Nightswimming

Sometimes I go swimming alone, at night. Under the silvered scree of moonlight, I undress and pad quietly into the cool shallows. In September, the fog rolls in, an ancient cue for impending winter and the solid freeze known in the north as Ice Down. I will lean back, float serenely, eyes trained on the slivers of light that breach the overhanging pines. I imagine I am young, a girl in the throes of teenage angst, rebelling against the oaken crush of an overtired single mother. I imagine I am in love, arms twisted around the muscular shoulders of an older lover, a sensual tryst in the chill of autumn. I imagine I am strong, stronger than his pressings, his pleas, his sweet whispers and platitudes in my crimson ear.

I imagine I am alive. That I scrabbled back up from those inky depths. That I breached the surface and bobbed gasping for air. That I filled my lungs with crystalline particles of lifegiving moon beams. That I cried out, swam harder, swam faster than he could. That I collapsed heaving onto the steep mossy embankment and had the foresight to pull in my legs before he could wrench me back to the abyss.

I imagine that he was the one who shuddered as his lungs expelled their last breath. That he stared up at my granite face from deep amidst the twisted shadows of the sunken forest. That I was the one who drove away, who left him floating, empty, swollen with loss.

I imagine these things and so many more as I backstroke, kicking languidly in circles, watching the ripples rise in glistening peaks that flutter out across the lake’s glossy surface before buffeting to still. I plunge down deep, caress the boughs of long rotting aspens and pines, dance amidst the bubbling sway of catfish, and sing softly as I yearn to purge the fears and pains and sorrows of years missed.

In Autumn, I am always alone. No one visits the lake. In the cold air, the pungent scent of decaying leaves awakens me from an eternal haze of colors and flourished geometric shapes. It is sudden, like a switch thrown heavy against the flaky bark of an evergreen, and I shudder awake. From formless oblivion to life and flesh and sensation revitalized, I am reborn in the shallows. I still wear the letter H on my red and white cheerleader’s uniform, the white lace-up Vans, and a pink bow that hangs limply in my dewy blonde hair. I can smell the aroma of Meyer’s Rum, clove cigarettes, and exhaust from a ’66 Ford Mustang, cherry red. I can hear the thrum of guitars and hollow voices belting out "Monday, Monday" and the ever popular "You Can’t Hurry Love." I wish I’d listened to the lyrics.

Then I smell something else. It is a scent of maleness, a crisp bergamot snuggled beneath cedarwood, a musk that trails memories of sweat and tears and blood. I feel him behind me, over me, inside me. I feel his arms ensnaring me and pressing me hard below the surface as I struggle and choke. As the moon rises, night after night, I feel him, the stench of him, the weight of him, the callousness and rage that billows out from him.

I despise him.

If only I could shake him, scrape him, discard him. If only I could free myself from his grip, his tremors, his essence. I could kick out, push back with my strong, adolescent legs, and force him into the deeper waters. I could lash out with balled fists or strike with tiger claw hot pink nails. I could grab him, press him down, hold him under the water, let him feel the helplessness that I felt all those years ago.

If only.

As each winter draws to a close, I sit on the mossy rocks at the water's edge. My head hangs heavily as I stare at my wilting reflection in the glassy lake. I sob, I quake, I writhe with rage. And then I scream. I call out into the ether of the emptiness before me. I demand, I entreat, I beg. His name in bile and phlegm explodes from my lips and winnows out across the waves, winding towards oblivion. I call him. I call. I...

It is September again and something is different. There’s a familiar scent in the air tonight. I awoke from my stasis with a shudder, a purpose. There’s a familiar sound: An engine approaching? A rumble between the trees. I see headlights and duck down, my eyes hovering just above the waterline as I watch the old, rusted Mustang rumble down the dirt lane. A man steps out, faded letter jacket loosely fitted around skeletal shoulders. His back is hunched, his hands quiver.

He walks down close to the edge of the lake, the fog swirling between his pressed khaki pantlegs. He removes his old white sneakers and then two athletic socks with moth holes and sweat stains. He takes off the jacket. He unbuttons his pants and strips off a stretched and threadbare undershirt. He stands, skin and bones in the moonlight, his receding silver hair flaring in the light breeze. Still I hover, holding my breath tight until I don’t think I can take it anymore.

I breach the surface and let the wind carry his scent, his musk, his bergamot and cedarwood over the ripples in the lake. My nostrils flare and my pupils dilate, I feel the small hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I feel his hands on me, his legs wrapped around me. I feel gutted, heavy, frightened.

“I’m here, Mary Jane.” He whispers, stepping into the shallows and shivering in the wind. "I heard you calling me." His voice rises to a high-pitched wail. "And I can't take it no more." His arms are outstretched, his bones quiver, tears stream down his cheeks.

The fog rises, swelling around his thighs, encircling his wrinkled paunch, winding up over his tattooed chest. He is waist deep, then chest deep, then all I see is his head bobbing just above the surface.

“Hello Mack,” I whisper in reply, rising suddenly with youthful vigor renewed in vengeful zeal. He gasps, sputtering as his feet slip off the edge of the slick stones below, and he is sucked under. I press down against the top of his balding head, both hands holding strong as he shudders. The fog washes over us, swirling, heavy, as we writhe together. My shoulders burn. His gnarled fingers clamber and grapple with my arms, denied purchase by the slick of the algae and moss draped over my skin like a cheerleader’s uniform.

Beneath the surface his eyes are wide, bright saucers mirroring the pale full moon above. His legs kick and quiver. His chest heaves. Bubbles breach, floating upwards like prisms. And then, as though lost between the swells of inky surface ripples, he is motionless, silent. And the fog has enveloped us both, and the moon is dark, hollow, eclipsed by the shadow of our agony.

I used to swim alone. I used to dive deep and dance between the submerged trees. I used to cry silently on the shore in regret and self-loathing. I used to call his name.

Now I have a partner.

And I am alone no longer.