Tales from The Lake 1 Read online

  It seemed to go well at first. Now that Jan had something specific to do—more to the point, something to control—she’d calmed down. But it soon became clear that their efforts were only making the canoe rotate faster.

  “Fuck!” Jan shouted. “Fuck-fuck-fuck!”

  Another breeze came, stronger this time, and carried with it the sound of a woman’s soft laughter.

  Alan thought it was another imagining of his, but then Jan said, “What was that?” She stopped paddling and turned to look at him. Her green eyes were wide, and he thought, That’s what an animal looks like when it realizes it’s trapped.

  “You heard it too?” he asked.

  “I . . . think so. It sounded like someone laughing, right?”

  The breeze returned, grew stronger, became a wind.

  Thanks for returning him to me.

  Jan looked around frantically, as if trying to find the origin of the voice. It seemed to Alan that the words swirled around them, flowing with the air currents. She looked at him then, features contorting with anger.

  “Are you doing this? Is it some kind of trick to get back at me for forcing you to go out on the lake? You never would’ve done it if it weren’t for me pushing you, you know.”

  Her voice had taken on an accusatory tone, and absurdly—given the situation they were in—he felt competing impulses to apologize to her and to defend himself. These impulses canceled each other out, and he said nothing.

  The wind grew even stronger and louder, but the sky remained clear and sunny. He wasn’t certain, but he thought the fish—still swimming backwards—were moving faster now. Their numbers had continued to increase until now their mass stretched outward from the canoe as far as he could see. He was beginning to feel . . . not right. He’d been holding his paddle in the water for the last few moments, fish continuing to thump into it as they circled. He withdrew the paddle and examined his hands. The skin was smoother, the flesh over the knuckles softer, and while he wasn’t the hairiest guy in the world, the backs of his hands were now virtually hairless. And did his hands look smaller? Yes.

  Jan was still looking at him, only now with confused disbelief.

  “Alan?”

  His clothes felt loose on him, so loose that if he stood, his shirt and shorts—and most importantly, his lifejacket—would slip right off of him.

  “It’s still me,” he said. His voice was higher-pitched, no longer that of a man.

  Jan shook her head slowly, as if to deny the reality of what she was seeing.

  “But you . . . you . . . ”

  “I’m nine again. On the outside, anyway.” He hadn’t known this until he spoke the words, but it felt right.

  She looked at him without expression while the wind blew stronger and the canoe continued rotating in the increasingly turbulent water. Her blank expression fell away, to be replaced by a mask of outraged fury. She threw her paddle into the bottom of the canoe, stood, and started moving toward the rear where Alan sat. Her movements set the canoe rocking, and Alan dropped his paddle, which fell overboard and was swept away by the surging water, and gripped the sides of the canoe in a vain attempt to steady it. When she reached him, she crouched and then, glaring, smacked him hard across the face. It hurt, but Alan was more shocked than anything.

  “Stop it!” she shouted. “Whatever the fuck you’re doing, you need to cut it the hell out and make everything normal again. Do you hear me?” She screamed these last four words so hard that spittle flew from her mouth and onto his cheeks and lips.

  Despite his outward regression, Alan retained his adult mind, and while he was terrified by what was happening, he realized that in a way, it was far worse for Jan. She believed that anything could be controlled if you were smart enough, kept a tight handle on your emotions, and focused the whole force of your will on what you wanted. She was so sure of this belief that she was almost fanatical about it. So to find herself caught in a living nightmare, where she didn’t understand the rules and couldn’t do a goddamned thing to change them even if she did, had to be beyond maddening to her.

  He felt sorry for her, but he almost felt more than a little satisfaction at seeing her freak out. He had, in a very real sense, lived most of his life feeling there was nothing he—or anyone, for that matter—could do to control the world around them. And although he knew it was cruel and petty of him, he was glad that for once Jan knew how he felt.

  The wind had become a howling gale by now, and the rate of the canoe’s rotation had increased to the point that the world outside the canoe was a blur. Alan felt dizzy and nauseated, and he gripped the sides of the canoe so tight that it felt as if his fingers might break any second. But Jan seemed no longer aware of what was happening outside the canoe. She too gripped the sides to brace herself, but she continued glaring at him, shouting, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  Alan felt his stomach drop, as if the canoe was lowering in the water. But he told himself that couldn’t be right. Despite the water swirling violently around their craft, only spray struck them, fetid and surprisingly cold. Very little water had gotten into the canoe, so they couldn’t be sinking. But then the boat stopped spinning and began moving backward, canted at a slight angle. That’s when he realized what was happening. The swirling water had become a vortex, and they were riding the upper edge of it, moving swiftly in large circles around its circumference. A curving wall of water filled with hundreds of swimming gray shapes surrounded them. Alan looked up and could still see the sky, but with every revolution the canoe picked up speed, and the sky seemed to move further away. He knew they were being pulled down into the maelstrom.

  Your father took you from me. I reached out to get you back, but I was too late.

  Alan remembered the choppy boat ride back to shore when he was nine, coughing up water, his clothes soaked, the outboard motor straining as if the lake was fighting it, his dad cursing the entire way, sounding more scared than angry.

  “Make it stop!” Jan shouted. “Make the goddamned voice stop!”

  You were such a sweet boy, Alan. Gentle, sensitive, your mind still and quiet as my surface at its most placid. Your soul as deep and intriguing as my darkest depths. I knew at once that we belonged together, so I sent a wave to rock your father’s boat. Not much, just enough so that you’d fall into me. I was sorrow-stricken when I lost you. I cried for so long that my tears flooded the shore, and I vowed that when you returned—if you returned—I would be ready. This time, I will not let you go. You will be mine, and we shall be together forever.

  It wasn’t the words so much as the emotion behind them that soothed Alan, washed away his fears and calmed him. He’d been so wrong to be afraid of the lake all this time, he could see that now. He’d wasted so many years . . . But that was all right. Somehow the lake had given him back those years, so he really hadn’t wasted anything, had he?

  Still gripping the sides of the canoe, Jan looked toward the bottom of the maelstrom, which they were now very close to. “You think you can take him from me?” she screamed down into the tapering funnel of water. “He’s mine, and even if he is a weak, pathetic loser, you can’t have him!”

  She faced Alan once more, let go of the canoe, and with savage swiftness grabbed hold of his throat. She squeezed, and he was surprised at how strong her grip was, but then he remembered that his body was that of a nine-year-old. Of course she felt strong to him. Her wild-eyed gaze bore into him, and she spoke through gritted teeth, softly. Despite the noise around them—a near-deafening roar to rival the largest of waterfalls—he had no trouble making out what she said.

  “You won’t win, bitch. You won’t, you won’t, you won’t—”

  Alan’s throat burned and he couldn’t draw in breath. His vision began to blur, and an entirely different sort of roaring sounded in his ears. At first he made no move to defend himself. What did it matter how he died? Either way, he was dead. But then he realized it did make a difference. If he was fated to die this day, then he wanted to
do so at the hands of someone—or something—that loved him. Not at the hands of someone who despised him.

  “—won’t, you won’t, you—”

  Alan released his grip on the canoe, reached up, placed his hands on the side of Jan’s head, and with two swift, sure motions, plunged his thumbs into her eyes.

  She shrieked in agony and let go of his throat. She grabbed hold of his wrists and tried to pull his hands away from her face. His body might have been younger, but his will was still that of a grown man. He pushed hard, harder, until he felt a pop, followed by another, and then warm wet spilled onto his hands. A moment later, she stopped screaming.

  The canoe had almost tipped sideways by this point, and now that neither of them held onto the boat, they fell out and down toward the darkness at the bottom of the whirlpool. As they fell, Alan let go of Jan’s head and his thumbs slid out of her sockets and she fell away from him, limp and lifeless. His lifejacket was too big for his young body, and he slid out of it just as he and Jan plunged into the water. The maelstrom died then, and water rushed in to fill the space the vortex had created. Within moments, the lake had returned to normal, with nothing—not even an overturned canoe bobbing on the surface—to indicate anything had happened.

  #

  Welcome home, my love.

  He did feel at home here in the cool, comforting dark, and for the first time since his childhood, he was at peace.

  And thank you for the gift. After all that work, my pets are hungry.

  He watched as hundreds of fish converged on Jan’s floating body and began tearing off tiny chunks of her flesh.

  He smiled and answered in a voice cold as an arctic current.

  You’re welcome.

  DON’T LOOK AT ME

  Elizabeth Massie

  Yeah, yeah, I know. I know I look like shit. But what do you expect? I’ve sat here in the tangled weeds at a far corner of Concrete City—a wholesale place that sells ornamental lawn decorations, birdbaths, angel and pig statues, and other pieces of so-called concrete art—for more than three years now. Here by the back fence where the property ends against a narrow portion of shoreline of an algae-crusted lake. Here amid the mosquitoes, snakes, spiders’ webs, salamanders, and gobs of sticky goose poop. Here with the rest of the concrete outcasts. I disgust you, so don’t look at me. Won’t hurt my feelings a bit.

  I got no legs, just feet peeking out from a ridiculous tunic. Little pudgy hands. No arms. No genitalia. No working eyes, so I can’t see. A prissy, pointed hat with the tip chipped off, a hat that starlings find particularly perch-able. If I had a real painted mouth, I could yell at them to get the hell off my head. But my mouth is just a slash in the concrete, which means I can’t yell. Or speak. Or even hiss. And so I sit and wait here in the weeds. Wait with the other slightly irregular garden gnomes, elves, and fairies. More than likely no one will buy us. Shoppers prefer the new, perfectly-formed, brightly-colored concrete creatures out front of the warehouse, all lined up in rows for customers to inspect and admire.

  Okay, let me clarify a few things for those who don’t know. Things that are created in the shape of humans or near-humans have minds and we can think. Statuary. Puppets. Ventriloquist dummies. Dolls of all kinds—fashion dolls, action figures, sex dolls. And yes, garden gnomes like me. That creep you out? Get over it. It’s your fault, anyway. You’re the ones who made us. You are our gods. You fashion us out of concrete or marble or wood or plastic or stuffed cloth sacks and then you go and get weirded out because there’s more to us than you imagined there would be? Or hoped there would be? Grow up. Yeah, we think. And if we have properly painted mouths and eyes, we can also see and speak. You probably suspected that when you were a child. You probably forgot or denied that when you became an adult.

  We know what’s going on. We know what you’re up to.

  Rain and snow and sleet here in the far corner of Concrete City doesn’t bother me. What bothers me most is the boredom. None of the others out here can see or speak, either. We’re all plain, unpainted cast offs, “seconds,” banished from the main part of the sales lot but not discarded. On a rare occasion some person will wander back here and pick one of us for a doorstop. We can’t see it happening but can hear it. How can we hear if our ears aren’t painted? You made us. You tell me.

  Yesterday, I heard a little kid back here in the weeds with us. A girl I think, with her fluttering fingers and her high-pitched voice. She talked to herself, prattled on as she moved around in the weeds. She picked me up, put me down. Picked me up, put me down. She left. Then she came back several hours later and picked me up, put me down. She said, “I like you.” Then she was gone again in a rustling of the dead grasses. She was alone, I think. I didn’t hear any adults with her. Maybe she lives nearby and was just out playing.

  I hear a storm on its way. Thunder. A sharp wind rustles the grasses and the water of the lake slaps the shoreline. I smell worm-scented air and I wait for a downpour. It doesn’t come, and is hot again in just a few minutes.

  Night comes. Then morning. The little girl is here again. This time she picks me up and holds me close to her chest. Her hands are small and soft. “I like you,” she whispers into my ear. I wish I could see her. She seems frail but pretty.

  And then off we go. I’m tucked under her arm and am carried—jostle jostle jostle—away from Concrete City, away from the smell of the lake and the hum of the mosquitoes. If I had a functional mouth I’d call, “Good-bye, suckers!” to the other outcasts in the weeds, but I don’t, so I can’t.

  Five or so minutes later, a door is opened and we enter a cool place. I detect the sharp scents of burned eggs and cigarette smoke. The door is eased shut behind us. The girl tiptoes with me under her arm, up some stairs. Every other step creaks. I realize I’m stolen goods. Kind of exciting, to be honest. I’m not bored now. Little Miss What’s-Her-Name has spirited me away without paying. How about that. I wonder if the owner of Concrete City will notice. If he’ll even care.

  I’m tossed onto a bed, and I bounce once. The little girl drops down beside me, picks me up with now sweaty hands, and says so quietly I can barely hear her, “I’ll keep you with my other friends. You’ll like them.” I don’t know if I’ll like them, but I don’t have much choice, do I? The girl mutters something I can’t hear and then I’m swept up and put onto a dusty shelf, squeezed in between some kind of small plastic doll and something made out of wood. I hate to hell I can’t see, but I can feel them. No personal space here, obviously.

  Someone downstairs screams, “Connie! Get your lazy ass down here, now! I heard you goin’ upstairs! Where the hell you been?”

  So her name is Connie. And some rude as hell adult is yelling at her. I hear Connie take a sharp breath, hear her shoes slap the floor, hear her thump down the steps.

  “Hey, Newbie,” says a voice to my right. It’s a gruff voice, deep, sounding like sandpaper against a stick.

  I can’t reply, so I wait.

  “Oh, yeah, no real mouth,” says the voice. “We’ll get Connie to take care of that.”

  She steals her mother’s lipstick when Mom is drunk. Likes to pretend she’s an adult, likes to dream about being grown up and out of this shit hole. Lipstick isn’t permanent but it should do you for a while. Tastes like wax but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “As long as the old bitch doesn’t catch her with the lipstick,” came a voice from the left. It’s another deep voice but smooth, slick. “Remember what happened when Connie was caught with her mom’s cigarettes? Damn.”

  There was a loud, long silence then, as if they were remembering something most unpleasant. So, I figure, the bitch is Mom. The screamer from downstairs.

  “Well, anyway, Newbie, my name is Bobby,” says the voice on the right. “I’m a dummy, but don’t ever call me that. Connie got me for her birthday last year. Her dad gave me to her, before he left for good. Bitch threatened to chop me up and throw me in the fireplace once when Connie wet the bed, but they don’t have
a fireplace. Mom’s an idiot.”

  “Complete idiot,” says the voice on the left.

  Downstairs, more yelling. “Damn it, Connie! I told you never to look at me like that!” A loud slap. A whimper.

  “Bitch,” says Bobby.

  “Bitch,” says the voice on the left.

  Bitch, I think.

  Another long silence. I start to feel sleepy (yes, we sleep) and then Bobby says, “Hey, Newbie.”

  What?

  “Here’s my advice. Just ignore most of what you hear around here. Otherwise, you’ll lose your mind.”

  The plastic doll on the left says, “Yeah. Bobby’s right. Just know that we give Connie some joy in her life. Probably the only joy she has.”

  What’s your name, doll? I wonder.

  The doll says, “Oh, yeah, I’m Princess Polly. Just shut up about that, okay?”

  Okay.

  #

  Connie comes back to her room much later, breathing hard, sniffling. It wakes me up. I hear her flop down on the bed and mutter into her pillow. Downstairs, a television has cut on and it’s some kind of arguing and loud music. Seems Mom can’t get enough arguing, either hers or somebody else’s.

  Bitch.

  After a while, Connie’s sniffles and mumblings slow and stop. She gets up and pulls Princess Polly from the shelf and sings something so faint I can’t pick out the words, but the melody is kinda nice. Then I hear Princess Polly say something to Connie. Connie replies, “Yeah, I still got some lipstick that Mama didn’t find.”

  Princess Polly is put back on the shelf next to me. I hear Connie digging around, in a drawer I think. Then she is back, and she picks me up, spins me around, and sets me down on the bed beside her.

  “You got to look nice,” she says. “Here.”

  I feel a waxy substance spread on my lips. Well, on two thirds of my lips. My mouth twitches a bit. I can feel words forming, even though the right corner of my mouth is still dead.