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Water

Mary Elizabeth Merrem Shaw

Netta and I had talked about it since we were ten or eleven, but we’d never dared try it. Not even stuck our feet in to cool off in July's unrelenting sun. But we did that day. We tried it once, but we never will again.

It took us a while to reach that part of the ranch. The heat reflecting off the road ahead of us made it look like our horses would soon be wading through shallow water. My daddy always called that pond that wasn’t there a mirage. Sometimes it looked like a good swimming hole ahead, but looking like it wasn’t the same as being it, and I knew it wasn’t there. God must like to fool people.

 I was fourteen and Netta was a little over fifteen that hell-hot summer, bored country girls with nothing to do, riding over to see what was left of the river. We knew there was nothing more than sand bars and rocks and algae-covered puddles, but we could at least talk about how much worse things looked than last time.

After we opened and closed the last gate of her daddy’s big spread, a feeling of freedom always came over us. As usual, now that we were well out of range of the house, we could fantasize out loud about the town boys to pass the time. It was fun to verbally dissect the awkward, often unkempt male half of our class at school, their varied personalities, their lanky bodies, and sometimes even their developing masculinity or lack thereof. We compared them to certain carefully chosen high school seniors, flawed, but godlike creatures nevertheless, highly superior to our own classmates in every way.

In our talk, we redesigned the boys close to our own age. Two of them were possibly destined to be our future mates; as a result we created them free of prominent ears and Adam’s apples, and gave them trim, virile moustaches in place of downy facial hair. We endowed them with muscled torsos, a repertoire of tender phrases, and incredible future wealth. In those days, anything, even the miraculous transformation of clumsy pimply boys into rich handsome men, seemed entirely possible if one day soon, rain, cool soaking rain that we could barely remember, returned in steady soaking torrents. Where we lived, weather could change everything. Rain, our fathers said, would make everything good and right.

On those rides Netta and I saw our futures as open books filled with endless rosy blank pages, never realizing that the writing on them would be controlled by the limits of place and time and luck. I avidly listened to Netta repeat her outlandish dreams, and she heard me through. Even to me, it sometimes sounded like our common sense was drying up with the river.

Now I can see how different we were even in those days, but how alike in hating the monotony of a dried up summertime like this one. Swimming parties had ended two years ago for lack of swimming holes. Even our church picnics had ceased because of lack of cool shade from dying trees.

Finally talked out, we rode in dreary silence, hearing only the sounds of the horses breathing and heavy hooves and the squeaks of our saddles. I used my bandanna to wipe away the dust and sweat from my face.

Netta took off her straw hat and fanned herself. “Why we going to the river anyway? Nothing to do there. We know it’s nothing but rocks.” The hat moved faster. “At least there’s a fan at home.”

I didn’t answer because she was right. We passed the scummy river puddles and kept on riding. After a while I said, “There’s the cistern ahead. Let’s turn around there and go home.”

“About time,” Netta said crossly. Then, unexpectedly, she urged her tired horse forward at a trot. When she reached the big stone tower, she quickly dismounted.

I yelled, “What’re you doing?”

What everyone called “the tank” was not the usual kind found on a ranch, but a tall stone cistern with a forlorn windmill nearby. The cistern supplied bathroom water to the ramshackle hunting cabin down the hill. The old tank was off limits to us and everyone else.

I dismounted also, fussing at her all the while. “Get away from there, Netta. Get off that ladder. Don’t you dare climb that!” I knew she wasn’t listening, and if she was, she didn’t care what I said.

Finally I leaned against the cool stone of the tank, silently gnawing my thumbnail, and watched her climb the ladder to the top of the cistern. She looked inside and wrinkled her nose. "Water's okay. No dead things showing at least. Just leaves, slimy stuff."

Hearing the word "water", my big bay horse raised his head and snorted. Netta's little paint approached the tank expectantly. Getting no response from us, both horses again nosed the parched ground, plainly resentful.

Descending the ladder she tossed me that dimpled half smile she used on the boys at school, then unbuttoned her blouse. "It'd feel so blessed good to cool off. Come on, Kate. Nobody'll know."

She’s daring me, testing me again, I thought. Like always, making me feel I’m way too serious and goody-goody.

By “nobody” she meant both of our fathers. If they only knew the half of it. If my daddy even guessed some of the things she’d talked about us doing and I’d turned her down on, he’d have taken the belt to me just for listening the first time. Lucky for me he couldn’t even imagine what a pretty, proper-raised girl like Netta had in her head.    

Ever since her mama died last year, her dad could get really mad at most anybody but Netta. I learned quick the reason he didn’t get mad at her was because she was the spitting image of Miz Liza, his dead wife, and everybody knew how much he loved Miz Liza. None of us ever saw a grown man cry like that at a funeral before.

My daddy got mad at me sometimes, but he thought I had good sense mostly, so he didn't have to tell me much. With seven of us kids, Mama didn't have time to know whether I had good sense or not.

At the base of the ladder, Netta nervously smoothed her dark hair behind her ears, then dropped her clothes in a heap on the rocks. Again she climbed the ladder to the top of the tank, looking small and delicate, slim legs and rounded little bottom shimmering white against the weathered rock.

The word "cool" tipped the balance of doubt in my mind and persuaded me. I’d strip down and get into the forbidden old cistern just long enough to wash off the sweat and sticky dust. Lingering to swim wasn't tempting. In fact it wasn’t even an option. In all my years of growing I hadn't bothered to learn how to swim really right. I didn't even like to go in the spring-fed lake on our ranch even when it had decent water, which right now it didn't. When it was full, slimy little fish brushed your legs and I knew it had snapping turtles because one bit the dog on the nose and wouldn’t let go.

After unbuttoning my shirt and pants, I dropped my clothes and followed her. Climbing the ladder without them felt awkward and unpleasant at first, then wild and brave and free. My plump legs had to push hard, but I got to the top almost as fast as she had. I glanced briefly at the hunting cabin below the hill, but I knew it was empty this time of year. No one could see us.

Netta jumped in with a loud splash. I slipped in quietly, avoiding the stringy algae, and dog-paddled gingerly around the edge. She was right. It was cool, and beneath the blown-in leaves, what remained of long ago rain and old underground water was fairly clear. It was also much deeper than I thought.

Netta swam across the tank, dove to the bottom, and retrieved a tiny skull. "Baby raccoon, I guess," she sputtered, dark hair fanning out in the water around her head. "Couldn't get out, I expect." She hurled it at me with a grin. I dodged and it hit stone with a hollow crack.

Hearing "couldn't get out" made my head jerk up. The lowered water level placed the top of the tank well above our heads. Silently thankful this was not a smooth metal tank; I ran my hands over the cistern’s slime and found one jutting rock that could be used as a handhold of sorts. My flailing foot hit another stone below it that could be a small foothold, but nothing more. I yelled at her then, "Netta, how're we getting out of here?"

Netta's glance circled the tank, darted to the rim, and her smile vanished. She swam over to me and grabbed the one rock handhold, then as I struggled, she let me use it.

"Daddy just said never go in, he never said how to get out. I guess he must've thought I knew nothin' could, ’cause he talked about the drowned varmints messin’ up the shower water for the cabin. If coons can't get out, nothin’ can." She was treading water and sinking lower.

"Here, hold on." Each of us could put two fingers on the small projecting rock and, with effort, stay afloat for a short while.

"Nobody can hear us yell," Netta sputtered.

I wondered if my face mirrored the panic in hers. "I'm bigger. Here, get on my shoulders."

I found the toehold, the handhold, then cut through the slime with desperate fingernails and steadied myself

“We’re both gonna die you don’t make it, Netta.”

Both of were shaking so badly I have no idea how she got one leg up over my shoulder, then the other. Somehow, she worked her way up, pulling on my hair, pushing down on my head, to finally stand on my shoulders balancing for a split second like the cheerleader she was at a football game. Her legs quivered violently as she grabbed the rough stone rim. It was easy then for her to pull her slight body up and sit down. "Now you." She was breathing hard, but beaming with relief. That smile said Netta was out. Netta was safe.

I knew I was too heavy for her to pull up so far. "No. Go for help. Hurry," I added, choking.

Over my splashing I heard an amused male voice drawl, "Jus' lookin' for a little water to drink and what do I find in it? Two nekkid girls!" A dusty emaciated old man stood on the ladder peering at us. He grinned through a forest of gray whiskers and missing teeth.

Shock swept away Netta's smile, leaving her mouth wide open. She automatically crossed her arms over her small breasts, hunching over.

“Don't worry. Won't hurt ya, girlie. Maybe I can get your friend out. Move over so I can reach her."

He knelt cautiously on the narrow rim and leaned over me. Eagerly I grasped his hands, then worked my feet up the rocks. His hands shook with the effort.

"Thank you, thank you," I gasped, finally sitting on the edge, hands also across my chest also, legs hunched, very aware of my nakedness. The old man smelled bad and looked sick, but I could have hugged him.

Clearly exhausted after rescuing me, he sat down between us. I was next to the ladder, so I quickly descended and found my clothes.

After a long moment, Netta echoed my "thank you," but she sneezed first and the words sounded hollow. We all watched as a curious hawk glided toward us, then away into the cloudless sky.

When the nervous silence became embarrassing, Netta’s dimpled smile reappeared. She turned to the old man. "I need to put my clothes on, don't you think so?"

"No hurry, girlie," he said with a grin.

As I buttoned my blouse, I watched her stand up and try to squeeze by him on the eighteen inch rim to reach the ladder. He offered his hand to steady her, but she ignored it, slipped, and grabbed his skinny shoulder instead.

The old man fell in with a loud splash. "Can't swim," he yelled.

Terrified for him, I shrieked at Netta, by now descending the ladder. "He's too heavy. We can't get him out. Quick, Netta, get help. I'll try to keep him up."

Netta put on her clothes without answering, buttoning carefully. She smoothed her wet hair, then mounted her little paint horse and kicked it hard. "Back in a minute," she yelled over her shoulder.

By the windmill, I found a long sturdy stick for the man to hold on to and quickly climbed the ladder. By then he was thrashing, yelling, "She pushed me! Damn little bitch!" and cuss words I'd never heard before.

"Here. Grab the stick. Hold on.” I pointed at the slimy rock. “Find the foothold. It’s to your right and there's a handhold above it. This is all I could find. She'll be back quick."

He did as he was told.

I watched the red ball of sun slowly roll west, chewing my lip and wondering how long I could hold the stick with him pulling on it without falling in myself. Time crawled by. Where in heaven's name was she? Her daddy was in their house when we left. Her place was not that far.

"Netta," I yelled, over and over, frantic for her to hear me. God, I prayed silently, let me see help ride over that hill.

Then the old man trembled violently, almost letting go.

"Hang on. She's comin' soon now," I repeated for the hundredth time, trying to comfort him.

"No," he said, choking. “Not comin’.”

The stick stopped trembling before he disappeared beneath a patch of floating leaves. He vanished without a sound and hardly a ripple.

I yelled at him, poked with the stick, pushed away the leaves, but it was as if he had never been there.

Later I sat under the tree, no more crying left in me, hating the tight feel of dried tears on my face much more than I'd hated the sticky dried sweat.

Finally at twilight she came, riding fast with her father and two ranch hands. When she saw me she knew, and I didn't like the look on her face. I could have sworn it was relief.

Her daddy knew, too, but he knew something different. "Dead?"

I nodded miserably.

"Don't let it get ya', Kate. Netta said he was just a sickly old hobo. Y'all heard him yellin’ and tried your best to get him out. Something like this is awful bad, but it couldn't be helped. That tank’s a death trap for man or beast, but a stranger wouldn't know." He walked over to the men. "Let's get him out."

I grabbed Netta's shoulder, dragged her to the far side of the windmill, and shook her hard. "Where've you been?" I hissed.

"Couldn't find Daddy," she said petulantly, not looking at me.

 My fury plainly scared her, but before I could say anything more, she whispered in my ear, "Kate, that old man seen us swimmin' in there where we wasn’t supposed to be for no reason.”

“I know we wasn’t, but we went in and we made it out, thanks to that old man”

She interrupted, “We was never in this world supposed to be in there. Our daddys would kill us, even mine who doesn’t do nothing to me, and yours would skin you alive. You’d have been black and blue. I wouldn’t get off the ranch for months and I know I’d miss the Homecomin’ game. Worse, that old man, he saw us nekkid and everybody in town would know it. Anyhow he was sick as a dog. Nearly dead anyway. You saw that."

I bit off each word sharp. "Maybe he was sick, but he wasn't dead. And he got me out. I shoulda’ been dead, Netta.”

She turned away from me and said nothing.

The hired hands reluctantly climbed the ladder and Netta's daddy walked over to us. Mopping his face with a clean handkerchief, he herded us away from the windmill toward the horses. He talked a lot, plainly trying to distract us.

 Facing his daughter, he looked at her with kind eyes, rubbed his chin, and commented, "Right now your hair sure looks like your mama's did. Shines just like them jet beads a’ hers." Impulsively he patted her tight dark curls, then quickly pulled his hand away, a question in his eyes. "Your hair's right dampish. You sweat that much? You mama didn’t sweat like that."

He pulled at his graying moustache, studying her and frowning slightly. Looking away, he absently folded the handkerchief and said, "Guess you get that from me."

"Guess so. It's awful hot, Daddy, and I had to ride fast to find you." Netta's dimpled half smile reappeared. "I remember Mama's hair too. See, I had Jenny cut mine just like hers was."

Her father's frown relaxed into a smile. "Go on home, you girls. Maria has supper waitin'." He left us then and strode purposefully back to the tank.

"Found him," one of the hands shouted from inside the tank. "Skinny old fella, but we'll need the rope to haul him out."

As the two of us rode away, I heard the men cursing the wet body and the slime, but Netta talked loud to me, trying to cover up their words with hers. “Couldn’t find Daddy, Kate. Wasn’t nobody around. It’s the truth, God’s own truth.”

She repeated the same words three more times just like she did when she sang the chorus in her church solos, willing me not to hear the men or turn to see the old man's body.

But I did.

Copyright(c) 2007 by Mary Elizabeth Merrem Shaw

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