she can, at the same time as she crosses. She tries to keep her eyes on the open cabin door hoping Luke will reappear. Her foot hits a rock and she falls again, but it’s shallow enough here so she pushes herself upright on the stream bottom and realizes it has begun to slope upward, not downward, and that she has reached the far edge of the main channel and she can make it from here all right.
She tries to run, but the current makes her stumble forward, splashing. Suddenly her body gets very light as she rises out of deep water. This surprising lightness makes her stumble again and then she’s jerked back by the rope. She flings it off without looking, the way Luke did, and tries to run up out of the water, off-balance, jerky, her feet are numb with cold, water pours out of her boots with every step, until one simply pulls itself off. She doesn’t stop to retrieve it.
At the cabin door she stops and kicks off her remaining boot. It falls off the railway tie that forms the step into the dripping grass beside it. She hesitates for a second, the wind howls at her back, and behind it the river surges by with a malevolent roar. She puts out stiff fingers to push the partly open door to widen the gap, then steps into blackness.
She can’t discern much, but she doesn’t wait for her eyes to adjust. She knows she’s in the kitchen, knows the way is straight through in the direction of that square of light that is the window on the end wall of the only other room that serves as living room and bedroom. She bumps against the corner of a table, keeps moving, stumbles against a chair, pushes it aside and hears it fall over as she crosses the threshold of the second room.
Slowly she makes Barney out. He’s lying there on the couch, and she’s dimly aware of Luke standing with his back to her, blotting out the light from the other window, his head down, his back bent. Barney is so still. Why doesn’t he get up when he sees her standingthere in the doorway, water pouring off her? Why doesn’t he say something?
Luke doesn’t move at all, but there’s a soft sound coming from him, as if he’s caught cold, a kind of snuffling or wheezing. She goes forward, her wet clothes heavy and bending like cardboard, impeding her movement as she goes toward the couch. Get up, Barney, she almost says. Get up! But he just lies there, one arm up above his head, the palm opened to the ceiling. When she reaches him, Luke still hasn’t moved.
“Don’t do this, Barney,” she whispers, as she bends over him. “Please.” She touches him with her fingertips, gently, his cold denim shirt, his dear, familiar face. “Please, I love you,” she whispers. But when she feels how cold his face is, like ice and stiff, not the real Barney at all, when she sees how dead he is, how he has gone away somewhere, he isn’t there, not there — her legs give way and she finds herself kneeling on the cabin floor, leaning against Barney, her arms reaching out across him, her fingers clutching his shirtsleeve where it’s pressed against the back of the couch, as if to pull him back to her.
“Luke,” she says. “Luke —” She means to ask him to explain this thing that has happened, she wants him to make it stop. “Luke!” She knows by the feel of her throat that she has screamed his name and this, too, seems absurd, as absurd as Barney’s deadness, so she calls instead the name she surely meant to call: “Barney!” Behind her Luke’s feet are making the old plank floor creak as he rushes toward her.
“Get up, Iris,” he growls in her ear and the sound is so fraught with rage or anguish, or the two mixed and only half released, that when she feels his arms sliding under hers, his whole strength roughly pulling her to her feet, she’s afraid to resist.
Standing now, she leans into Luke, feeling his body’s rigidity with revulsion. She wants to hit him, she wants to pound his face with her fists. Her anger with Luke and his rage with her is
She tries to run, but the current makes her stumble forward, splashing. Suddenly her body gets very light as she rises out of deep water. This surprising lightness makes her stumble again and then she’s jerked back by the rope. She flings it off without looking, the way Luke did, and tries to run up out of the water, off-balance, jerky, her feet are numb with cold, water pours out of her boots with every step, until one simply pulls itself off. She doesn’t stop to retrieve it.
At the cabin door she stops and kicks off her remaining boot. It falls off the railway tie that forms the step into the dripping grass beside it. She hesitates for a second, the wind howls at her back, and behind it the river surges by with a malevolent roar. She puts out stiff fingers to push the partly open door to widen the gap, then steps into blackness.
She can’t discern much, but she doesn’t wait for her eyes to adjust. She knows she’s in the kitchen, knows the way is straight through in the direction of that square of light that is the window on the end wall of the only other room that serves as living room and bedroom. She bumps against the corner of a table, keeps moving, stumbles against a chair, pushes it aside and hears it fall over as she crosses the threshold of the second room.
Slowly she makes Barney out. He’s lying there on the couch, and she’s dimly aware of Luke standing with his back to her, blotting out the light from the other window, his head down, his back bent. Barney is so still. Why doesn’t he get up when he sees her standingthere in the doorway, water pouring off her? Why doesn’t he say something?
Luke doesn’t move at all, but there’s a soft sound coming from him, as if he’s caught cold, a kind of snuffling or wheezing. She goes forward, her wet clothes heavy and bending like cardboard, impeding her movement as she goes toward the couch. Get up, Barney, she almost says. Get up! But he just lies there, one arm up above his head, the palm opened to the ceiling. When she reaches him, Luke still hasn’t moved.
“Don’t do this, Barney,” she whispers, as she bends over him. “Please.” She touches him with her fingertips, gently, his cold denim shirt, his dear, familiar face. “Please, I love you,” she whispers. But when she feels how cold his face is, like ice and stiff, not the real Barney at all, when she sees how dead he is, how he has gone away somewhere, he isn’t there, not there — her legs give way and she finds herself kneeling on the cabin floor, leaning against Barney, her arms reaching out across him, her fingers clutching his shirtsleeve where it’s pressed against the back of the couch, as if to pull him back to her.
“Luke,” she says. “Luke —” She means to ask him to explain this thing that has happened, she wants him to make it stop. “Luke!” She knows by the feel of her throat that she has screamed his name and this, too, seems absurd, as absurd as Barney’s deadness, so she calls instead the name she surely meant to call: “Barney!” Behind her Luke’s feet are making the old plank floor creak as he rushes toward her.
“Get up, Iris,” he growls in her ear and the sound is so fraught with rage or anguish, or the two mixed and only half released, that when she feels his arms sliding under hers, his whole strength roughly pulling her to her feet, she’s afraid to resist.
Standing now, she leans into Luke, feeling his body’s rigidity with revulsion. She wants to hit him, she wants to pound his face with her fists. Her anger with Luke and his rage with her is
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