Lake Life by David James Poissant

Author:David James Poissant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2020-07-07T00:00:00+00:00

22.

Water, moonlight, wind. A tumbler, sides condensing, drink so strong Michael imagines the moonshine eating through the glass, the dock, sees the poison hit the lake and, in seconds, the surface is bubbles and fish bellies.

He sits, shoes off, feet in the water. He’s seen snakes here, big ones, watched them move through the water, between reeds, black heads like periscopes.

Above, the stars are bright, the moon a crescent. Below, the lake is a bowl that holds the sky.

On the point, the flag flies half-staff. Michael wonders who died, then recognizes the tribute for what it is. A kindness to the locals, the bay, the boy. There is not enough kindness in this world. Michael should know. He’s more than contributed his share to this insufficiency. The world won’t miss him when he’s gone. Diane might. A child would. But giving yourself someone new to miss you—that’s not a reason to bring life into the world.

Frogs bleat and insects pulse. A clump of cattails clack atonal in the breeze. An owl calls, and Michael calls back, but he’s not his mother. His mother can make herself into any bird.

He wonders what it’s like, having a kid. He’s not afraid he’ll shake the baby, or whatever parents do that lands them in grisly reenactments on daytime TV. Neither is he worried, seeing the child for the first time, that he’ll feel nothing. He’ll love the child. He knows he will. That’s what scares him. He’ll love the child, and all that love will push his resentment down the road, what, ten, twenty years? Still, one day he’ll wonder who he might have been, given a few more years, given the time to figure out his dreams. When that day comes, he’ll look back on his life and blame the child. He will. And he doesn’t want to be that father.

Of course, this argument would be easier to make with himself if he had dreams. What does he want?

More moonshine, for starters. He knocks back his glass. Another owl calls, and he responds.

The dock creaks, and Michael knows who’s behind him before the first word leaves her mouth. His mother sits and, sitting, sits too close. She’s wearing shorts, her thighs a topography of age spots and spider veins.

“You make a lousy great horned owl,” she says.

“Was I answering you?”

“No. That was a tiger, all right. I was about to vocalize, but you beat me to it.”

Michael rattles the ice in his glass. He has yet to find the warm, pillowy center of tonight’s drunk. He’s too on guard, too tense, back stiff and forehead still ablaze.

“That was quite the show you put on at dinner,” his mother says.

He grips the glass. The glass will keep him safe. Even empty, it’s a wall between himself and whatever his mother will say next.

“How come we don’t talk anymore?”

He can’t do this, not tonight. He hasn’t had enough to drink.

“We talk,” he says. “We’re talking right now.”

“I mean talk-talk. There was a time you wanted to talk to me.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.