The Saline Solution
by John Lowry
I was swimming, doing my weekly three miler off Jones Beach. It was early,
the water heavy and smooth, flashing like a Christmas tree. I liked the peace,
the gulls, the sounds of boats invisible in the fog off shore.
I saw a swimmer. Long brown arms, red bathing cap. A woman. I caught up and
fell in beside her with a smile. Her nod said it was OK. We swam for a mile or
so before taking a break. I'm Demos, I said, treading water and holding out my
hand. Oh, how nice. Stella, she said, taking my wet hand in hers. Brown eyes,
long eyelashes. Her lipstick is bright red. Really good looking. A powerboat
came drifting out of the fog, two guys in the back holding beers and waving.
We start swimming again. We're kind of close. Our legs touch, our hips bump.
As though on a signal, we stop, throw our arms around each other and kiss. Oh,
it's a nice kiss. Wet and salty. We don't want to stop. And then we sink, still
kissing. We break apart and swim to the surface, taking deep breaths and looking
at one another. We're being silly, she said. Right, I said, let's swim.
But we do it again. I slip away the straps of her suit. She slides her hands
down my back, grabs my ass. We sink faster, deeper. The gold light becomes
green. Again, we break off, wiggling to the surface, bursting out of the water
with open mouths, sucking at the air. We lay on our backs, holding each other's
eyes.
We hear shouts. Stella jumps as though something bit her toe. Oh, God, my
husband! Husband? The word feels like a bullet whistling by my ear. I can see a
guy waving his arms and screaming. Stella puts her straps back in place. Let's
go, I say! But it's too late. The guy swims up. He has bulging shoulders, a
black mustache. His eyes are blazing. He's making sounds like a wounded animal.
He starts throwing punches, missing wildly, churning the water. Sam, what are
you doing? Stop, Stella screams! I splash water into his eyes, figuring it would
slow him down. It just infuriates him more. Stella starts swimming to shore and
I follow.
Suddenly, he's screaming. Help! Help me! We turn. He's hyperventilating, his
face going bluish in front of our eyes. He's drowning, Stella says! Watch out,
it's a trick, I say. Water starts covering his face. He tries to wipe it away.
Stella, he cries! Don't let me die!
We swim to him, each of us taking an arm. We try to tow him, swimming with
our free arms. But it's hard. It's like towing a refrigerator. He keeps slipping
away. He grabs Stella, wrapping himself around her. No, Sam, don't, she shouts!
He's dragging her down.
Two lifeguards paddle up on surfboards. One of them slips a flotation device
over Sam's head. You're OK buddy, he says. Just hold on. They start towing him
to shore. I look at Stella. But she's already swimming.
The usual crowd has gathered, everyone wanting to see the guy who almost
drowned. The lifeguards sit him down and wrap him in a blanket. His face is
still blue, he's shaking. A guy with a Red Cross vest comes running. He takes
Sam's pulse, puts an oxygen mask on his face, giving him the bottle to hold. The
crowd loses interest. Stella kneels next to him, tries to take his hand but he
won't let her. After a few minutes, he pulls off the oxygen mask. I'm fine, he
says.
I walk to my blanket, towel off and drink some water. A woman lowers her
magazine and looks at me. I see Stella walking Sam to their chairs, set under a
blue umbrella with something red streaking across it. His legs are wobbly. After
he sits down, he looks in my direction. It's not a friendly look.
It's time to call it a day. I decide I'm hungry and stop by the Food Court.
There's a wide, circular counter, metal tables and chairs that look like they
had been used for target practice. The floor is wet and kids run around in their
bare feet, ignoring a sign says they shouldn't. I get a cup of ice cream and sit
down at a table. I pick up my spoon and notice that my hand is shaking. Stella
comes in. She spots me and walks over, sitting down on the edge of a chair. He's
waiting for his coffee, she says. When I say nothing, she goes on. I guess I
want to thank you. You did help. I nod. I'm thinking, wow, she looked different
than she did in the water. Her hair is streaked with gray. Her lips look cracked
and old. And the water must have filled out her bathing suit. She's thin as a
stick. She smiled. My, you're a lot shorter than I thought you were, she says.
We're interrupted. Sam comes rushing in. He stops short when he sees us. Jesus!
What now, he shouts? He starts running towards us but his feet fly out from
under him. He lands on his back with a loud slap. The place goes still before
the kids start running and screaming. Sam is on his back, motionless, his mouth
open. Stella puts her hands over her face.
We push our way through to Sam. He looks up at us, takes a long breath and
stops. Stella kneels down. Sam, don't do that, she says. He smirks, folding his
hands on his chest. The kids stand quietly. Sam! Stella commands. Breathe! His
mouth starts to quiver. His eyes are bulging. Stella throws out her arms,
looking around. Please, she cries! Please, is there anyone?
A guy carrying a tray piled with food stops. He has a graybeard, a pink bow
of a mouth. He slips off one of his sandals and, with a disdainful expression,
pokes his toe into Sam's crotch. Sam sits up, exhaling like a balloon. The kids
sigh and turn away. Sam starts making that sound I heard in the water.
I walk outside. Enough, I think. A sailboat is pasted like a butterfly
against the horizon. Two gulls stand respectfully, waiting for handouts. I have
a bad feeling, that gray, Sunday afternoon feeling. But I don't want to deal
with it and hurry off to my car.
John Lowry’s work has appeared in the Chiron Review, the North
American Review, and Descant. He lives in New York.
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