This is the Water (26 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

T
his is a few months later, the middle of winter. Layers of old snow sit beneath a layer of new snow, covering up what became pocked and riddled with road grime and dirt.

This is Chris at Paul's hearing in a small courtroom, where she sits with her head bowed and a welcome bit of sun coming in through the windows, almost brightly enough to make her feel hopeful. Paul is looking uncomfortable at having to answer all of the questions about his affair with Bobby Chantal, and when asked why he never went to the police afterward with the information about the car he saw in the parking lot, he tells the court honestly that he thought the focus of the case would be shifted to him, and that it would prevent the real killer from being caught. And also, of course, he was afraid he would be implicated and found guilty of a murder he never committed. After the first hearing, Chris and Paul walk arm in arm out to the car to drive back home. “I'm sorry to put you through all of that,” he says. “I should have gone to the police years ago, but I didn't want you to know about it then. I thought you'd hate me. I don't know what the courts will decide, but already I feel it was the right thing to do.”

When they drive up to the house they can hear the phone ringing and Paul rushes in to answer it, his boots on the lawn sending up powdery snow behind him in an arc. It's his lawyer.

“Looks like you'll be getting off the hook,” his lawyer says.

“What? Already?”

“Yep, you don't even have to testify, because they found the guy.”

“You're kidding. Who did they find?”

“The murderer. He's some guy who worked at a school all these years. He was found dead not long ago, shot dead. It was a cold case until someone sent in an anonymous tip saying he was the man, not you. Sure enough, they were able to match some carpet fibers found on his clothes to the fibers on the clothes of the last two victims, and they found the same fiber match on Bobby Chantal's body. Guy lived in the same apartment for years. Results just came in. You can sleep easy tonight, buddy.”

This is the night, the air frosty and clean. The clouds sailing by, revealing stars so bright one could see by them to walk a wooded trail, and Paul thinking he's the luckiest man in the world. He turns over and settles against Chris, matching his body up to hers, his mouth at her neck, planting kisses in a row.

This is Chris the next day in her studio with one of her biggest buyers from Connecticut. He has been here over an hour, having had tea with her and having admired all of her work, except one that he hasn't seen. It's covered with a cloth. Chatting with her, almost ready to leave after having chosen three paintings he would like to buy, he points to the covered painting. “May I?” he says, wanting to reveal it. Before Chris can say no, the cloth is off, and the face of the killer is staring at them. “Oh, God. Isn't that the face of that serial murderer who was found dead up here?” the buyer says. Chris nods. “I'm sorry, it's not for sale. In fact”—Chris says as she takes her X-Acto knife and rips through the canvas—“pretend like you never even saw it.” Later, Chris takes the canvas she ripped out of the frame and burns it in the woodstove, feeling relieved that she'll never have to see the face again. She thinks about Beatrice, how she wishes the killer being caught could somehow have reversed what was done to Beatrice all those years ago, but she knows now nothing can change that. She'll just have to be content with the fact the killer is now dead, and that, she thinks, is something to be very happy about. If they ever found out who killed him, she's going to go up to the person who did it and personally thank them.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T
his is March, when the state championship is held at the facility. The nights are still freezing, but the days are warming up and the ice in the streams begins to melt. From your house you can hear the sound of the rushing water coming from your melting streams and growing higher in your valley. You and the girls have taken morning walks back to the stream on your land. If they could they would spend all day breaking the ice with sticks, standing knee-deep in their boots, and watching the cold water flow around the holes they have made as it bubbles beneath the ice shards.

This is the facility on the weekend of the state championship, where the girls are all heading to the bathrooms after warm-ups to put on their fast suits. The mothers and friends help guide the suits up and over the swimmers' rears. This is you later, on deck, with your hand over your heart. Along with everyone else in the facility—the deck is packed with swimmers, officials, and coaches, the bleachers crowded with parents and grandparents—you face the flag and get ready to hear the recording of the national anthem. This is the anthem, playing for a second and then not playing. This is everyone waiting for the technical problem to be solved by the coach, but the coach is not able to fix it. This is the coach coming back out on deck and beginning to sing it herself in a loud voice. This is everyone else in the facility joining in, even you, and the sound of your voices carries up high and reaches to the glass-paneled ceiling, and you think to yourself that this is the way the anthem should always be sung, by everyone at the meet, because it sounds so much better than the recording.

This is the facility, where everyone seems so much more relaxed now that the killer is gone. This is Paul and Chris, cheering Cleo on from the stands as she's about to take off from the blocks. This is Cleo waving up to them, smiling. This is Chris grabbing onto Paul's hand while Cleo is racing. Her race is that exciting, and Chris never realized before how fast her daughter is. This is Dinah, running after Jessie with a Gatorade chew and telling her to take one exactly three heats before her own, so that it has time to take effect. This is Jessie saying, yes, Mom, sure, Mom, but then giving the Gatorade chew to a teammate, because even though Jessie likes the way the Gatorade chew tastes, and it might help her swim, she knows another girl on the team who has never had them before and wants to try them so badly. This is Dinah, up in the stands, seeing her daughter on deck give away the chew and thinking with great relief how different her girl is than she is, thinking how her daughter, even so young, is and will be a better and more generous person than Dinah is now. And Dinah doesn't care now if Jessie wins her race or not. She doesn't care if Jessie comes in dead last. What she just saw Jessie do was better than winning any swimming race she could imagine.

These are the other parents from the visiting swim teams in the stands; everyone's relaxed, everyone's talking to the person they are seated next to, no one is standing up leaning on the railing to take pictures, getting in the way of all the other parents. You look around you at the facility, and you can see all of the parents you know from your team stationed at their various jobs. You can see the parent of Maria smiling while putting names on the award ribbons. You can see Wes, the father of Ginger, standing guard on the stairs and making sure no one comes up them because it's a fire hazard, but you also see him relaxed, pretending he doesn't see a parent sneak up the stairs to get in a picture. You can see Charlotte working the timing console and stopping for a moment to look up and wave to her son, who walks by her to get to his place in the bullpen. You can see Mandy even. She is behind the glass looking in, holding her mop at rest for a moment, admiring how inviting the pool looks, and thinking how later, when the meet is over, even she might put on a suit and go in. She picked up a suit a few months ago after it was left on a bench in the locker room, and she put it in the lost and found, but no one's come to claim it. It's a suitable suit, she thinks, not too short or deep in the neckline. Now that the killer is gone, she wouldn't be upset if anyone happened to see her in it, anyone who happened to be on the other side of the glass. Yes, the suit would do nicely, she thinks, for her first step into that water she's looked at for so long but never actually experienced.

This is you looking around at everyone, not seeing a likeness to your brother in any of the faces, and thinking that's good. There was only one him, of course. A him that was damaged and scared and stupid and brave and arrogant and selfish and loving and hurtful and caring and talented and a lousy father and a good father too . . . What is it when someone is everything you can name? Is there a word for that? Because he was all of those things, you think. You'll never know exactly why he killed himself or if someone could have stopped him in time. Maybe that day at the beach when he got up so suddenly and grabbed you and ran with you into the waves it was because what your parents were arguing about, what they were yelling at each other about, was that your father wanted a divorce. Your brother, not wanting to hear how your father wanted to leave the family, then grabbed you and ran with you into the waves. You figure, time-wise, that it was about right, that not long after that day at the beach your father was packing his bags and moving in with his girlfriend. Of course, you'll never know for sure what made your brother grab you then, and it doesn't matter either. What matters is now. What matters is your girls racing right now, shaving off time here and there, and gaining time here and there. What matters is Kim's mother in the stands, now at the point where she's able to watch her other daughter swim and cheer loudly for her. What matters is you right now timing with Thomas. He is telling the swimmers in your lane that they are in the lucky lane. That everyone who has swum in your lane has won their heat. You look over at your daughters standing in line waiting for their heats behind the blocks. They are healthy. You can see the small muscles in their backs move when they move. You can see the color in their cheeks as they talk and laugh with their friends in line. You see Thomas smiling at you. Yes, this is the lucky lane, you think to yourself.

This is after the state championship. The pool is closed. The water is being drained so that the grout and tile can be scrubbed. This is the water leaving through the drains, taking with it the thoughts of Annie, the motion of Kim, the detestable skin of the killer, and this is the new water being pumped in, filling the corners, meeting the gutters. This is the new water, the night before the pool's opening to the public, waiting in moonlight shining in through the windows for the first swimmers, waiting to see whose bodies it will feel moving through it, waiting to hear what thoughts will come from those swimmers and soon become those of the water.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
hank you, Maya Ziv, for being a phenomenal editor who knows exactly how to bring out the best in a person's writing and bring a character to life! I'm so grateful for all of the work that you and the staff at Harper Perennial have put into making this novel take shape.

Thank you, Judy Heiblum, for being a stellar agent. Even miles and oceans away, you always take the time to guide me in the right direction and give me brilliant advice.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

YANNICK MURPHY
is the author of the novels
The Call
;
Signed, Mata Hari
;
Here They Come
; and
The Sea of Trees
, as well as two story collections and several children's books. She is the recipient of a Whiting Writers' Award, a National Endowment for the Arts Award, a Chesterfield Screenwriting Award, and the Laurence L. & Thomas Winship/PEN New England Award. Her work has appeared in
The Best American Nonrequired Reading
and
The O. Henry Prize Stories
. She lives in Vermont with her veterinarian husband and their children.

 

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ALSO BY YANNICK MURPHY

THE CALL

IN A BEAR'S EYE

SIGNED, MATA HARI

HERE THEY COME

THE SEA OF TREES

STORIES IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE

For Children

THE COLD WATER WITCH

BABY POLAR

AHWOOOOOOOO!

CREDITS

Cover design by Feeza Mumtaz

Cover photograph © Joy Tang / Getty Images

COPYRIGHT

THIS IS THE WATER.
Copyright © 2014 by Yannick Murphy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-229490-6

EPUB Edition JULY 2014 ISBN 9780062294913

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