that when he felt himself about to lose control, he should imagine floating upward, high above the clouds, until the

  earth was the size of a marble. Now look down, the Swami said. Look

  down at the marble and see how little your panic matters. Now zoom

  out even further, to the edge of the universe, where the marble is no longer visible, where it is smaller than a single grain of sand.

  But that wasn’t helpful, at least not at this moment. Even at the

  very edge of the universe, Leo wanted to know where his boys were.

  He whistled again, called out their names, stopped walking so he could listen for signs of them. Hadn’t he told them to wait right here, under this tree? Not to travel more than two feet from this point? He called out their names again, angrier this time, he couldn’t help it. He felt the sweat on his neck, the anger at himself for leaving them, the anger at Evelina, the anger at the boys for walking off, the anger at them for being improperly dressed, their stupid rubber boots.

  He closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind, his anxious

  thoughts.

  But, wait. There was a voice to his left, a soft voice, but a voice

  nonetheless. Leo snapped his eyes open and stomped toward the

  voice, through the deep snow and toward the lake, which he could

  see now through the trees.

  What—what was that—

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  Jesse was in the middle of the lake, Jesse was hunched over and

  pawing at something—where was Dmitri?

  “Jesse!” It startled him how hard it was to speak—to scream.

  “Jesse!”

  He dropped his rifle and broke into a run over the ice, his feet

  catching and slipping out from under him, every muscle in his

  body willing him toward the middle of the lake—“I told you not

  to move—”

  Jesse sat on his knees pounding furiously at a puddle of water in a

  patch of broken ice, his eyes full of fear. “It’s Dmitri,” he was saying,

  “it’s Dmitri, Dad, do something, help, Dad, Dad please, he fel in,

  please, Dad, please.”

  In an instant, Leo broke through the thin layer of ice with his fists, crashed against the frozen lake with all his weight until cool black

  water bubbled up beneath the surface and spilled out under his knees.

  He unzipped his heavy jacket, threw it behind him and reached fran-

  tically into the water, gripped the sides of the ice and dunked his

  head, brought it up, sputtered and choked, then braced his feet on

  either side of himself, his arms searching helplessly under the frozen water for his son. He dunked his head in again. His eyes burned with

  cold, his legs scrambled—and he wrenched his head out of the dark

  water to take a breath, a sensation that burned his lungs, and he

  plunged underneath again, scanning the blackness.

  What was he supposed to do? Should he dive in? The hole was

  not big enough for his body. It was not big enough, even, for Dmitri’s body. Could his boy have slipped through, like a mouse through a

  crack in the wall? He felt the hot sting of tears and the awful panic of not knowing what to do, and he plunged his head in again, coming

  up only to scream, a howling wail, then plunged down into the ice

  once more.

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  C h a p t e r S i x

  Jesse

  Jesse backed away from his father, his hands in his pockets. From

  a safe distance, he watched his father break the surrounding ice

  with his fists and plunge his head in again and again. He stared at

  the tendons in his father’s neck, so well defined that they were gro-

  tesque. Was his father actually this upset or was he acting? His

  father’s reaction—this crazed desperation—was unlike anything he

  had ever seen before. He felt embarrassed. He felt numb. He felt

  nothing.

  “Dad,” he said softly, in a voice he knew was too quiet to be heard.

  His father had made a hole in the ice, big enough now for a body.

  If his father died—one push, it would only take one push—he

  would be gone from their lives forever. No more fear. Could he even

  imagine it? His father had not hit him since he had moved out, but

  it was always there, between them, those moments, his arm wrenched

  out of its socket. The look on his face before it would happen.

  He stepped toward his father, but could not make himself raise

  his hand.

  Maybe Dmitri, then.

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  After all, it did feel good to inflict pain on Dmitri. He got a little rush out of it—a quick pinch, a shove—even when he knew what

  the consequences would be. With Dmitri gone, his father might see

  Jesse as he truly was, not as a shadow over his brother, a dark figure looming over his brother’s head, but as a boy, a brave boy, a good

  boy. He prayed for the lake to swallow one of them—even himself—

  for the earth to rip open and carry one of them down to hell.

  When his father came up yet again for air he moaned, and Jesse

  felt a deep, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that what he was

  doing was not only wrong but also evil. It was an awful sound his

  father was making. It made Jesse think of men in medieval dungeons,

  wrists shackled, awaiting execution.

  “Dad,” Jesse said. “Stop.” But his father dove his head and shoul-

  ders again beneath the ice, searching frantically, his legs splayed.

  “Stop,” Jesse said, but his father had surfaced again and was

  punching the ice to make more room for his body, and his hands

  were bloodying the surrounding snow.

  “Dad. Please.” He rushed toward his father and grabbed one of his

  legs and pulled him with all his might. There was still a chance for happiness, Jesse thought, even now. Everything is temporary. Everything

  has an end.

  “Stop, Dad,” he said again.

  But his father continued to punch the ice, to make room to dive

  under the water. His face had turned a shade of purple, so dark it was almost black. His fingers were shaking from the cold.

  “Stop,” Jesse said, louder this time. “It’s a joke.”

  He let go of his father and scanned the trees. “It’s a joke,” he said again, but it was as if his father had entered a different dimension and could not be brought back.

  Whatever he had been unable to feel before, he felt now—a real

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  back the sky to reveal some other universe, some other possibility.

  “Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” he yel ed, tugging on his father’s leg again, but his father was preparing to dive under the ice. He raised his arms over his head.

  “Stop,” Jesse said again. “It’s only a joke.” He scanned the forest

  frantically, and at last caught eyes with Dmitri, who was crouched

  behind a row of white birch trees at the edge of the lake, out of sight, and he nodded at his brother that it was finally time to stand up, to run over, to put an end to this horrible game.

  There was still a way to recover from this, Jesse thought.
If only

  he—but before he could complete the thought, Dmitri sprinted over

  the ice to their father, leapt onto his back and shrieked, “Daddy, I’m behind you. Daddy, it’s a game, I’m behind you.”

  And Jesse watched his father spin on the ice, his lips blue from

  cold. He watched his father turn to see Dmitri. He watched his father throw back his fist and bloody Dmitri’s nose with one quick punch.

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  C h a p t e r S e v e n

  Denny

  There would be an extensive search. Divers would cut through the

  ice and search the lake for bodies. If nothing turned up, they

  would have to wait for the spring thaw—a sad, morbid fact. But death

  wasn’t the only option. She could have fled. People did. She could

  have been kidnapped. People were.

  Denny set his wife’s diary down and turned to face Officer Lewis

  Côté and one of the detectives, who was removing long strands of

  Vera’s black hair from a boar-bristle brush. The three men stood in

  the bedroom, while Scout nosed at their feet. A second detective was

  outside, under the night sky, talking to the neighbours.

  “I’ve never violated her privacy like this before,” Denny said and

  passed Lewis the diary. It was a dream journal, and as much as he tried, he couldn’t find anything in it that pertained to reality—to Vera’s reality. She dreamed often, it seemed, of birds. Of tending to birds. There were some notes about films she wanted to make, things to say in

  upcoming lectures. Reprimands to herself about quitting smoking.

  His friends thought she was boring, despite her impressive acco-

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  of stories, always the one to host poker night, ready to laugh. He felt as though he were the only person on earth who knew Vera. Her parents kept in close contact with her, called every few days, but she

  didn’t like them as much as they liked her. They weighed on her, even though she was sweet with them on the phone (they hadn’t heard

  from her either—he tried to downplay the fact that there was a policeman watching him as he spoke to them over the phone—and the last

  thing he wanted was for them to show up, though he knew they