evening. So far her plan was on track. At the end they
reached a basin which formed the top end of the canal. To their right the
waterway stretched off, long and straight, over what looked like a kilometer or
more. Straight hedges of trees abutted both sides, along with sculptures at
precise intervals.
She drew the car to a stop and turned off the motor. Ahead, at water's edge,
was a float. Tied to it were about a dozen rowboats; an attendant was helping a
young couple into one. She gestured with an open palm. "This activity is
outdoors and doesn't require walking, Steve…just what you wanted."
He looked a little unsure.
"Don't worry… I'll help you get in and out. You just have to do
the rowing."
Less impeded than usual because of slacks and casual shoes, she clambered
out and hurried around to his side of the car. With both hands she clasped his
right elbow as he eased up to a standing position. During their traverse he
endeavored not to lean into her, as if proving he could walk unaided. That was
a good sign, she figured.
"Take this one," the attendant said as they reached the float.
"But watch your footing. Those boards are wet." The man bent down to
draw the vessel closer, causing the float to shift slightly.
Claire tightened her embrace on Conley to make sure he didn't slip. Climbing
in, he supported himself on the gunwales and lowered himself into the middle
seat, between the oarlocks. She followed, grasping his shoulders as she climbed
around and settled in the stern. His right leg was splayed straight out,
brushing hers, with his foot under her seat. "How's your knee?" she
asked him.
"A little pain…not bad. The main problem is that I can't bend
it."
She leaned forward and placed her fingertips on his good knee. "That's
the last thing to be concerned about. Let's start!"
The attendant shoved them off.
As Conley maneuvered out of the basin, a wind kicked up. Small ripples
appeared on the water's surface. Claire grew concerned, but was relieved to see
that Conley was not put off.
Instead, with sudden fixation, he aimed the bow straight down the canal.
His first several strokes launched the vessel forward with startling force
that she had to tighten her neck muscles to prevent her head from whiplashing
back. Where did that come from? At least he was enthusiastic…
Once their momentum was established, he found a smooth rhythm, his arms and
shoulders rocking forward and back. Oarlocks clunked and rattled at the
conclusion of each stroke, sending vibrations through the wooden hull. Water
gushed off the bow and gurgled along the gunwales.
Claire relaxed her neck but continued to grip the forward edge of her seat
for stabilization.
"You're a good rower," she said, noting the large surface puddles
he was generating with the oars. "But you don't have to go so fast. Take
it easy, if you like. There's no rush."
"I have a lot…of pent-up energy."
His powerful strokes and high tempo persisted, and she made no further
objection. Most important to her was that he seemed to have forgotten about his
injuries. "If you don't mind my asking," she said, raising her voice
over the racket. "What did you tell Art Gallagher about Argenteuil?"
Conley was not winded, though he was taking deep, regulated breaths, like an
athlete in an endurance event. The question seemed to rouse him---as if he had
half-forgotten about his assignment.
"I told him basic facts…" he said during the recovery
portion of his stroke, straightening his arms and leaning forward. He dug the
oars into the water and drove his back toward the bow, producing another surge
forward, then exhaled as he twisted the oars out of the water and started the
cycle again. "…But I didn't tell him much…" he paused for
another cycle, "…about my injuries."
"Did you talk about Prague and Moscow?"
"I told him…" surge, thunk, rattle, exhalation ,
"…that all my appointments are set."
That was just what Claire wanted to hear. She released her grip on her
reached a basin which formed the top end of the canal. To their right the
waterway stretched off, long and straight, over what looked like a kilometer or
more. Straight hedges of trees abutted both sides, along with sculptures at
precise intervals.
She drew the car to a stop and turned off the motor. Ahead, at water's edge,
was a float. Tied to it were about a dozen rowboats; an attendant was helping a
young couple into one. She gestured with an open palm. "This activity is
outdoors and doesn't require walking, Steve…just what you wanted."
He looked a little unsure.
"Don't worry… I'll help you get in and out. You just have to do
the rowing."
Less impeded than usual because of slacks and casual shoes, she clambered
out and hurried around to his side of the car. With both hands she clasped his
right elbow as he eased up to a standing position. During their traverse he
endeavored not to lean into her, as if proving he could walk unaided. That was
a good sign, she figured.
"Take this one," the attendant said as they reached the float.
"But watch your footing. Those boards are wet." The man bent down to
draw the vessel closer, causing the float to shift slightly.
Claire tightened her embrace on Conley to make sure he didn't slip. Climbing
in, he supported himself on the gunwales and lowered himself into the middle
seat, between the oarlocks. She followed, grasping his shoulders as she climbed
around and settled in the stern. His right leg was splayed straight out,
brushing hers, with his foot under her seat. "How's your knee?" she
asked him.
"A little pain…not bad. The main problem is that I can't bend
it."
She leaned forward and placed her fingertips on his good knee. "That's
the last thing to be concerned about. Let's start!"
The attendant shoved them off.
As Conley maneuvered out of the basin, a wind kicked up. Small ripples
appeared on the water's surface. Claire grew concerned, but was relieved to see
that Conley was not put off.
Instead, with sudden fixation, he aimed the bow straight down the canal.
His first several strokes launched the vessel forward with startling force
that she had to tighten her neck muscles to prevent her head from whiplashing
back. Where did that come from? At least he was enthusiastic…
Once their momentum was established, he found a smooth rhythm, his arms and
shoulders rocking forward and back. Oarlocks clunked and rattled at the
conclusion of each stroke, sending vibrations through the wooden hull. Water
gushed off the bow and gurgled along the gunwales.
Claire relaxed her neck but continued to grip the forward edge of her seat
for stabilization.
"You're a good rower," she said, noting the large surface puddles
he was generating with the oars. "But you don't have to go so fast. Take
it easy, if you like. There's no rush."
"I have a lot…of pent-up energy."
His powerful strokes and high tempo persisted, and she made no further
objection. Most important to her was that he seemed to have forgotten about his
injuries. "If you don't mind my asking," she said, raising her voice
over the racket. "What did you tell Art Gallagher about Argenteuil?"
Conley was not winded, though he was taking deep, regulated breaths, like an
athlete in an endurance event. The question seemed to rouse him---as if he had
half-forgotten about his assignment.
"I told him basic facts…" he said during the recovery
portion of his stroke, straightening his arms and leaning forward. He dug the
oars into the water and drove his back toward the bow, producing another surge
forward, then exhaled as he twisted the oars out of the water and started the
cycle again. "…But I didn't tell him much…" he paused for
another cycle, "…about my injuries."
"Did you talk about Prague and Moscow?"
"I told him…" surge, thunk, rattle, exhalation ,
"…that all my appointments are set."
That was just what Claire wanted to hear. She released her grip on her
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