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Waterways

by Diana Dima

 

 

When his father died and left him the boat, he thought to himself, I can do it. I’m a boat-son, a boat-man, I’m no longer a child and no longer have to go home at sunset, when mother and sisters gather around the table and talk about the will and the debts. In the will his father had written to my son, who may yet feel at home on the water. So David spent days in the yard, scrubbing and polishing and waxing, and often fell asleep under the boat tarp in the cool May night.

When he left, he did look back at the hunched house and the village, faint as a smear of dirt on the green and the blue. He did feel a pang of guilt deep under the ribs. But mostly he was driven like a powerboat, like a steering wheel under his father’s hand. So he steered toward the northern shores where they used to go fishing for pike and drop anchor for the night in quiet coves.

It was a grey day, that first one, and no other boats on the lake, as though he’d sailed into another world. The motion of the water made him sick. His father used to say, what kind of man gets seasick on a lake? But in death he had trusted his son; had trusted himself to have taught his son well, and his death to fill in whatever gaps were left.

The lake mirrored the clouds and the clouds rippled with a stubborn wind. I can do it, David thought, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, fingers too thin, woman’s hands, his father used to say. The boat fought against him and against the wind, small waves breaking like glass against the hull. Eliza, his mother’s name, painted in rust-red letters on the stern.

That way I’m always with her, father had said at first.

Then later he would say: she’s always with me, the woman. Always with us, isn’t she, son, and he’d take a swig of beer and clap him on the shoulder.

But David didn’t understand, because his mother never came with them on the boat; and when her children swam in the lake, she never went in the water, only stood on the shore and watched them play.

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At dusk, the outline of blue hills filled the horizon. On the fish finder screen the lacework of the coast drew closer, and David steered over the quiet waters. He felt alone in the whole wide world. And when he dropped anchor, there was nobody to check the length of the chain or that he’d set the alarm or that the anchor light was on. He boiled water and ate some oats and then lay down in the berth. Through the open transom door he saw the dark water, the sliver of moon dancing over it, and the lake smell, old and musty, wafted in.

Maybe he slept, and a shadow over the boat woke him. Or maybe he walked to the stern and leaned out and put his hand in the cold water, and fell into sleep and a dream. Faces under the water, eyes open wide. Hair spread under the surface like a net, wrapping around his fingers, sticky, dark. At the touch he jerked awake and when he bent down to look closer only his own face stared up, translucent in the moonlight, eyes wide and afraid. The lake lay still, not a ripple to break the reflection; and for a long moment he didn’t know whether he was above or below.

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By morning the nausea had settled into a bitterness in his stomach. The fog rolled in and swallowed the coastline, white ribbons floating in the grey. When he started the engine, the GPS didn’t turn on. No matter, he thought, I can do this. His father had taught him how to navigate, had said, technology will fail you, but your own wits won’t. He’d drank his own away in the end; but David still believed him, and though he knew he ought to turn home, he wouldn’t. Not yet, not empty-handed. He remembered where the fish were, and he steered as the fog lifted, east across the water that shifted grey-green under murky skies.

He couldn’t be sure he’d arrived, but it looked right, in the distance gentle mountains around a wide bay, and here the waters deep and full of fish, of perch and walleye and bass. He began to cast his net, swinging hard, watching the net spread like a jellyfish, the ring of splashing water where it sank in. His arms hurt. He hauled bucketfuls of minnow, dumped them in the freezer without looking at the glossy, round eyes, the open mouths. Under the surface he thought he saw something drift, long and slender, catching the sun. He cast again and the net came up full of kelp.

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When he made his way into the bay, he found a trawler there and three men on the shore grilling meat over a fire.

They called him over and helped him stern tie the boat to a birch tree. You never know with the winds these days, they told him. They were bearded, rugged men, friendly and frightening in the same way his father could be. He brought out beers from the cooler and passed them around. The meat was raw inside and charred outside, but he ate it. He asked the men what they were trawling for, and they said, you’ll see, and gave each other knowing glances. You can come look with us, they said, once the moon is up. Only see them in the moonlight, the youngest of the men added, shivering a little in the breeze.

They all went swimming in the night. Warm with beer and fire and loud laughter, so that they didn’t mind the cold water biting at the skin. The half-moon bright, hanging low just for them. Put your head underwater, kid, said the men and pushed him down. There were lights underneath, in the distance, and a slow song drifting through. The men dove deep, then came up for air and told each other: I saw them. Did you see? David tried to follow, held his breath. The seaweed brushed his legs, and from behind a rock he thought he saw a face peer at him, serious and familiar. His stomach clenched and he swam to the shore, threw up all the beer and meat on the sand.

It’s okay, said the skipper, slumping down beside him. It’s quite a sight for a boy. Then the other men came to shore and they all sat together by the fire.

Did you see her this time, one said. Man, how I’d like to get up close to that.

Gotta wake up earlier for that, the skipper said.

The one I saw, she was crying, the youngest of the men said. Doesn’t seem right. Not sea creatures, are they?

My father said anything down below under the surface’s not like us. Anything that can live down below’s as alien as can be, and not to spare them a thought, not as much as to a cow or a dog or anything else that breathes our air.

My father drowned looking for one, the skipper said softly.

My father never believed, the youngest said. First time I saw one, I told him, and still got the scars to show for it.

Ah, you scar easy, kid, the skipper said, and the other men laughed. It felt to David like they laughed a long while. Then he was underwater again, a slow song rising up all around.

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The trawler was gone when he woke up. He lay half in water, the sand and rocks digging into his back, and the boat swayed gently in the bay. He swam to it and climbed aboard, hair dripping, hunger in his belly. A wild kind of hunger. He opened the freezer and buried his hands in the minnow and took them out by the fistful and ate them like that, raw and frozen, crushing ice and bones together with his teeth.

The first time he’d gone fishing with his father, he’d thrown his catch, a little, fat trout, back into the lake. What kind of fisherman are you, his father had said and slapped him round the face. And since then David had stopped looking at the fish, at their round eyes and open mouths.

Now, as he steered out of the bay and further east, he felt them in his belly, eyes and mouths and all.

The boat changed as it went. Kelp clambered up the hull and instead of a steering wheel there was a rudder, rusty and cold in David’s hands. The wood came apart in places and the boat creaked and water began pooling at the bottom. But the wind pushed as though it knew where to go. Home, David thought. Home had been fishing and nausea and father’s booming voice and fish to scale and head and gut. The boat was the closest thing to home now, and there was nothing left of it but a few planks of wood and water at the bottom.

Night fell and he kept going. The only sound was water lapping at the boat. Lake and sky had vanished in the black. And then the moon came up, its silver wake trembling into the distance.

The boat began to sway. The water crested, foam and seaweed seeping in. There were hands on the edge of the boat, faces half-lifted in the moonlight. They called to him, and David was afraid. He looked for his net, but it was gone. He steered sharply away and the hands broke off, then gripped the edge again. A song rose from the water, a lullaby he knew.

He remembered that home had been fish soup on Sundays and clothes freshly ironed for school and his sisters pulling his hair and his mother singing softly in the night.

There were faces looking at him out of the water. Translucent, eyes wide, hair dark and spreading out, floating to the surface. It wrapped itself around his legs, his arms. It closed like a net and like a blanket in winter. He let himself be pulled, and the water opened gently for him to slide in and closed overhead. Arms held him tight, and he looked into those familiar faces and smiled. They did not pull his hair this time. They sang together softly, and he remembered

— fish scales scattered on the kitchen floor like petals in spring; his mother kneeling among them like a tree that’s just shed all its flower —

No, no. It had only been a dream, hadn’t it?

---

Where are you taking me? David asked his sisters, but no sound came out. Bright fish swam through their hair. He let himself be carried, let himself be swayed in the current, in his sisters’ arms. Though they didn’t answer, he knew: they were going home. Gliding smoothly, faster than any boat, than any trawler chasing them. Carrying nothing except each other. Home.

He recognized the shores, the slope of green viewed through the haze of water. He recognized the house, the backyard tucked behind with its uneven fence. Through the water the walls appeared to tremble and the muddy colours bled into each other. Though he couldn’t see clearly, he drifted with his sisters through the dark open door.

Inside was home and it wasn’t.

Sand had spilled into the hallway and the wooden chairs were crusted with fish bones and shells. Through windows covered in seaweed rippled a green light, dappled with moving shadows. Yet on the walls hung mother’s embroidery and the same old paintings of ships caught in storms, and a faint smell of soup lingered in the kitchen.

Where’s mother? David asked his sisters, but no sound came out. They squeezed his arms and rose toward the surface with him, and for a second all David saw of his sisters was glittering fins and fish tails translucent and eyes round and black and unreadable — and then they crumpled on the threshold of their house, their dry sunlit above-ground house, and their mother was rushing to meet them.

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They gathered around the table at sunset, around a pot of wildflower tea. David sat between Anya and Mara, who squeezed his hands while he talked about his journey, about the boat and nights on the lake. His mother listened and asked questions. He asked questions too. Some of them were answered and some were not; some were left for the next day and the day after that. In the mornings he went swimming with his sisters. They spent time in the other house under the lake and came back at night with mussels and fish.

Their mother never went into the water.

And though David knew why, had maybe always known, he still had to hear the story. And though he had thought himself ready to hear it, he got up and left while his mother was telling it. He walked to the lake shore with one of his father’s nets and began untangling and casting over and over again while memories swirled in his mind like sediment

— fish scales scattered on the kitchen floor like petals, and his mother kneeling among them, a scaling knife in her hand. It was night time, but it was not a dream, and David peered through the cracked kitchen door. His mother ran the knife along her own skin, which rippled strangely, iridescent in the moonlight. Small, bright flakes lifted off and floated and settled around her. And David’s father was there, standing at a distance. I promise, David’s mother said, softly and pleading, and David had never heard her voice like that before. I’ll stay up here from now on, I’ll never go in the water. I’ll do it for you, for the children, look, and she brought the knife to her shimmering thigh, and blood welled under the serrated blade.

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At sunset, David went back to the house. Let me make it right, he said to his mother. Let me find a way to take you with us, back into the water.

You didn’t listen carefully, his mother said. That’s not the way to make it right.

What should I do? David asked.

His mother smiled and said, you can do anything. Above and below, at home or abroad, together with us, your family, or all by yourself.

She asked, what are you going to do?

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That night, he sat down on the lake shore and listened to the water. From deep below, the wisps of a sad song floated up, and the moon shone on the mirror of the lake. The wild-scented summer night lay wide open. He felt the hunched house at his back like a watching shadow. It would always be there, he knew, and he was both sad and grateful for it.

There was no boat bobbing on the water now. He remembered Anya and Mara curled up in the berth during a fishing trip, two dark-haired, defiant stowaways. He remembered their father’s anger; remembered being angry himself, as though his sisters had tried to take something away, something that was only his. It made him smile now. He imagined a new boat, something small and light that they’d sail together. They’d give it a silly, cheerful name and paint it in bright letters on the hull.

Or perhaps they’d never get another boat, and instead the three of them would spend their days drifting deep under the lake.

He let his hand trail in the cool water, enjoying the stillness of the moment, the feeling of standing on the threshold of something unknown.

In the moonlight, the skin of his hand shimmered like fish scales.

 

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Host Commentary

..aaaaand welcome back. That was WATERWAYS by DIANA DIMA, and if you enjoyed that then there is one other story in our archives, City Grown From Seed, as part of episode 854’s double bill. You can also pop on over to dianadima.com, click Short Fiction up the top, and find links to stories in The Deadlands, khōréō, GigaNotoSaurus and more.

I said up top that I happened to be the person that stumbled across this one in slush, so let’s go dig up what I said in my internal notes back when I bumped it!

Oh I like this. It’s got a strange quality to the prose, like a dream, like something told to you on a too-hot-day where you’re not quite in focus and your mind is slightly disconnected, drifting free, piecing it together after the fact and accepting things without question, too free to examine it closer. The story carries a lot of themes, chiefly about living up to parental expectations and especially of the relationship between a father and a son, especially when they’re different people and the latter could never be what the former tried to impose; but also touches on gender roles, and the unreasonable sacrifices women make for husbands. Very much our jam.

Very much our jam, indeed. Certainly mine: a lot of the themes in it are themes I’ve wrestled with for years, too deep to even make it into my own writing. I’m pretty confident at this point that my parents don’t bother listening to the podcast, though if I’m wrong on that and they simply never mention or discuss it then this is about to get awkward for me, but I have long been conscious of the fact that I am, contrary to the lip service they pay, somewhat of a disappointment to my parents. The fact that the initialism “PTE”—that is, “potential to earn”—has been used straight-faced in conversation… well. If a little bit of sick just came up your throat on hearing that phrase, then that is the correct reaction, IMHO.

Sometimes I fear I exist in my parents’ head not as an actual person but as a concept, as something whose only purpose is to shine as brightly as possible so that they might bask in the reflected glory: that my greatest achievement is to be their greatest achievement, living proof of their work and struggle and greatness, in birthing and raising me.

I think I’ve mentioned the work of Alison Gopnik before, and her two archetypes of modern parenting: the carpenter, who seeks to build a child into an adult from a blueprint of the right clubs, the right hobbies, the right friends and schools and opportunities; and the gardener, who instead of controlling the child controls the environment, creates a varied ecosystem full of nutrients and life in which to gently shelter a developing child and give them a space to grow how they need to.

I expect it’s obvious what my opinion on each approach is, particularly having the kids I have who will never fit the world’s standard range of molds. I must acknowledge I have one enormous advantage over my own parents: where my dad was doing shift work, and I could frequently go a week barely seeing him even though he was at home, just asleep through the day before the night shift—I, instead, work from home these days, in a job that is flexible with my time (even as it often demands too much of it). Given that both kids are currently home educated, that means I see them all day, every day.

And inevitably, no matter how much I try to be a gardener, it is the nature of children to mimic their parents. It would be impossible of me not to influence them, foolish to pretend otherwise. There are things I worry are not truly them, but done to win my approval even as I haven’t asked for it—does my 13yo truly love Lord of the Rings and enjoy the annual all-day trilogy marathon at our local cinema, or are they saying they do and suffering it so they can have something in common with me? I don’t honestly know, though I frequently tell them it’s okay not to, it’s okay to be honest with me!, and I make the effort to participate in the things they enjoy instead and let them lead. I try not to mandate or impose anything on them at all, but the activities I do inevitably create an influence, and so it’s important to be mindful of that.

It’s one reason I’m especially livid at the overwork my job has demanded of me this past year: because we’re all at home all the time, they directly see me giving too much of myself for the sake of a corporate overlord. I hate that they might learn that’s acceptable, or a necessary evil, no matter how much I complain, because it isn’t—the world wants to take as much from us as it can, and it is on us to maintain the personal boundaries that prevent it, as difficult as the system makes that, as strong as the coercion is, social and financial.

That overwork also means, to tie this back into today’s story, that the domestic burden then falls unfairly on my wife, and that circumstance is forcing me to repeat old and broken cycles of gender dynamics that my kids will absorb and repeat in turn.

The world is a big place, set in its ways. Too many people are already too committed to their bullshit to ever sway their minds: there’s been a lot of research in the past decade about belief in conspiracy theories and how you can debunk them in believers’ minds, influence people back to reality, and the findings do not make for hopeful reading.

The best way to change the world and free it of its bullshit is to protect the next generation from ever learning it. We’ve done that with queer acceptance in the UK, to a very large extent—the difference between my generation and my daughter’s, only 16 years behind, is incredible, though we shouldn’t take that progress for granted, and never stop defending it. But it shows it is possible—and though we may never be able to escape the bullshit ourselves, we can be an umbrella to our kids.

Which is why we ought to be so careful in trying to shape our kids, or why we should simply not try at all and instead allow them to be what they need to be: because you don’t always know what nonsense is lurking in your subconscious and getting passed along without knowing it. To close on the opening of Philip Larkin’s This Be The Verse:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.