fall 2006 fiction
r-kv-r-y quarterly
r-kv-r-y quarterly
She didn’t need to tell him how wrong she’d been or apologize for never
calling. She needn’t explain how she’d been busy, first going to school, then working at
the hospital. He didn’t want her to call out of guilt or pity or even nostalgia. In fact, she
didn’t need to say anything. The call would come, and though silence would meet his
“hello?” it wouldn’t be the dead silence of an empty line, but rather the silence of Cecily
holding the mouthpiece away from her mouth so he wouldn’t hear her breathing. He’d
say, “If you want me to come over now, just hang up.”
Five years ago, roughly if not surprisingly, they’d gone down in flames. The actual
burning of the house had been her fault, and leaving her on the lawn after he’d pulled
her out unconscious—that had been his fault. She’d already told him it was over.
Sleeping with his cousin Josh had been her way of proving it. Since the house belonged
to Josh and it was his lab that blew, neither of them had been charged. At Josh’s
funeral, the casket was closed. The other users came to pay their respects, making
connections in the parking lot on their way out. Derek sat in the back row, a human
mummy from the waist up. No one approached him.
Returning home to Morgantown, he stayed in the back room of his parents’ house for six
weeks. Shattered was the word his mother used. His face oozed where he’d torn the
bandages away, then scabbed and finally closed up. He spent the next month listening
to their rock collection, emerging only to eat and mow the lawn.
“Guess I’ll go back to school,” he told them one morning. He’d returned to Western,
where he spent the next two years lifting his 1.9, notch by notch. He burrowed into
schoolwork the way an addict hunkers down with a pipe, saying this is all that matters.
He worked in the Education Office and ended up with four top-notch references,
including one from the dean, which got him a job in town right after graduation. For his
junior and senior years, he pulled a 4.0, which one of his professors encouraged him to
include on his resume, next to his overall. “I see it every so often,” he said, “But never
so dramatically as your transcript. It’s like there’s a dividing line between your
sophomore and junior year.”
calling. She needn’t explain how she’d been busy, first going to school, then working at
the hospital. He didn’t want her to call out of guilt or pity or even nostalgia. In fact, she
didn’t need to say anything. The call would come, and though silence would meet his
“hello?” it wouldn’t be the dead silence of an empty line, but rather the silence of Cecily
holding the mouthpiece away from her mouth so he wouldn’t hear her breathing. He’d
say, “If you want me to come over now, just hang up.”
Five years ago, roughly if not surprisingly, they’d gone down in flames. The actual
burning of the house had been her fault, and leaving her on the lawn after he’d pulled
her out unconscious—that had been his fault. She’d already told him it was over.
Sleeping with his cousin Josh had been her way of proving it. Since the house belonged
to Josh and it was his lab that blew, neither of them had been charged. At Josh’s
funeral, the casket was closed. The other users came to pay their respects, making
connections in the parking lot on their way out. Derek sat in the back row, a human
mummy from the waist up. No one approached him.
Returning home to Morgantown, he stayed in the back room of his parents’ house for six
weeks. Shattered was the word his mother used. His face oozed where he’d torn the
bandages away, then scabbed and finally closed up. He spent the next month listening
to their rock collection, emerging only to eat and mow the lawn.
“Guess I’ll go back to school,” he told them one morning. He’d returned to Western,
where he spent the next two years lifting his 1.9, notch by notch. He burrowed into
schoolwork the way an addict hunkers down with a pipe, saying this is all that matters.
He worked in the Education Office and ended up with four top-notch references,
including one from the dean, which got him a job in town right after graduation. For his
junior and senior years, he pulled a 4.0, which one of his professors encouraged him to
include on his resume, next to his overall. “I see it every so often,” he said, “But never
so dramatically as your transcript. It’s like there’s a dividing line between your
sophomore and junior year.”
Derek just nodded. There’d been a line all right. A lot of lines.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t as if he thought about Cecily every day, except recently, oddly, making him hunger for her all over again. At first, missing her had been
a cement block that he’d carried—in his stomach, across his shoulders, between his legs, balanced on his head, in his throat. By sheer will he
had levered her away, gritting his teeth through over-work and driving out the voices under headphones. It was three years since she’d told him
never to call again and two years since that brief glimpse in Kroger’s, where she bent over the scanner checking her purchases, and he
passed with his cart, turning once, twice, three times to look, almost stopping.
Recently, he felt launched him from his apartment, like being shot from a canon, to the streets of downtown Bowling Green. And whenever he
left home, rocketing into the streets, he found himself pacing. He counted how many steps it took to get from one corner to the next. Leaning
against a telephone pole, he told himself that passersby assumed he was waiting for his ride. He watched people pull up to the 12th Street
stoplight, speed on. They glanced over at him, some nodded, lifted fingers from the steering wheel.
One night he threw his dirty clothes into a basket and headed for the Laundromat. As he stepped inside. the same long-limbed girl he’d seen at
the library, at Bread & Bagels, even waiting at the stoplight, cast him a surprised look and left. Last week, taking the long way home to his
apartment on Chestnut Street, he’d seen her emerge from the 440 Main bar. It was a rainy night, and a streetlight caught her friends in a yellow
smear. In the middle she was blue, rising, a trick of the watery light. They stood beneath the overhang, laughing, then she lifted the hood of her
sweatshirt and ran to her car. He’d followed her to her apartment on 11th Street. She paused before she entered and looked over her shoulder
at him, as he crept past. Now he stepped back outside and lit a cigarette. She pulled out, one taillight winking. He went to the vending machines
and ate a candy bar, then another. He didn’t stop until he ran out of money, then folded his clothes and went home.
That night he’d drunk more than usual, sipping Maker’s Mark and flipping back and forth, Gunsmoke/The Daily Show, Gunsmoke/Insomnia.
When he stood up too quickly, he fell over the coffee table and cut his shin along a newly splintered edge. He sat on the edge of the bathtub
and watched the drops of blood track through the hairs on his leg, then rush over the anklebone and drip to the porcelain.
Like this, they had sat on the edge of the bathtub, laughing at how water slopped over the edge when they slid in together, almost emptying it.
She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, sliding her tongue, impossibly long, into his mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His third graders were beside themselves as they lined up behind the guide, two rows of parted blond, brown, black, and red heads.
“Mr. Thompson, is our school named after Lost River Cave?”
He gave her the look. “Now, Lucy, we talked about that yesterday.”
He knuckled her cornrows and she grinned up at him, her smile taking up the most of the lower half of her face, parenthetical with two familiar
dimples.
“Mr. Thompson?” Her small hand tugged at his elbow. “Are you going to wear your life jacket?”
“It’s only four feet deep. The water would only come up to here.”
Satisfied, she loosened her grip. “Will you sit by me?”
No one else was clamoring for his attention, so he nodded.
The path to the cave entrance led them past a blue hole, Ripley’s shortest river, running only 400 feet to the cave entrance. Once believed to
be over 400 feet deep, the pool was actually only ten feet deep, linked with the underground river, where a current once pulled in a wagon, a
team of horses, a soldier.
The guide’s voice got low and he looked around, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “In a similar incident three soldiers went swimming,
one didn’t come back, and his two friends, one by one, dove in to see what they could grab hold of. They were never seen again.”
Forty round eyes met his.
“Is that how come they call it the Lost River, ‘cause of people getting lost?”
The guide turned a page in his mental notes. “Late in the 18th century, some people found sawdust that was dumped into the water here in a
pond about three miles away. That’s when they realized there had to be an underground river connecting the ponds all along.”
Lucy peered over the railing, into the greenish blue water.
“It don’t look anything special,” she said. “Looks like my grandma’s pond.”
“I don’t care what it looks like. You wouldn’t see me dive in after they didn’t come up!”
This was met with a chorus of “Me neither” and “That’s straight” and “I would . . . for a million dollars.”
Getting them into the life jackets took almost twenty minutes of checking, wandering, taking off, putting back on, and finally loading into the boat.
Almost immediately, they had to duck their heads as the boat floated beneath a slab of lowered ceiling. Derek could see a series of cracks,
inches deep, cut through the surface. They had the fresh look of something about to give. Lucy’s elbow gouged into his thigh as she leaned
forward. “Tell me when it’s over,” she said and buried her head in her hands. The ceiling lowered silently, but personally, toward him, and he
pressed his face between his knees and told himself the distant grinding wasn’t real. As he tilted his head to see how much longer before they
cleared the ceiling, Lucy’s puffy braid brush against his mouth. A clutch of panic rose in his throat. He pushed her until she lifted her elbow and
her head dipped away. He gulped as a rush of air met his lungs. Then the boat slid out from under the slab and they entered a large cavern,
the ceiling a reassuring sixty feet above. Lights set up along the walls showed different formations and tiny streams of water that fed the
underground river. They all sat up, a collective sigh shimmering across the water to the cave walls and back.
He felt sick to his stomach.
A voice, under his left arm: “It smells funny, don’t you think?”
“Smells like a outhouse to me.”
The guide pointed out a drapery formation. His words swung in meaningless echoes, and the children’s comments bounced off the walls. They
had opinions about everything, the temperature of the water, cool, not cold, the scummy green and yellow mineral formations dripping off the
walls. How scary it was, and dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t as if he thought about Cecily every day, except recently, oddly, making him hunger for her all over again. At first, missing her had been
a cement block that he’d carried—in his stomach, across his shoulders, between his legs, balanced on his head, in his throat. By sheer will he
had levered her away, gritting his teeth through over-work and driving out the voices under headphones. It was three years since she’d told him
never to call again and two years since that brief glimpse in Kroger’s, where she bent over the scanner checking her purchases, and he
passed with his cart, turning once, twice, three times to look, almost stopping.
Recently, he felt launched him from his apartment, like being shot from a canon, to the streets of downtown Bowling Green. And whenever he
left home, rocketing into the streets, he found himself pacing. He counted how many steps it took to get from one corner to the next. Leaning
against a telephone pole, he told himself that passersby assumed he was waiting for his ride. He watched people pull up to the 12th Street
stoplight, speed on. They glanced over at him, some nodded, lifted fingers from the steering wheel.
One night he threw his dirty clothes into a basket and headed for the Laundromat. As he stepped inside. the same long-limbed girl he’d seen at
the library, at Bread & Bagels, even waiting at the stoplight, cast him a surprised look and left. Last week, taking the long way home to his
apartment on Chestnut Street, he’d seen her emerge from the 440 Main bar. It was a rainy night, and a streetlight caught her friends in a yellow
smear. In the middle she was blue, rising, a trick of the watery light. They stood beneath the overhang, laughing, then she lifted the hood of her
sweatshirt and ran to her car. He’d followed her to her apartment on 11th Street. She paused before she entered and looked over her shoulder
at him, as he crept past. Now he stepped back outside and lit a cigarette. She pulled out, one taillight winking. He went to the vending machines
and ate a candy bar, then another. He didn’t stop until he ran out of money, then folded his clothes and went home.
That night he’d drunk more than usual, sipping Maker’s Mark and flipping back and forth, Gunsmoke/The Daily Show, Gunsmoke/Insomnia.
When he stood up too quickly, he fell over the coffee table and cut his shin along a newly splintered edge. He sat on the edge of the bathtub
and watched the drops of blood track through the hairs on his leg, then rush over the anklebone and drip to the porcelain.
Like this, they had sat on the edge of the bathtub, laughing at how water slopped over the edge when they slid in together, almost emptying it.
She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, sliding her tongue, impossibly long, into his mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His third graders were beside themselves as they lined up behind the guide, two rows of parted blond, brown, black, and red heads.
“Mr. Thompson, is our school named after Lost River Cave?”
He gave her the look. “Now, Lucy, we talked about that yesterday.”
He knuckled her cornrows and she grinned up at him, her smile taking up the most of the lower half of her face, parenthetical with two familiar
dimples.
“Mr. Thompson?” Her small hand tugged at his elbow. “Are you going to wear your life jacket?”
“It’s only four feet deep. The water would only come up to here.”
Satisfied, she loosened her grip. “Will you sit by me?”
No one else was clamoring for his attention, so he nodded.
The path to the cave entrance led them past a blue hole, Ripley’s shortest river, running only 400 feet to the cave entrance. Once believed to
be over 400 feet deep, the pool was actually only ten feet deep, linked with the underground river, where a current once pulled in a wagon, a
team of horses, a soldier.
The guide’s voice got low and he looked around, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “In a similar incident three soldiers went swimming,
one didn’t come back, and his two friends, one by one, dove in to see what they could grab hold of. They were never seen again.”
Forty round eyes met his.
“Is that how come they call it the Lost River, ‘cause of people getting lost?”
The guide turned a page in his mental notes. “Late in the 18th century, some people found sawdust that was dumped into the water here in a
pond about three miles away. That’s when they realized there had to be an underground river connecting the ponds all along.”
Lucy peered over the railing, into the greenish blue water.
“It don’t look anything special,” she said. “Looks like my grandma’s pond.”
“I don’t care what it looks like. You wouldn’t see me dive in after they didn’t come up!”
This was met with a chorus of “Me neither” and “That’s straight” and “I would . . . for a million dollars.”
Getting them into the life jackets took almost twenty minutes of checking, wandering, taking off, putting back on, and finally loading into the boat.
Almost immediately, they had to duck their heads as the boat floated beneath a slab of lowered ceiling. Derek could see a series of cracks,
inches deep, cut through the surface. They had the fresh look of something about to give. Lucy’s elbow gouged into his thigh as she leaned
forward. “Tell me when it’s over,” she said and buried her head in her hands. The ceiling lowered silently, but personally, toward him, and he
pressed his face between his knees and told himself the distant grinding wasn’t real. As he tilted his head to see how much longer before they
cleared the ceiling, Lucy’s puffy braid brush against his mouth. A clutch of panic rose in his throat. He pushed her until she lifted her elbow and
her head dipped away. He gulped as a rush of air met his lungs. Then the boat slid out from under the slab and they entered a large cavern,
the ceiling a reassuring sixty feet above. Lights set up along the walls showed different formations and tiny streams of water that fed the
underground river. They all sat up, a collective sigh shimmering across the water to the cave walls and back.
He felt sick to his stomach.
A voice, under his left arm: “It smells funny, don’t you think?”
“Smells like a outhouse to me.”
The guide pointed out a drapery formation. His words swung in meaningless echoes, and the children’s comments bounced off the walls. They
had opinions about everything, the temperature of the water, cool, not cold, the scummy green and yellow mineral formations dripping off the
walls. How scary it was, and dark.
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