S.E. WILSON

The Rivers

We wake up early to get a head start and the morning is full of birdsong. I check the storage bins in the camper to make sure the cookware and the dishware is all there. Then I fill the ice chest with food and drink. It’s a cloudless sky and when I move between the shadow and the light I’m forced to squint. My wife Sara sits in the shade of the front porch, wearing a thin cotton sundress and a light sweater, rocking in her chair. Her hair is pulled back and she smiles, her little hands on her firm, round belly.

“Almost there,” I say, walking up the front steps. I put my hands on her shoulders and kiss her on the cheek.

I enter the house through the screen door and the TV is on. The local news. I stop beside the coffee table and watch the report. A seven-year-old boy has gone missing in the Tar River and Search and Rescue is on the scene with their boats and divers. The family stands on the shore with their hands over their mouths. I wait to hear where on the Tar—that’s where we’re going camping—but they don’t specify. Just somewhere in Franklin County. But the county is long, and so is the river. I turn off the TV and go through the house, checking the windows, making sure the coffee pot is off.

I lock the front door and help Sara from the chair and into the truck. I double-check the hitch, making sure it’s secure and that the lights work. Last year we had a close call and I don’t want any more of those. Then I get in the truck beside her. Her hand is on my thigh as we pull out of the gravel driveway and hit the road, our home disappearing in the rearview mirror behind us.

We don’t talk much on the drive as the road drones beneath the truck. Whenever I look over at Sara her eyes are closed. She hasn’t slept well in weeks and is tired. The campground isn’t far and we take country roads, passing clearings of rolling land where cattle graze, then flatter land where crops like corn and tobacco are grown. I go slow and keep both hands on the wheel, thinking about the missing boy. The Tar is deep and dark, known for the unseen dangers that lurk beneath the seemingly calm water. A chill goes through me and I suddenly feel the urge to take a deep breath as if it is me that is underwater.

After an hour or so on the road we arrive at the State Park. It being relatively early in the season and spring having been unseasonably cool, the campsites are empty and we are alone. Our spot backs up to the river and is in the shade of the tall pines that surround it. I get us parked and unloaded, get the camper plugged in, the chairs around the fire pit, and pull out the coolers, grabbing a Diet Coke for Sara and a light beer for myself. I sit in the lawn chair beside her.

“Cheers,” I say.

“It’s a little chilly,” Sara says.

So I begin building the fire. Once the fire is going I walk down to the river’s edge. Due to the recent heavy rains, the water moves more quickly than usual, and is muddier, too. I watch the dark water swirl along the edges of rocks and fallen branches and trees. The water is thick, almost like chocolate milk. Behind me I see Sara open her book at the dog ear and uncross her legs, resting the book on her stomach. I turn back to the river and think about the missing kid. I wonder what he was doing and if he was alone. As a boy I spent countless mornings, afternoons, and evenings along the river, fishing, swimming, gigging for frogs, and generally just messing around, no doubt taking unrealized risks. For too long I was blissfully unaware of the immediate dangers of the powerful river, unaware that something idyllic and fun can also be deadly. It could have easily been me. Lord knows I was never a strong swimmer. My thoughts then turn to the boy’s parents. I imagine a terrible and uncontrolled mix of fear and panic and hope, trying to remain strong and blindly optimistic, but knowing in all likelihood what is, that their greatest fear is their reality. Nothing but sick stomachs and no sleep and a perpetual pain.

I pick up a flat rock from the shore and rub its smooth surface with my thumb. After feeling its weight I try skipping it across the river, but instead hit an old sunken log that’s barely sticking out of the water, and the rock sinks.

“Shit.”

I walk back up the bank to the campsite and sit beside Sara and stare into the fire. As the flames pour upward like water she reads her book and I think about what it will be like to be a parent, a dad. I wonder what will cause the most worry and stress, and how much of both there will be. I wonder what it will be like to hold him and for him to need me, and to someday know me. And for me to know him. Will he be into sports or science? Perhaps the band or student government. Hopefully not student government. But most importantly will he be happy and healthy? Two things that are mostly out of my control. I’m struck with anxiety.

“Want to go for a walk?” I ask.

“Sure,” Sara says and smiles, putting her book on top of the cooler.

I help her up and put out the fire which crackles and releases a dark, ashy plume of smoke.

We walk through the grounds at a snail’s pace, for Sara can’t move much quicker, her already short legs made heavy by the weight of coming motherhood. I hold her hand as we pass empty campsites. Except for the birds and the breeze, it’s quiet. We’re quiet.

As we round the bend we finally pass another occupied campsite. A large tent is pitched beside a truck. A family of three sit at a picnic table and eat lunch. The parents are around our age, clean-cut and suburban. Their daughter is only a toddler and has pigtails, her head just clearing the top of the table. We wave and they wave. We all smile. Sara’s grip on my hand tightens.

“Nice family,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

When we get back to the camper we take a nap inside. Sara snores and I can’t sleep. But I eventually doze off and when I awake it’s late afternoon and overcast. I sit up and clear my throat which disturbs Sara who flips to her other side and away from me, pulling the blanket to her shoulders. To not disturb her further, I carefully slide off the mattress and go outside to rebuild the fire.

Sara sleeps for a little while longer and wakes up hungry, so I get the hot dogs ready for an early supper.

After we eat, we sit close to each other and to the crackling fire, and as the sun sets behind the trees, it turns the clouds pink like carnival cotton candy.

“How do you feel about the name Theodore?”

“Not bad,” I say. “We could call him Teddy.”

“Or Theo.”

“I don’t like that name.”

“You just said you did.”

“No, not Theodore. Theo. I don’t like the name Theo.”

“Why not? I think it’s nice.”

I toss another log onto the fire. The log smokes and we scoot our chairs back.

“Reminds me of someone I knew as a kid.”

“And you didn’t like him?”

“I liked him.”

“Then what is it?”

I scratch the back of my neck.

“He died young and it just bums me out.”

“What happened?”

“An accident.”

I don’t tell her much more and she doesn’t ask.

It was the summer after sixth grade and puberty was in full swing. On hot afternoons we headed to the river to swim and cool off our young bodies while looking at the girls in bikinis, trying in vain to impress but usually just ending up feeling embarrassed. There was an old rusted train trestle across the river that the older kids jumped from. There would be applause and cheers and they looked cool doing it.

That afternoon was especially hot and the river was especially full of people. We egged each other on to jump, but we mostly egged on Theo, the chubby one and the pushover, daring him to jump, calling him a chicken for being scared to jump, which we all were. But the girls were watching. So after a good thirty minutes of near constant harassment, he climbed the bank to the trestle and made his way over the water.

“Jump! Jump! Jump!” We all shouted, our fists in the air.

“Don’t be a pussy!” I yelled through cupped hands.

He raised his arms.

And he jumped. His soft, pale body hit the water at an odd angle, making the sound of a gunshot. There was a collective gasp as we waited for him to resurface. But the ripples smoothed and he didn’t resurface. Turned out the water was unusually low and he landed directly on a large rock that he wasn’t aware of, the impact rendering him unconscious, and he drowned in front of us. In front of everyone. No one jumped in to save him until it was too late.

I didn’t jump in to save him.

At his funeral his mother screamed with despair.

That was the last summer I ever spent at that river.

After another hour or so we put out the fire and go to bed. In the dark I can hear the subtle sound of water. But the sound doesn’t soothe me. It only makes me anxious. My heart races and I feel strange. Sara pushes her warm body into mine. She sighs in her sleep. I put my hand on her stomach. I can feel our son moving in the water of his mother.

As the darkness of night dissipates, the blue light of morning seeps into the camper. It’s cool. I put on my sweatshirt and go outside where the blackbirds are just waking. I walk down to the river where a light mist hangs above the water. Sitting on my haunches I wet my face, washing the sleep away. Or lack thereof. When I open my eyes I see something in the water, something that wasn’t there yesterday, something caught against the branch that sank my stone. I stand and stare, suddenly realizing what it is. It’s a body in dark clothing. The body of a child.

My knees weaken and the world spins around me. I feel a dizzying sickness in the pit of my stomach that’s all too familiar. I stumble up the bank, slipping in the moist soil, muddying my hands and knees. The campgrounds are peaceful and quiet. The world is asleep. I grab my cell phone from the truck but I have no service. I run up the road in a panic, looking for a signal, looking for someone to help, but I don’t find either.

S.E. Wilson lives in North Carolina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chiron Review, Streetlight Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Louisville Review, and New World Writing Quarterly.