Читать книгу The Last Poets - Christine Otten - Страница 23

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AKRON, OHIO, 1960

Mud Bottom

He stood on a thick branch, about fifteen feet above the still, black water, naked except for his underwear. He wanted to learn how to swim.

He looked up at the translucent sky … If I don’t come back up, they’ll find my clothes, he thought fleetingly.

He crouched, and the branch bent with him. He looked out across the water. Wispy, glistening threads floated in the air. He saw small, shiny insects leap over the water’s surface. Wild ferns on the opposite bank, thin stripes of bright green moss between the rocks. It was so quiet and beautiful here. Even the birds and crickets seemed to be holding their breath.

It was his first time here. He thought of his father. It wasn’t hard to picture him in this place, sitting on a smooth round boulder at the water’s edge. Licking his trumpet’s mouthpiece. Rubbing his hands over his thighs, to wipe off the sweat before starting to play. Languid sounds echoing off the still water. The water was black glass. The highest notes evaporated at once. It was hardly a melody, just a string of notes. Who did he play for? Nobody could hear the music except him.

Or did he want Jerome to come listen? Was he afraid to ask?

The water looked deeper and farther away now. The woods were Daddy’s. And when he could swim, they would be his. Then it wouldn’t be dangerous to come here anymore. Good thing Mama didn’t know where he was.

He counted to ten, out loud. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes and jumped.

Jerome heard the wind rush in his ears before he hit the water with a smack.

Eyes wide open. Blackness. The silence dull and deathly. The air in his lungs pressed painfully against his ribs. His throat hurt. He flailed his arms. Felt the slimy clay on his feet. Feet up, quick, quick. If only the water weren’t so black and opaque. This must be what being blind is like. Move your arms. That’s it. Up. Swim. Come on. Arms up. Toward what looks like a puddle of white floating above.

He pushed the heavy water aside, and suddenly there was light. Air. He spat out the last of his breath. Sucked new, fresh air in. The bright white hurt his eyes. The water felt soft and tepid against his skin. He allowed himself to sink a little, and the water slowly closed above his head. Eyes shut. He waited for a moment before pushing himself back up. Again. He floated. Thought of all those tiny invisible fish and creatures and plants down there in the darkness. The sucking mud at the bottom of the lake. He paddled lazily to the bank. He could hear the soft ripple of the water tingle in his ears. He grabbed hold of a bush and pulled himself out.