The Season of Open Water Read Free

cheekbones, the fractured lines at the corners of his eyes. Her hand goes to the pocket of her skirt, the folded edges of the stolen ten-dollar bill, crisp and dry against her skin. He glances at her suddenly, and for a moment—it only takes a moment—his eyes touch hers.
    He smiles. She feels her face flush. She turns on her heel, walks out the door and runs straight into Luce.
    â€œI was looking for you, Bridge.”
    â€œThen let’s go.”
    â€œYou look queer.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œSee a ghost down there by the pond?”
    â€œI saw nothing. Come on, let’s go.”

Noel
    The cold morning air bristles his skin as he sits up in bed. The pain in his left thigh stabs when he lands his weight on the floor—it is an old wound, an ancient break, only sometimes healed.
    He pulls on his underclothes. He passes the closed door to his granddaughter Bridge’s room and takes the narrow steps down into the kitchen.
    â€œStill letting that girl of yours bang nails in the shop?” his old friend Rui had asked him the night before. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but what kind of life you think that’s going to be for her when you’re gone?”
    Rui was right. Noel saw it clearly. Bridge was eighteen now, and he had no idea what kind of future he could build for her. The worry of it fell like a weight on his shoulders and left him feeling empty.
    In the kitchen, the woodstove is already lit. His daughter, Cora, has set out his trousers and boots to warm beside it. Through the worn cracks in the kitchen floor, he can see her shape moving through the cellar, mixing a fresh batch of soap for her washing. He can smell the lye.
    He pours himself a coffee. There is a plate on the counter with a wedge of cake and some lemon squares left over from the gathering after Asa Sisson’s funeral.
    He takes a piece of the cake and sits down on a chair. The suit he wore to Asa’s, his only suit, his funeral suit, is hanging in the doorway. Cora will brush it out before she puts it away in the cedar chest. He sips his coffee and thinks of the day, a few years ago, when he saw Asa outside of Shorrock’s store talking to Honey Lyons. He knew even then that, for Asa, it would all come down to trouble. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand the draw of the rum-work for a bold local kid—the lure of the money, the adventure. It could seem like an easy ticket, perhaps the only ticket, to a better life. It was one thing, though, to do the simple jobs for the local rummies—to drive a wagonload of liquor or keep a lookout in exchange for a whack of cash when times were tight. But to get tangled up in more than that, as Asa had, was to risk too much for too little. You’d wind up fast with the wrong crew, then wearing your suit for that last time.
    Noel sets his cup in the sink, ties on his boots, and steps outside into the fog.
    The damp cold works into him as he walks to the privy. He stubs open the door with the toe of his boot. There is a pail of corncobs and Sears catalogues on the floor by the seat. He can hear the holler of the crows through the slatted pine walls. He tears out a page from one of the catalogues. A cool wind brushes up between his legs.
    He crosses the yard to the barn. Cora has let the hens out of the shed. They scratch at the dirt. He throws them another handful of meal. Then, he hitches the mare to the wagon, loads the mucking rake, a pitchfork, and two buckets into the bed, and hauls himself up onto the wide plank seat.
    He heads south into the fog. The world swirls in around him, and his mind begins to leak and stretch and give—gusts of fog like the breath of some great god bank each side of the road—and in the whiteness of his own breath mixing with the cold dense air, he can see the things that used to be: his boyhood on Nomans Land, the stiff green light lying offshore, his mother’s black hair, and the