Then, on the outside of the envelope, in bold
pen strokes, I scrawl: ‘ITS’ and the postal box address Joan provided.
I seal the envelope, dial Amanda at the front desk, and ask her to come right away. When she does, I hand her the envelope. ‘Priority Overnight,’ I say. ‘I want this delivered
first thing in the morning.’
Tomorrow morning I’ll have my answer.
CHAPTER 10
I arrive home at six thirty that evening. Still early enough, I hope, to surprise Libby, who is accustomed to my returning home quite late during my turnaround assignments
– usually at ten or eleven o’clock, long after she eats dinner alone. Tonight, I have a different plan: to enjoy a leisurely evening with my wife – to cook dinner together, watch
TV, maybe even make love. The unfolding train wreck that is Tao Software can wait until morning.
But when I pull into my driveway, I’m surprised that Libby’s Jeep is missing. Inside the house, there’s no sign of her. No note on the kitchen table, nothing stuck to the
refrigerator door.
I climb the stairs, calling her name.
The bedroom is empty. The fan above the bed whirls slowly, squeaking. I go to the sliding glass door at the far side of the room, step onto the veranda. Down below I see the backyard and the
swimming pool. But no Libby.
The cool, clean swimming pool gives me an idea. Back in the bedroom, I peel off my clothes – funky with sweat – and toss them into a pile on the floor. I find a bathing suit in my
bureau and pad downstairs, barefoot, to the pool.
The pool is not large – just twenty feet across and seven feet wide – meant for one person to swim laps. There’s a low diving board at the deep end, which holds eleven feet of
water. I was a diver in high school, probably good enough to compete in college. But I decided not to. There comes an age when most men realize it is unseemly to compete publicly at
anything
while wearing a tiny Speedo. It just took me longer than most.
I climb up the five steps of the ladder, patter out to the rough end of the diving board, wrap my toes around the edge, and – without thinking – let myself fall forward. That’s
the secret to a good dive – pretending that you’re dead. ‘Fall like a corpse, boys!’ Coach Kramp used to yell to us, ‘Fall like a corpse!’
So I do.
I slice the water, propel myself forward, and swim the length of the pool without coming up for air. At the far wall, still submerged, I flip and turn.
That’s when I see him.
My eyes burn from the chlorine, and bubbles cling to my lashes, forcing me to squint, and I’m moving fast through the water, so my vision is blurred.
But I do see him.
I’m as sure of the dark form, floating in the water before me, as I am of the blue sky up above. The little body is back-lit, just a silhouette, a shadow, wavering at the water’s
surface, sunlight dappling around it.
There’s no doubt who it is, though. That yellow hair, spread in a wide arc around his head, lit from behind like a golden halo in a medieval manuscript illumination. The little arms,
stretched along the water surface.
No doubt who it is.
It’s Cole. Floating, right in front of me. I plant my feet on the rough cement below, stand up, and yell. I don’t shout his name, or any real word at all – my yell is just an
inarticulate cry – a phlegmy shout. I cough up water, too, which somehow slid down my throat in my surprise, and for a moment I think I’m going to puke in my new pool.
I catch my breath, rub my eyes, wipe the water out, and look again.
Whatever I
thought
I saw – isn’t there. The pool is empty. No floating little boys, of course. No corpses. Nothing but water.
I shake my head.
I consider leaving the pool, but I know that if I do, I’ll never swim in it again. It’s not exactly pride that I feel, or adult embarrassment about a childish fear. That’s not
what keeps me here. It’s different. It’s primitive. I feel like an animal, an animal whose
pen strokes, I scrawl: ‘ITS’ and the postal box address Joan provided.
I seal the envelope, dial Amanda at the front desk, and ask her to come right away. When she does, I hand her the envelope. ‘Priority Overnight,’ I say. ‘I want this delivered
first thing in the morning.’
Tomorrow morning I’ll have my answer.
CHAPTER 10
I arrive home at six thirty that evening. Still early enough, I hope, to surprise Libby, who is accustomed to my returning home quite late during my turnaround assignments
– usually at ten or eleven o’clock, long after she eats dinner alone. Tonight, I have a different plan: to enjoy a leisurely evening with my wife – to cook dinner together, watch
TV, maybe even make love. The unfolding train wreck that is Tao Software can wait until morning.
But when I pull into my driveway, I’m surprised that Libby’s Jeep is missing. Inside the house, there’s no sign of her. No note on the kitchen table, nothing stuck to the
refrigerator door.
I climb the stairs, calling her name.
The bedroom is empty. The fan above the bed whirls slowly, squeaking. I go to the sliding glass door at the far side of the room, step onto the veranda. Down below I see the backyard and the
swimming pool. But no Libby.
The cool, clean swimming pool gives me an idea. Back in the bedroom, I peel off my clothes – funky with sweat – and toss them into a pile on the floor. I find a bathing suit in my
bureau and pad downstairs, barefoot, to the pool.
The pool is not large – just twenty feet across and seven feet wide – meant for one person to swim laps. There’s a low diving board at the deep end, which holds eleven feet of
water. I was a diver in high school, probably good enough to compete in college. But I decided not to. There comes an age when most men realize it is unseemly to compete publicly at
anything
while wearing a tiny Speedo. It just took me longer than most.
I climb up the five steps of the ladder, patter out to the rough end of the diving board, wrap my toes around the edge, and – without thinking – let myself fall forward. That’s
the secret to a good dive – pretending that you’re dead. ‘Fall like a corpse, boys!’ Coach Kramp used to yell to us, ‘Fall like a corpse!’
So I do.
I slice the water, propel myself forward, and swim the length of the pool without coming up for air. At the far wall, still submerged, I flip and turn.
That’s when I see him.
My eyes burn from the chlorine, and bubbles cling to my lashes, forcing me to squint, and I’m moving fast through the water, so my vision is blurred.
But I do see him.
I’m as sure of the dark form, floating in the water before me, as I am of the blue sky up above. The little body is back-lit, just a silhouette, a shadow, wavering at the water’s
surface, sunlight dappling around it.
There’s no doubt who it is, though. That yellow hair, spread in a wide arc around his head, lit from behind like a golden halo in a medieval manuscript illumination. The little arms,
stretched along the water surface.
No doubt who it is.
It’s Cole. Floating, right in front of me. I plant my feet on the rough cement below, stand up, and yell. I don’t shout his name, or any real word at all – my yell is just an
inarticulate cry – a phlegmy shout. I cough up water, too, which somehow slid down my throat in my surprise, and for a moment I think I’m going to puke in my new pool.
I catch my breath, rub my eyes, wipe the water out, and look again.
Whatever I
thought
I saw – isn’t there. The pool is empty. No floating little boys, of course. No corpses. Nothing but water.
I shake my head.
I consider leaving the pool, but I know that if I do, I’ll never swim in it again. It’s not exactly pride that I feel, or adult embarrassment about a childish fear. That’s not
what keeps me here. It’s different. It’s primitive. I feel like an animal, an animal whose
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