The Cresting Water
by Jennifer Fliss
“Ma'am, you're gonna need to leave the premises,” the man at the door – a boy really – is saying while the storm begins its assaults. The wind whips around the small Cape Cod cottage. Rain pelts the boy; the storm is growing.
“No, it's okay, son, I'll be fine,” Mildred says as she returns to the kitchen sink and wipes her mug dry. She makes sure she gets every last drop of water before placing it in the rusty drying rack. The mug reads Elderica House, A Place For You in generic white cursive. Also in the drying rack is a single wineglass, speckled, but clean. She motions for the young man to step inside. The house smells of burnt coffee with the vaguely herbal notes of a vapor-rub.
“What's your name, son?”
“Steve,” he answers as he closes the door behind him, loose leaves and rogue raindrops follow and settle on the laminate. His hair is scraggly and his bright orange safety vest exaggerates the redness of his acne. Beneath the ruddiness, the boy's chin is barely present and his eyes are runny and small, but his cheekbones are high and friendly. He looks like Walter.
“You look hungry. Are you hungry Steve? Why don't you have a seat,” she points to a chair at the kitchen table and pulls a triangular chocolate bar from a drawer.
“Ma'am, I can't. We have to evacuate the area. The storm is real close. A surge is expected. This whole area could be under water in . . . uh . . . I don't know. . . real soon.”
“I know the dangers of the area son. We've had storms. We've had flooding,” Mildred scolds. “You've still got some time yet.”
“I'm not sure about that. I don't. . . I um. . .” Steve stammers.
“Have a seat,” she points again with a wooden spoon. “I won't keep you long.”
“Ma'am I’ve got orders to—”
“Sit!” He sits. She brings him a mug of coffee – this one reading “World's Best Aunt” – that she has just brewed. She pours some for herself in the newly cleaned old age home mug. The shutters awaken, thrashing the clapboard house. Steve stands, alarmed.
“Oh, that happens if it even thinks about raining,” she says. “Walter was supposed to hammer them back in. Toblerone?”
“Walter?” Steve asks. “Your son?”
“No. Not my son,” she says choosing to leave the question in the air. “So Steve, you're married.” It was not a question and she nods to his hand, where a thin gold wedding band clutches his finger. She breaks off a triangle of chocolate and hands it to him. She no longer wears hers.
“A year and a half,” he says.
“A year and a half,” she repeats.
“Actually, one year, eight months, four days,” he corrects.
“Well, that is a marriage still in its infancy. I just love this chocolate. It used to be harder to find. When Walter and I would go up to Canada we'd stock up,” she says and motions to the yellow bag on the counter. She joins Steve at the table. The lights flicker and threaten to go out.
“I've got a generator,” she says. “So, now tell me about your bride.”
“We really have to go,” Steve says as he starts to edge his chair back.
“Is there any flooding yet?” Mildred asks pointing outside.
“No, but—”
“Right, there’s still time then,” Mildred interrupts.
“Well, I guess just a minute or two.”
“Go on then,” Mildred says as she takes a seat and bites into the chocolate. “Your wife.”
“I uh. . . I'm married to her. I love her. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mildred repeats. “And?”
“And uh. . . there's Carina. That’s our little girl.”
“Pretty name,” Mildred says.
“It means caring.” Steve says, turning the band on his finger. It comes off easily and he rolls it around his fingers.
“You love your baby so much, don't you? How about your wife?” Mildred asks.
“Well, uh. She's really nice.”
“Nice. Nice! Really young man. Lilies are nice. What's wrong then?”
“Nothing.”
“Pardon my language, but, like hell,” Mildred chirps.
“It's just hard on her. Y'know. The baby keeps her awake and I . . . I have this job that keeps me gone all the time. It's new, y'know?” he says.
“New?”
“My job. It's only my third week. Kind of crazy right? That this big storm comes around.” Outside, the rain is hammering the siding and the roof, quickly ping pinging, like bullets. The lights falter again.
Steve thrusts his seat back. “Come on. This just isn't safe. You know it's not. Let's go,” he says and starts to gets up. “Ma'am—”
“Mildred,” she corrects and places her hand on his knee, keeping him at the table. She nudges his cup of coffee, encouraging him to drink, plying him with chocolate.
“Mildred, I'm sorry but I am supposed to get you and everyone else out of their houses. It's . . . like, you know, my first big . . . event. And everyone else already left.”
“The Shiffs next door?” Mildred asks.
“Green house?”
“Mhm.”
“Yeah, they left.”
“Wisners?” she asks.
“Which house?”
“Brick one across the way. Newlyweds, you know. Everyone's got their problems son,” Mildred says.
“Yes, they're gone too. Mildred, you're the only one left on the block. Maybe in the whole neighborhood. It's just you. By yourself. You're not safe.”
“Steve. I have no intention of leaving. You go right on ahead without me. Tell your boss I wasn't here. Here, take this.” She hands him a full chocolate bar from her drawer stash. “It'll be a long night. You'll get hungry. And finish your coffee. I hope you don't mind me saying, but it looks like you could use it.” Steve sips and winces.
“I know. Most people don't like it. What I really liked was Chock Full o' Nuts. Remember?”
“I—”
“No, No. Of course you don't. You're just a young thing. You could be my grandson.”
“Where are they? Your grandkids?”
“Oh, it was just me and Walter. Steve, I'm not going to go with you. I told you that. So you should go on now,” Mildred says and goes to the sink. The shutters grow more aggressive. “Go on to your wife and daughter.”
“Ma'am. Mildred. I won't leave without you.”
“How much time do you think we have?” she asks.
“Not sure. Hour? Half hour? Maybe less. I don’t really know.” Steve guesses.
Mildred thinks for a moment. “Oh! We’re still good for a while. Like the storm back in '85. Everyone was a fright but it turned out just fine. Evacuated the whole town for nothing. But I'll be quick so you can go on with your work.”
“I told you I won't—”
“Then maybe I'll go with you. All right?”
Sheets of water drive against the glass. The twitching shadows of trees maraud against the linoleum floor in the dim light. The wind howls at the door, huffing and puffing to be let in. Inside, it's warm and calm.
Steve seems to think about it. “Okay,” he mutters.
“Do you swim Steve?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I never liked to swim. Never learned. Was too scared as a child when my Pa wanted to give me lessons. Nicholas and Warren – those were my brothers – they took to water like fish. Scaly slimy things, they were. Not me, I just sat with my mother helping her knit or reading books all those summers on the beach. Didn't bother me none. So there I am, eighty years old and Walter – fully aware of my, well . . . my . . . phobia – surprises me for my birthday with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a rowboat!”
The whipping shutters intensify. They strike in cadence with the steadily falling rain. A wail from an ambulance or fire truck in the distance cries out.
“It's getting worse. Listen to that,” Steve says.
“Oh, just another minute,” she reaches for his mug and takes it to the sink. Then Steve is behind her and carefully takes her elbow.
“Come on Mildred. Let's go,” he says. But she shakes him off. Reaches for another chocolate. Unwraps it. Hands him half; a dainty chocolate triangle.
“So, there it was. The man I'd been with for nearly sixty years making a present of my worst fear. 'No way,' I told him. 'Worst present ever,' I said – and let me tell you this Steve, he was very good at giving utterly ridiculous gifts. He once got me some hard-to-find replacement bobbin for a sewing machine. I have never owned a sewing machine in my life! Valentine's Day after Valentine's Day of romance novels. Hate 'em. Give me a mystery or thriller any day. And those covers! Eventually it became a joke between us. Here, let me show you something.” Mildred leads Steve into the hallway near the stairs. At least thirty small wooden frames line the walls in neat rows. There are so many they sweep down the hall and up to the second floor landing, each filled with a romance novel cover: shiny half-dressed men with long blond hair and obscene muscles stroke women with robust cleavage, titles like Her Rocky Mountain Protector, Champagne for Charlotte, and Love and Other Cures.
“Now this is something you miss out on with all those electronic books these days!” Mildred laughs.
“Okay, that’s something I haven't ever seen before, but –” he says. Just then the lights shudder and the power goes out with an electric gasp. “That means it’s time to go,” Steve says. “Are you ready?” He reaches out for Mildred, grasping at air. The wind bellows. The rain pounds. In the dark, it is almost soothing.
“Oh Steve, I told you I was going to stay. You go on.” Her voice has moved further away, back towards the kitchen.
“But you said—”
“I know. I'm sorry. I simply can’t. Please pardon an old lady wanting to tell her story. Sometimes there are stories worth hearing but there are never people to listen to them.” Mildred feels her way along the wall, following the familiar path, counting the frames with her fingertips.
“Mildred?” he calls, but only the storm responds, an intruder threatening at the door. Then a roar and the electricity winks back.
“Generator,” she says as she greets him in the hallway. She hands him one of the romance novel frames, The Hardness of Love. “Here,” Mildred says, “one of our favorites.” She takes a seat on the bottom step and continues. A thin pond of water is forming on the old wood beneath her feet.
“So there Walter is. A bottle of wine in one hand, a huge wooden oar in the other and a stupid grin. 'Surprise!' he yelled. Surprise indeed! And then he went on to explain how much work he had done to get the boat from Andy Little down the way and the wine was a such and such vintage. And isn't it a great night and the stars are out, and on and on. It was so sweet. Then he pulled out a giant Toblerone. One of those king-sized ones. That, he'd gotten right. He'd gone to so much trouble.
“You know on summer evenings, we'd sit in the pool out back and snack on our chocolate and Walter would read the stars. Of course, he had no idea what he was talking about. 'That's the big dipper,' he'd say and then point to Orion's belt.”
“You have a pool? But I thought you didn't – “
“We had it emptied when we bought the house. I told you I really didn’t like water. But, it was a big hit with the neighborhood kids. Though I'm sure they would’ve preferred it filled. So anyway, my birthday. Walter looked so proud of himself. So, well, I went ahead and did it. He put the moldy life vest over my head. And off we went on the lake. Further and further we went out. Occasionally one of those power boat monstrosities whizzed by, obnoxiously setting our little boat and my heart into convulsions. My fingers went numb, and I ached from clutching the sides of the boat. I think at that point Walter knew enough not to rock the boat, literally. 'Okay Walter, that was great, now let's go back,' I told him. He just smiled his wicked little smile – he was devilishly handsome. He looked a little like you, actually. All shaggy hair and squinty eyes. He said he had a surprise. As if this adventure wasn't enough of a surprise!
“Then we could hear the motor of another one of those bully boats nearing. I braced myself. It was getting closer. Closer than any of the others before it. Closer and then closer and before I could even see it, our boat went under and I was tossed out. Oh! I have never been so scared in my life. I went under briefly, though long enough to think I would never surface. But then was buoyed up by my vest. That stinking life vest. The stinking life vest that Walter gave me. I knew that Walter didn't swim too well himself. To waste the life vest on me, when he was just as useless as me.”
Steve's walkie talkie crackles to life with admonishments and orders, spit through the electronic waves. He lowers the volume. Steve leans in to hear Mildred through the storm battening the house.
“I floundered around a little then stopped. I floated there calling for Walter. And then I heard him. 'Marco!' is what he was shouting. Can you believe it? I returned with 'Polo!” thinking he would draw nearer. Until I couldn't hear the 'Marco' anymore. I tried and tried to reach him. But I couldn't really tell where he was. I finally made my way to the shore and stood looking for him. If I tried to find a phone, I could've missed him, you understand. I scanned the water. I think I might have seen the splashing of water in the distance, but who knows. I don't know how long I stood there at the shore. Useless. And then I went wailing up the hill to the nearby restaurant to call 911. Of course, it was too late.
“And so I was ready for this Steve, you understand? I was planning on it,” Mildred says into the darkening room. It seemed the generator was losing power. “This time, I can save him,” she says looking out a window. The wind whistles through a crack between the window and the sill. A crash comes from the other room, glass breaks.
“I'm so sorry,” Steve says.
“I am ready to go now. I didn't know where or when. But I knew –” Mildred trails off. Another window blows out upstairs. “Now please,” Mildred says as she stands. “Go on.” She turns to go upstairs, taking each step deliberately. She knows it will be her last time. The voice in Steve's walkie talkie grows more insistent. This time, he turns it up.
“All hands must evacuate and meet search and rescue in ten minutes, at nine-oh-five, at the corner of 3rd and Beach,” fizzles the voice.
Steve hollers up the stairs. “Mildred! Please! You promised!”
She turns. “I've made other promises, son.”
“Well I won't go then. I'll stay right here. With you,” Steve says.
“You will do no such thing. You will go back to your family. They need you.”
“But –”
“I'm an old woman. It's okay.”
“Ma'am.”
“Mildred.”
“Mildred. Please,” he says. Mildred nods and as she walks up the stairs, she wipes some of the frames clear of dust.
“Mildred!” Steve cries. She does not respond, but begins to sing off-key.
In her bedroom, with the wind spilling through a broken window, Mildred pours her girth into the bathing suit, the black-brown lycra stretching at her midline, the v-neck drooping a little low, expressing her wilted cleavage and loose décolletage. She admires the woman in the mirror. Could that really be her? Not the same body she had at twenty, when she had met Walter. Not even the body she had at seventy. But not bad for eighty one, she surmises.
“Oof!” She cries as she steps backwards on the carpet, away from the old woman. On tiptoes, she walks to her bed and sits, struggling to access the bottom of her foot. She finally manages and sees the sparkle glint of glass. She takes a deep breath and pulls the shard out. A small thread of blood blooms and she cradles her foot. There she waits. She isn't sure how long or exactly what she is waiting for. More glass explodes throughout the house. From the backyard, she hears the rasp sounds of metal being pulled or twisted. The pool ladder, she thinks.
After Walter died, Mildred would sit inside the empty pool in the backyard for hours staring up from the deep well with the ghosts of love and pool parties, the tile cooling her back. She would eat her Toblerone and wonder how despite being in a pool, she was not, in fact floating. It was then she decided she would join Walter.
Then she hears it, faint, but distinct, “Marco!”
She goes out onto the upper landing. The storm is encroaching even further. The water is now asserting itself at the midway point up the stairs. It laps at the walls, discoloring the creamy floral wallpaper. Even in the murky dark, the shadow of the frame where the sun bleached the wallpaper around The Hardness of Love is visible. This is where the water reached, they will say, where the red roses have blushed harder and grown darker. This is how high.
She steps into the water and slowly eases her body into it. The water is surprisingly warm. “Polo!” She responds.
“Marco!” She hears the return in the distance, quiet, but familiar. She takes her first stroke. The water parts in the web of her fingers easily. It is not too difficult. In fact it feels pleasant, the water wrapping her up, warming her, making her feel protected, womblike. A small whirlpool brews near where the coat rack once was, which is now missing. She can see two scarfs dancing in the water; her yellow rain jacket is stuck on the doorknob trying to escape.
The rain seems to have stopped, but the water keeps rising. Mildred treads water, pumping her legs in the metallic smelling water. “I'm coming,” she says into the hypnotic eddy.
As if on cue, the front door cracks, the top half releases into the water and she watches the current pull it down the street. She takes a gulp of the swirling water. It tastes like gasoline and salt. She pushes her way toward the half open door, pushing her scarves out of the way. This time, I've got you, she thinks.
“Marco!” She hears again. Swimming out into the lawn, which is now feet beneath her, she sees Steve. He is balancing in a small rowboat – not unlike Andy Little’s – tied by thick rope to the light post, its bulb dead. The vessel is lightly tossed about, but he is young and a swimmer and he shouldn't have any problem should he become untethered. Does he see her? Mildred glides under the water. It is quieter down here. She breaks the surface closer to Steve's boat. He is searching the water with a flashlight. Other than that thin circle of light, it is dark. He doesn’t see her.
“Mildred!” Steve cries at the house.
She treads the water watching Steve.
“Mildred!” He shouts again, his hands cup his lips like a bullhorn.
Mildred watches the young man who looks a lot like Walter as he tries desperately to save her life. Mildred once again hears “Marco!” But it is growing fainter. Claws of hunger rumble through her belly. Other than the chocolate and coffee, it had been too long since she had eaten. When had Steve last eaten? Does he plan to go home to his wife and daughter for dinner? Does it matter? Does he need saving?
She knows she doesn’t have much longer. The water is smooth but the current is quick. Her nose is dripping and the cold is seeping into her bones. She hears Walter call again. It is such a lovely voice and my, how she’s missed it. I’m coming, Mildred thinks, and she makes a decision. Walter will be there when she is ready and then they will laugh and eat their chocolate and talk about that time in the storm that almost was but wasn’t and now they have forever. Amidst the roiling water and the debris of lifetimes, Mildred calls out. Steve looks up, his face drenched in relief as he unties his boat, paddles through the mire, and rescues her.
Jennifer Fliss is a New York-raised, Wisconsin-schooled, Seattle-based writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Citron Review, Bird’s Thumb, Brain Child Magazine, Prime Number, District Lit, and elsewhere. Recently, she was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s Very Short Fiction Contest. More can be found on her website, www.jenniferflisscreative.com
by Jennifer Fliss
“Ma'am, you're gonna need to leave the premises,” the man at the door – a boy really – is saying while the storm begins its assaults. The wind whips around the small Cape Cod cottage. Rain pelts the boy; the storm is growing.
“No, it's okay, son, I'll be fine,” Mildred says as she returns to the kitchen sink and wipes her mug dry. She makes sure she gets every last drop of water before placing it in the rusty drying rack. The mug reads Elderica House, A Place For You in generic white cursive. Also in the drying rack is a single wineglass, speckled, but clean. She motions for the young man to step inside. The house smells of burnt coffee with the vaguely herbal notes of a vapor-rub.
“What's your name, son?”
“Steve,” he answers as he closes the door behind him, loose leaves and rogue raindrops follow and settle on the laminate. His hair is scraggly and his bright orange safety vest exaggerates the redness of his acne. Beneath the ruddiness, the boy's chin is barely present and his eyes are runny and small, but his cheekbones are high and friendly. He looks like Walter.
“You look hungry. Are you hungry Steve? Why don't you have a seat,” she points to a chair at the kitchen table and pulls a triangular chocolate bar from a drawer.
“Ma'am, I can't. We have to evacuate the area. The storm is real close. A surge is expected. This whole area could be under water in . . . uh . . . I don't know. . . real soon.”
“I know the dangers of the area son. We've had storms. We've had flooding,” Mildred scolds. “You've still got some time yet.”
“I'm not sure about that. I don't. . . I um. . .” Steve stammers.
“Have a seat,” she points again with a wooden spoon. “I won't keep you long.”
“Ma'am I’ve got orders to—”
“Sit!” He sits. She brings him a mug of coffee – this one reading “World's Best Aunt” – that she has just brewed. She pours some for herself in the newly cleaned old age home mug. The shutters awaken, thrashing the clapboard house. Steve stands, alarmed.
“Oh, that happens if it even thinks about raining,” she says. “Walter was supposed to hammer them back in. Toblerone?”
“Walter?” Steve asks. “Your son?”
“No. Not my son,” she says choosing to leave the question in the air. “So Steve, you're married.” It was not a question and she nods to his hand, where a thin gold wedding band clutches his finger. She breaks off a triangle of chocolate and hands it to him. She no longer wears hers.
“A year and a half,” he says.
“A year and a half,” she repeats.
“Actually, one year, eight months, four days,” he corrects.
“Well, that is a marriage still in its infancy. I just love this chocolate. It used to be harder to find. When Walter and I would go up to Canada we'd stock up,” she says and motions to the yellow bag on the counter. She joins Steve at the table. The lights flicker and threaten to go out.
“I've got a generator,” she says. “So, now tell me about your bride.”
“We really have to go,” Steve says as he starts to edge his chair back.
“Is there any flooding yet?” Mildred asks pointing outside.
“No, but—”
“Right, there’s still time then,” Mildred interrupts.
“Well, I guess just a minute or two.”
“Go on then,” Mildred says as she takes a seat and bites into the chocolate. “Your wife.”
“I uh. . . I'm married to her. I love her. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Mildred repeats. “And?”
“And uh. . . there's Carina. That’s our little girl.”
“Pretty name,” Mildred says.
“It means caring.” Steve says, turning the band on his finger. It comes off easily and he rolls it around his fingers.
“You love your baby so much, don't you? How about your wife?” Mildred asks.
“Well, uh. She's really nice.”
“Nice. Nice! Really young man. Lilies are nice. What's wrong then?”
“Nothing.”
“Pardon my language, but, like hell,” Mildred chirps.
“It's just hard on her. Y'know. The baby keeps her awake and I . . . I have this job that keeps me gone all the time. It's new, y'know?” he says.
“New?”
“My job. It's only my third week. Kind of crazy right? That this big storm comes around.” Outside, the rain is hammering the siding and the roof, quickly ping pinging, like bullets. The lights falter again.
Steve thrusts his seat back. “Come on. This just isn't safe. You know it's not. Let's go,” he says and starts to gets up. “Ma'am—”
“Mildred,” she corrects and places her hand on his knee, keeping him at the table. She nudges his cup of coffee, encouraging him to drink, plying him with chocolate.
“Mildred, I'm sorry but I am supposed to get you and everyone else out of their houses. It's . . . like, you know, my first big . . . event. And everyone else already left.”
“The Shiffs next door?” Mildred asks.
“Green house?”
“Mhm.”
“Yeah, they left.”
“Wisners?” she asks.
“Which house?”
“Brick one across the way. Newlyweds, you know. Everyone's got their problems son,” Mildred says.
“Yes, they're gone too. Mildred, you're the only one left on the block. Maybe in the whole neighborhood. It's just you. By yourself. You're not safe.”
“Steve. I have no intention of leaving. You go right on ahead without me. Tell your boss I wasn't here. Here, take this.” She hands him a full chocolate bar from her drawer stash. “It'll be a long night. You'll get hungry. And finish your coffee. I hope you don't mind me saying, but it looks like you could use it.” Steve sips and winces.
“I know. Most people don't like it. What I really liked was Chock Full o' Nuts. Remember?”
“I—”
“No, No. Of course you don't. You're just a young thing. You could be my grandson.”
“Where are they? Your grandkids?”
“Oh, it was just me and Walter. Steve, I'm not going to go with you. I told you that. So you should go on now,” Mildred says and goes to the sink. The shutters grow more aggressive. “Go on to your wife and daughter.”
“Ma'am. Mildred. I won't leave without you.”
“How much time do you think we have?” she asks.
“Not sure. Hour? Half hour? Maybe less. I don’t really know.” Steve guesses.
Mildred thinks for a moment. “Oh! We’re still good for a while. Like the storm back in '85. Everyone was a fright but it turned out just fine. Evacuated the whole town for nothing. But I'll be quick so you can go on with your work.”
“I told you I won't—”
“Then maybe I'll go with you. All right?”
Sheets of water drive against the glass. The twitching shadows of trees maraud against the linoleum floor in the dim light. The wind howls at the door, huffing and puffing to be let in. Inside, it's warm and calm.
Steve seems to think about it. “Okay,” he mutters.
“Do you swim Steve?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I never liked to swim. Never learned. Was too scared as a child when my Pa wanted to give me lessons. Nicholas and Warren – those were my brothers – they took to water like fish. Scaly slimy things, they were. Not me, I just sat with my mother helping her knit or reading books all those summers on the beach. Didn't bother me none. So there I am, eighty years old and Walter – fully aware of my, well . . . my . . . phobia – surprises me for my birthday with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a rowboat!”
The whipping shutters intensify. They strike in cadence with the steadily falling rain. A wail from an ambulance or fire truck in the distance cries out.
“It's getting worse. Listen to that,” Steve says.
“Oh, just another minute,” she reaches for his mug and takes it to the sink. Then Steve is behind her and carefully takes her elbow.
“Come on Mildred. Let's go,” he says. But she shakes him off. Reaches for another chocolate. Unwraps it. Hands him half; a dainty chocolate triangle.
“So, there it was. The man I'd been with for nearly sixty years making a present of my worst fear. 'No way,' I told him. 'Worst present ever,' I said – and let me tell you this Steve, he was very good at giving utterly ridiculous gifts. He once got me some hard-to-find replacement bobbin for a sewing machine. I have never owned a sewing machine in my life! Valentine's Day after Valentine's Day of romance novels. Hate 'em. Give me a mystery or thriller any day. And those covers! Eventually it became a joke between us. Here, let me show you something.” Mildred leads Steve into the hallway near the stairs. At least thirty small wooden frames line the walls in neat rows. There are so many they sweep down the hall and up to the second floor landing, each filled with a romance novel cover: shiny half-dressed men with long blond hair and obscene muscles stroke women with robust cleavage, titles like Her Rocky Mountain Protector, Champagne for Charlotte, and Love and Other Cures.
“Now this is something you miss out on with all those electronic books these days!” Mildred laughs.
“Okay, that’s something I haven't ever seen before, but –” he says. Just then the lights shudder and the power goes out with an electric gasp. “That means it’s time to go,” Steve says. “Are you ready?” He reaches out for Mildred, grasping at air. The wind bellows. The rain pounds. In the dark, it is almost soothing.
“Oh Steve, I told you I was going to stay. You go on.” Her voice has moved further away, back towards the kitchen.
“But you said—”
“I know. I'm sorry. I simply can’t. Please pardon an old lady wanting to tell her story. Sometimes there are stories worth hearing but there are never people to listen to them.” Mildred feels her way along the wall, following the familiar path, counting the frames with her fingertips.
“Mildred?” he calls, but only the storm responds, an intruder threatening at the door. Then a roar and the electricity winks back.
“Generator,” she says as she greets him in the hallway. She hands him one of the romance novel frames, The Hardness of Love. “Here,” Mildred says, “one of our favorites.” She takes a seat on the bottom step and continues. A thin pond of water is forming on the old wood beneath her feet.
“So there Walter is. A bottle of wine in one hand, a huge wooden oar in the other and a stupid grin. 'Surprise!' he yelled. Surprise indeed! And then he went on to explain how much work he had done to get the boat from Andy Little down the way and the wine was a such and such vintage. And isn't it a great night and the stars are out, and on and on. It was so sweet. Then he pulled out a giant Toblerone. One of those king-sized ones. That, he'd gotten right. He'd gone to so much trouble.
“You know on summer evenings, we'd sit in the pool out back and snack on our chocolate and Walter would read the stars. Of course, he had no idea what he was talking about. 'That's the big dipper,' he'd say and then point to Orion's belt.”
“You have a pool? But I thought you didn't – “
“We had it emptied when we bought the house. I told you I really didn’t like water. But, it was a big hit with the neighborhood kids. Though I'm sure they would’ve preferred it filled. So anyway, my birthday. Walter looked so proud of himself. So, well, I went ahead and did it. He put the moldy life vest over my head. And off we went on the lake. Further and further we went out. Occasionally one of those power boat monstrosities whizzed by, obnoxiously setting our little boat and my heart into convulsions. My fingers went numb, and I ached from clutching the sides of the boat. I think at that point Walter knew enough not to rock the boat, literally. 'Okay Walter, that was great, now let's go back,' I told him. He just smiled his wicked little smile – he was devilishly handsome. He looked a little like you, actually. All shaggy hair and squinty eyes. He said he had a surprise. As if this adventure wasn't enough of a surprise!
“Then we could hear the motor of another one of those bully boats nearing. I braced myself. It was getting closer. Closer than any of the others before it. Closer and then closer and before I could even see it, our boat went under and I was tossed out. Oh! I have never been so scared in my life. I went under briefly, though long enough to think I would never surface. But then was buoyed up by my vest. That stinking life vest. The stinking life vest that Walter gave me. I knew that Walter didn't swim too well himself. To waste the life vest on me, when he was just as useless as me.”
Steve's walkie talkie crackles to life with admonishments and orders, spit through the electronic waves. He lowers the volume. Steve leans in to hear Mildred through the storm battening the house.
“I floundered around a little then stopped. I floated there calling for Walter. And then I heard him. 'Marco!' is what he was shouting. Can you believe it? I returned with 'Polo!” thinking he would draw nearer. Until I couldn't hear the 'Marco' anymore. I tried and tried to reach him. But I couldn't really tell where he was. I finally made my way to the shore and stood looking for him. If I tried to find a phone, I could've missed him, you understand. I scanned the water. I think I might have seen the splashing of water in the distance, but who knows. I don't know how long I stood there at the shore. Useless. And then I went wailing up the hill to the nearby restaurant to call 911. Of course, it was too late.
“And so I was ready for this Steve, you understand? I was planning on it,” Mildred says into the darkening room. It seemed the generator was losing power. “This time, I can save him,” she says looking out a window. The wind whistles through a crack between the window and the sill. A crash comes from the other room, glass breaks.
“I'm so sorry,” Steve says.
“I am ready to go now. I didn't know where or when. But I knew –” Mildred trails off. Another window blows out upstairs. “Now please,” Mildred says as she stands. “Go on.” She turns to go upstairs, taking each step deliberately. She knows it will be her last time. The voice in Steve's walkie talkie grows more insistent. This time, he turns it up.
“All hands must evacuate and meet search and rescue in ten minutes, at nine-oh-five, at the corner of 3rd and Beach,” fizzles the voice.
Steve hollers up the stairs. “Mildred! Please! You promised!”
She turns. “I've made other promises, son.”
“Well I won't go then. I'll stay right here. With you,” Steve says.
“You will do no such thing. You will go back to your family. They need you.”
“But –”
“I'm an old woman. It's okay.”
“Ma'am.”
“Mildred.”
“Mildred. Please,” he says. Mildred nods and as she walks up the stairs, she wipes some of the frames clear of dust.
“Mildred!” Steve cries. She does not respond, but begins to sing off-key.
In her bedroom, with the wind spilling through a broken window, Mildred pours her girth into the bathing suit, the black-brown lycra stretching at her midline, the v-neck drooping a little low, expressing her wilted cleavage and loose décolletage. She admires the woman in the mirror. Could that really be her? Not the same body she had at twenty, when she had met Walter. Not even the body she had at seventy. But not bad for eighty one, she surmises.
“Oof!” She cries as she steps backwards on the carpet, away from the old woman. On tiptoes, she walks to her bed and sits, struggling to access the bottom of her foot. She finally manages and sees the sparkle glint of glass. She takes a deep breath and pulls the shard out. A small thread of blood blooms and she cradles her foot. There she waits. She isn't sure how long or exactly what she is waiting for. More glass explodes throughout the house. From the backyard, she hears the rasp sounds of metal being pulled or twisted. The pool ladder, she thinks.
After Walter died, Mildred would sit inside the empty pool in the backyard for hours staring up from the deep well with the ghosts of love and pool parties, the tile cooling her back. She would eat her Toblerone and wonder how despite being in a pool, she was not, in fact floating. It was then she decided she would join Walter.
Then she hears it, faint, but distinct, “Marco!”
She goes out onto the upper landing. The storm is encroaching even further. The water is now asserting itself at the midway point up the stairs. It laps at the walls, discoloring the creamy floral wallpaper. Even in the murky dark, the shadow of the frame where the sun bleached the wallpaper around The Hardness of Love is visible. This is where the water reached, they will say, where the red roses have blushed harder and grown darker. This is how high.
She steps into the water and slowly eases her body into it. The water is surprisingly warm. “Polo!” She responds.
“Marco!” She hears the return in the distance, quiet, but familiar. She takes her first stroke. The water parts in the web of her fingers easily. It is not too difficult. In fact it feels pleasant, the water wrapping her up, warming her, making her feel protected, womblike. A small whirlpool brews near where the coat rack once was, which is now missing. She can see two scarfs dancing in the water; her yellow rain jacket is stuck on the doorknob trying to escape.
The rain seems to have stopped, but the water keeps rising. Mildred treads water, pumping her legs in the metallic smelling water. “I'm coming,” she says into the hypnotic eddy.
As if on cue, the front door cracks, the top half releases into the water and she watches the current pull it down the street. She takes a gulp of the swirling water. It tastes like gasoline and salt. She pushes her way toward the half open door, pushing her scarves out of the way. This time, I've got you, she thinks.
“Marco!” She hears again. Swimming out into the lawn, which is now feet beneath her, she sees Steve. He is balancing in a small rowboat – not unlike Andy Little’s – tied by thick rope to the light post, its bulb dead. The vessel is lightly tossed about, but he is young and a swimmer and he shouldn't have any problem should he become untethered. Does he see her? Mildred glides under the water. It is quieter down here. She breaks the surface closer to Steve's boat. He is searching the water with a flashlight. Other than that thin circle of light, it is dark. He doesn’t see her.
“Mildred!” Steve cries at the house.
She treads the water watching Steve.
“Mildred!” He shouts again, his hands cup his lips like a bullhorn.
Mildred watches the young man who looks a lot like Walter as he tries desperately to save her life. Mildred once again hears “Marco!” But it is growing fainter. Claws of hunger rumble through her belly. Other than the chocolate and coffee, it had been too long since she had eaten. When had Steve last eaten? Does he plan to go home to his wife and daughter for dinner? Does it matter? Does he need saving?
She knows she doesn’t have much longer. The water is smooth but the current is quick. Her nose is dripping and the cold is seeping into her bones. She hears Walter call again. It is such a lovely voice and my, how she’s missed it. I’m coming, Mildred thinks, and she makes a decision. Walter will be there when she is ready and then they will laugh and eat their chocolate and talk about that time in the storm that almost was but wasn’t and now they have forever. Amidst the roiling water and the debris of lifetimes, Mildred calls out. Steve looks up, his face drenched in relief as he unties his boat, paddles through the mire, and rescues her.
Jennifer Fliss is a New York-raised, Wisconsin-schooled, Seattle-based writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Citron Review, Bird’s Thumb, Brain Child Magazine, Prime Number, District Lit, and elsewhere. Recently, she was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s Very Short Fiction Contest. More can be found on her website, www.jenniferflisscreative.com