Chris Amenta
Reprieve
Craig suggested that they pretend, for twenty-four hours, as if all the money weren’t already gone. And so having swept and locked up, having balanced the take and seen to the dishes that had been heaped in the sink, he gave the cash—two hundred dollars taken from the register—to Karen, and said, “Treat it like an investment.”
And Karen, having cleaned the stations and prepped, having gone upstairs and showered the scent of the kitchen from her skin and painted her nails the color of slate, put the bundle of twenties in her purse, and agreed. “Poof,” she said.
In the morning, they packed the Volvo with dry towels, a change of clothes, and the food—chops, corn, tomatoes, summer squash—they’d borrowed from the kitchen and headed north. Seventy miles along, with NPR pattering from the radio, Craig realized he’d forgotten the alcohol.
She crossed her arms and told him to figure it out.
“We can get beer at a gas station,” Craig said.
“It’s not a frat party.”
“Nice beer.”
She’d built her kitchen on precision—of knife cuts, measurements, portions, and pinches—and he knew how confounded she was by clumsiness and carelessness.
“Figure it out,” she said again.
Down the highway, they came to a state liquor store. Craig followed his wife inside, found a basket, and started to whistle, but the mood felt wrong. “Are you still mad?”
“I wasn’t mad.”
“Are you still annoyed?”
“No, I mean, I’m not mad at you.” She stopped, then turned to him and laid her body against his, letting her arms fall to her side. Into his neck, she said, “I’m just scared.”
The gesture, there, in the liquor store, like something a child might do, surprised and unnerved him. But he put his arm around her and said, “If it isn’t right, we just won’t bring it up.”
“Let’s not talk about it.” She was twirling her left foot around its big toe. She pulled away from him. “Anyway, we have to bring it up.”
Then she whipped around and marched forward through the aisles: In an instant, herself again, in an instant, immersed in the task.
Karen found a tall bottle of Grey Goose and went to pay. At the register, a display advertised a sale on well rum. Craig added a handle to their tab.
Karen frowned.
“It was a thing of ours in college,” Craig said. “I’ll keep it in the car and only get it later, only if they want it.”
She withdrew cash from her purse, counted out three twenties, and paid. “Please don’t puke tonight.”
Craig smiled.
Forty-five minutes to the north, the town emerged from the forest. They passed the old school house that had been restored and renovated into a general store. A quarter mile after that, they saw the next landmark: the town’s only gas station.
“There’s the Shell,” Karen said.
On the left, the shore of Lake Winnipesaukee shouldered up to the road, and they could see boats bobbing in the bay. Children fussed in a line outside the ice cream parlor. A souvenir store peddled graphic t-shirts: “Wolfeboro, NH est. 1759.” They turned left at the painted rock and bounced along a dusty road until the glimmer of Ted’s BMW could be seen through the trees.
Craig pulled into the driveway and parked. The house, a two-story cape style, armored in shingles, with a tiered lawn and a raised entrance, seemed to tower before the lake. Gardens lined the walkway, and tulips and hosta had pierced the mulch and flowered. The front door gaped, and beyond the screen, past the house, the water shimmered.
“It’s—” Karen eyed the cottage and searched for the word. “Grand.”
“I guess it would be.”
Craig stacked the overnight bag atop their cooler and carried both. Karen brought the vodka.
“Hello!” Craig knocked with an elbow, and when there was no answer, he looked at Karen, shrugged and entered.
Like a mausoleum, the interior of the house comprised a single, expansive space. The kitchen opened to the living room and ended in a wall of sliding glass doors that framed the lake. Beyond the house, sitting on the porch and reading a curled-over copy of InStyle, the girl, Natalie, sunned. Beyond her, on the dock, Ted crouched and was fiddling with the line to his cigar boat. Craig started to introduce himself.
“You made it,” Ted called.
Natalie stood, and they shook hands. She was younger than them and thin. From behind moon-shaped sunglasses, her hair and skin seemed to radiate.
“We brought vodka,” Craig called back.
Karen frowned, but then raised the bottle for Ted to see.
“Perfect. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”
—
Ted had meant of the lake, not of the house. They gathered in the cigar boat, and Ted eased them into open water. As they sped along, the wind swept through Ted’s shirt, and with a leg propped up on the bench, he looked as though he were conquering the lake, not touring it. When Natalie produced Heinekens from a refrigerated compartment, Craig aimed a smile at his wife, who seemed not to notice or care.
Ted drove, occasionally slowing the boat so he could be heard over the motor. “There are over 250 islands in the lake,” he said. “Because of all the peninsulas, we have almost 300 miles of shoreline. Winnipesaukee is completely saturated with development, but you’d never know because of the zoning. Natalie and I had to wait for someone to die before we could get The Reprieve.”
Natalie was draped across the bench seat. She sipped her beer and, with her spare hand, pinned her fluttering hat to her head. She looked as if she’d been plucked from the pages of her fashion magazine.
“Are you serious?” Karen asked.
“Sort of. The house belonged to a local contractor for the last forty years. When he died, we bought it from his children and renovated to the studs and back. Natalie grew up summering around here. It was important for us to be on Winnipesaukee.”
“How lovely,” Karen said. “Except for the dying thing.”
Ted sped them along. “There are all kinds of fish in here. Bass, trout, catfish. We’re on watch for black carp. We’re supposed to kill them if we catch them.”
Natalie sat up. “No one told me.”
“Well, you’re not on the list, sweetie.”
“What do we have to kill them for?”
Ted set the boat to idle, then turned and faced them. “They’re a nuisance, and an invasive species. They have no natural predators here in Winnipesaukee, which means that they’re a threat to the whole ecosystem. They’ve asked us to report any that we see.”
“Who’s they?”
“The carp.”
“The other they.”
“Scientists, I guess.”
“Licensed to fish-kill.” Natalie pow-powed with fingers shaped like pistols.
“I read about that,” Craig said. “In the Globe. Supposedly they’re damming up the Mississippi so the carp won’t reach the Great Lakes.”
“That’s true.”
“But then there’s the whole flying thing,” Craig said. “So.”
Natalie holstered her pistols. “They fly?”
Ted said, “Technically, they jump, but they’ve been known to jump right into boats. People have been knocked out. Bones have been broken. The footage is unbelievable.”
“Superfish,” Natalie said. “Can you eat them?”
Karen was looking out at the lake, and Craig wondered if she’d been listening at all. “What do you think, Karen?”
She turned towards him and blinked, several times, as if to cool her eyes from the sting of the sun. “I don’t cook them, but they’re popular in Asia. They’re kind of hard to come by in Cambridge.”
“Not for long,” Natalie said.
—
At the dock, Ted tethered the boat.
Craig said. “When did you learn all this stuff?”
“About the carp? I probably read the same article as you.”
“No, all this.” He gestured towards the lake. “Driving boats, tying lines, fishing. You knew as little as I did in college.”
“There’s not a lot to it.”
“You look good,” Craig said, and he meant it.
Karen asked Natalie for a tour of the house. “I’d love to see the kitchen.”
The women went inside, and Ted tossed his empty bottle into a bin on the dock and produced another pair of beers from the cooler.
“How’s the restaurant business?” Ted asked.
“Have you ever heard the wisdom, figure out how much capital you’ll need, then double it?”
“I hadn’t, but I can imagine.”
“Well, double it again.”
“Ouch. Are you closed today?”
“First time since Christmas. We’ll be open again tomorrow.”
Ted coiled a line and set it on the dock. “We’re glad you’re here.”
Natalie came bouncing from the house. “Karen made Sex on the Beaches.” She was brandishing a pitcher. “Sexes on the beach? Sexes on the beaches? Well, she made a bunch.”
Karen trailed behind, carrying a tray of glasses that brimmed with pink froth.
“Thank you, chef,” Ted said, taking one. “What goes in this?”
“Vodka, orange juice, cranberry. It’s supposed to have peach schnapps, but we didn’t bring any.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s nothing. Actually, I’d like to cook you something proper,” she said. “To say thank you for letting us invite ourselves over.”
“Absolutely not. I’m thrilled you did. And anyway, Craig was just telling me you all haven’t closed since Christmas.”
“Really, we brought a few things.” She gestured towards their cooler, which was where Craig had left it on the deck.
“Not a chance. We’ve been marinating salmon. I have none of your expertise, but I can navigate a grill.”
Karen looked to Craig, and he shrugged. She helped herself to one of her drinks.
—
By the afternoon, they’d ambled their way into the lake. Ted and Natalie unveiled a fleet of inflatable rafts from the shed, and they each claimed one. The women changed inside and emerged together. Craig couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone swimming or the last time he’d seen Karen in a bathing suit. Eleven months concealed within the androgyny of her chef’s jacket, and then she reappeared. She’d accumulated a small paunch from the tastings and the stress, but at thirty-three, she was young and pretty. Sitting on the dock in the sunlight, lower legs submerged, she looked like an invasive species herself, a non-fish in water. Her sudden lack of precision warmed him with nostalgia. From his perch atop a black rubber inner tube, Craig looked at his wife and missed what had been quietly absent for months.
Natalie, it was impossible not to notice, had benefited from a life of leisure. Her wrap and white bathing suit read beautifully against her skin, and her hair, in the wind, whiffled about her shoulders. Craig looked, then looked away, then looked again.
Ted puttered to the dock in a pedal boat, straw hat on his head, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. Beside him, he had a cooler of beer and a tray of scallops on ice. He escorted Natalie into his boat as if announcing a debutante. Karen dropped her tube into the lake with a splash. When it floated away, she corralled it with a pointed, steel-colored toe. Then, she clambered into its center, arriving drenched, but smiling anyway. They tied a line from the boat to each of the inner tubes, and Ted towed them out.
“Incoming,” Ted said, catapulting a Heineken at Craig.
The bottle plunked into the lake beside Craig, and he snatched it before it could sink.
“Coming at you, Karen. Watch the splash.”
A metal bottle opener dangled from Craig’s inner tube. He snapped open his beer, and stowed the cap in his bathing suit pocket. “They’re having the same problem with pythons in Florida,” Craig said.
“Snakes?” Natalie said.
“Big ones,” said Ted. “They’ve been eating people’s dogs. A few have turned up in swimming pools. In people’s kitchens, even.”
“There aren’t any snakes in this lake, are there Ted?” Karen squirmed to look down into the water, and her raft tottered beneath her.
“Probably.” Craig answered.
She splashed him.
“How do pythons get into pools?” Natalie asked.
“That’s the really interesting thing,” said Craig. “People buy them as pets. But when they get too big to manage, the owners just release them.”
“They’re the perfect predators for that environment,” Ted said. “They even eat crocodiles.”
“Who would want a pet snake?” Karen asked.
“Magicians,” said Natalie.
“Lots of people do,” said Ted. “They actually breed snakes in captivity just to meet the demand.”
“Disgusting,” said Karen.
Craig flicked water at his wife. “They don’t bark, and you only have to feed them once a week.”
“It’s as if the environment in Florida were engineered for this calamity,” Ted said. “As if this whole trouble were nothing more than the inevitable, little consequence of the existence of Florida and the existence of pythons.” He slouched in his chair and lowered his hat on his brow.
“Tell that to poor Fido,” said Natalie.
“We should put these snake releasers in prison,” Karen said.
“Oh,” Craig said. “Let’s not.” And he settled deep into the belly of his inner tube and rested his feet on the edge of the pedal boat. Natalie’s long, beautiful legs shimmered.
“I think you’re burning,” Natalie said.
“Yeah?”
“You’re pink.”
“I haven’t been sunburned since I was a child,” Craig said, fondly.
“Let me see.” Karen flopped over in her tube and paddled toward him. “Oh my God, Craig, you’re roasted.”
“Let’s worry about it tomorrow,” Craig said, without opening his eyes. He took another sip of beer.
“Craig, you are roasted.”
“I have some sunscreen right here.” Natalie leaned over and squeezed lotion onto his chest. “Oops,” she said, as it splattered.
Craig opened one eye and began rubbing in the cream. “No harm,” he said.
—
Ted’s salad was delicious. Ripe red tomatoes, crisp romaine, candied walnuts and sun-dried cranberries from Massachusetts; he’d even made his own vinaigrette.
“I can’t do anything?” Karen asked, following Ted around the kitchen. “Let me make something. You should try my cooking.”
“Craig, constrain your wife, please, and place her somewhere relaxing. I suggest the hammock.”
“Come on, honey, take the night off.” Craig led her away from the grill and to the hammock. She resisted at first, but then fell into the netting.
She whispered, “I should cook, Craig. It’s important. Make him let me cook.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Take a nap and let me worry.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes already closed. “Yes. You take care of it.”
Craig wobbled inside and filled a glass with ice water. The Heinekens were chilling in a bucket on the floor, and he helped himself to one. Then, he climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor and let himself onto the porch and into a wicker chair. Craig looked out at the lake. His eyes became heavy, dropped, then reopened. He spotted Natalie sunbathing on the dock in her white bikini. And Craig looked because she was beautiful and because looking pleased him. He set the beer bottle and the ice water down on the deck, folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. He felt bathed in the afternoon light. Eyes still closed, he indulged in another sip of beer.
—
A call for dinner woke him. Natalie and Karen had changed out of their suits and into summer clothing. Ted served salmon filets from a platter. They drank white wine.
“These are delicious,” Karen said, sadly. “What’s the marinade?”
“Sun dried tomatoes, garlic, parsley, olive oil. A few other things. It’s nothing sophisticated, but it’s all very fresh.”
“Yes,” Karen agreed. “It’s very, very fresh. I love it.”
After dinner, they sat on the Adirondacks on the deck. They fell into a rhythm of white wine and Craig and Ted’s old college stories: the time with the shopping carts in the dorm, the raid for the economics final, the jailbreak of Tim Duffy from Vanessa Johnson’s room.
Eventually, Karen staggered to her feet and said, “I’ve had too much to drink.” She extended an arm to Craig. “Sir.” She thanked the hosts, then let Craig escort her to the guest bedroom on the second story, unlocking arms only to lead him up the spiral stairs. She swung the door shut and splayed onto the bed without undressing. Legs bent at the knees, bare feet up on the spread, she patted the mattress beside her.
When he joined her, she kissed him once, noiselessly. With her face still close to his, she whispered, “You didn’t really take that public safety car, did you?”
“We parked it right on the rink. Right at center ice.”
She gasped. She kissed him again. “If I had met you in college would we still have fallen in love?”
Craig thought about it. “Maybe no,” he said. “I was so lost then.” He hiccupped.
“I think we would have,” she said. “After all, you’d still be you, and I’d still be me.” She kissed him again, and he kissed her back, and then through giggles she said, “No, no. Not tonight. Not here. Tomorrow. When we get home. Tomorrow, tomorrow.”
Craig looked at her like a dog might.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Go play with your friend.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you,” she said, laying on her back and looking up at the ceiling fan.
“I love you, too.”
—
Ted was clearing dishes when Craig came downstairs, but he stopped his work and said, “I have cigars.”
Craig said, “I have rum in the car.”
They went down to the dock and lit the cigars and poured the rum into plastic cups. “I haven’t been this drunk in years,” Craig said.
“Let’s take out the dingy.”
They paddled out to the center of the lake, and silence fell around them. A splash across the way rippled towards them, then lapped against the dingy. The light of the moon fluttered along the water’s surface. They stood on the boat’s benches and exhaled smoke into the clear sky. Ted took off his shirt and, still wearing his white linen pants, dove into the lake. He hallooed at the night and backstroked away from the boat. He shouted, “Isn’t this perfect?”
Craig nodded.
Ted said, “If I could stay like this forever.”
Craig nodded again.
Later, trying to retrieve his cigar from the boat, Ted accidentally toppled Craig into the water.
“The rum!” Ted shouted.
Full of some rum and some air, the plastic bottle bobbed away while the dingy filled with the lake.
“The boat’s sinking,” Craig said. They both laughed. “We could drown.” They laughed again.
“My cigar went out,” said Ted, treading water and sucking on the stump. “Let’s swim in.”
As they swam in and the boat sank, Craig said, “Ted.”
“What is it?”
“Earlier, I ogled Natalie for a moment. From the second story porch. She didn’t know I was looking. I’m sorry.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“She is.”
“But I love her anyway,” Ted said.
“You love her?”
“I do.”
They kicked in silence for a minute, and then Craig said, “That’s so good.”
They continued their swim and then, after what seemed like hours, after the point when Craig began to worry if they’d make it, Ted said, “I can touch.”
Craig put his feet to the muck below and said, “Me too.” The earth seemed to rise to meet him, to lift up and fill the spaces between his toes. “We came to ask you for money.”
With the tips of his fingers, Ted pulled his bangs from his brow and set them back atop his head. He nodded. “I figured.”
“Our restaurant is broke.”
“I was worried it might be.”
“If you knew, why did you still have us?”
“We haven’t seen each other in so long. Anyway, my money’s gone, too. Into this house and these toys. I can’t help you.” Ted paused to dip his face beneath the water, and when he surfaced, he said, “I keep asking Natalie to marry me, but she won’t say yes, and she won’t say why. I even took her to Paris.”
Craig thought a moment, then said, “But she’s still here. That must be good.”
“Listen,” Ted said, “I’ll find a way to get you a loan. There’s always more money.”
Craig wished that he could know, as Ted did, that there would always be more money. The gift of the rich and the sometimes rich was to know that with any certainty. “It’s okay.”
They slopped to the shore and collapsed. Lying on their backs, gazing upwards, at first all Craig could hear was the huffing of air coming into and going from their chests. As their breathing settled, there then began to emerge the trinkets of nighttime in the wilderness: the tide breaking against rocks, a bird landing on the lake’s surface, a crack of a stick somewhere far off, a hoot from an owl. A breeze, warm and silent, passed through all the trees at once.
“What are we going to say about the dingy?” Craig asked.
Ted stretched out his arms on either side of him and laughed, and Craig understood that they wouldn’t.
