A Novel
September 1987—Lake Michigan
Night. The sound of laughter echoed from a cottage high on the ridge. Augustus Beckwith stood motionless at the edge of the lake, bony toes digging into the wet sand, eyes scanning the pine and oak forest above. For many minutes, he listened to the distant chatter of his son playing on the deck overhanging the steep slope that led to the beach.
The voice of his wife, Alice, floated down through the trees, across the vacant air. It was the tone of voice she always used with the boy—their only son, Davey. Lights from the isolated cottage winked through the foliage like distant stars. A moonless sky hung overhead—as dark as the big lake at his back.
Lean as a greyhound, with a deep chest and shrunken belly, he filled his lungs over and over, until he could feel them pressing against the cage of his ribs. Behind him, the immense gravity of deep water tugged at him—pulling like a planetary field. He waited patiently, letting the wavelets lap at his heels. When the sounds from above hushed, he shucked off his trunks, wadded them up and tossed them onto the sand. Removing the heavy watch he wore for show, he dropped it into the shallow water at his feet—satisfied with the decisive splash.
Finally, he turned and waded out. High above the water’s surface, a pair of nighthawks carved arcs in the air.
Somewhere in the night, a screen door slammed.
Glancing back toward the shore, he saw a light from the small bedroom at the west end of the cottage go out. His son would soon be asleep—his wife immersed in one of her foreign novels. Farther west and north, beyond the blinking red beacons of the steel mill, the lights of Chicago glowed dimly on the western horizon.
The lake’s water was warm and calm in early autumn—no wind, only the rhythmic rise and fall of gentle swells. The pulse of the current matched the steady pace of his breathing. He dove once and surfaced. Chest deep, he slapped the surface of the water, feeling the tension between elements surrender—letting the liquid envelop his hand, then his forearm. The sound seemed to reverberate in the blackness.
He swam out until the bottom gave way. In the Lake he felt at home—almost happy. Drifting away from the shoreline. There was no sound now other than his own respiration. Farther out, he gulped in a mouthful of lake water and spouted like a whale.
Turning onto his back, he began to kick rhythmically away from the land toward an invisible boundary. His long arms spread out from his sides, stroking in half-circles as if making angel wings in the snow with Davey.
When enough time had passed, he paused again, treading water—gentle swells breaking on the prow of his chin. The warm water had given way to bone-aching cold, a cold that mimicked the chill in his heart.
Conscious of the absences surrounding him, he hung suspended—body and spirit exhausted as never before. The land behind was gone. Lights twinkling through the trees were gone. Chicago a dull glow in the distance. The steel mill barely visible across the long, flat plane of the water.
More than a mile from shore, the water drained all warmth from his muscles. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. He dove straight down until his body’s reflexes took over and he burst to the surface gasping for breath. Fighting off the first inkling of fear, he repeated the dive several times. A powerful tremor set in, emanating from deep in his core. He expelled the last air from his lungs and dove a final time. The depth of the water was uncertain, but he knew in his heart it would be enough.