Above the static of his phone, my brother told me how they dragged the lake for the body. Every man who owned a boat and was family or friend brought yards of rope with grappling hooks tied to the ends. Women stayed on the shore with dogs to search the banks, both humans and animals sniffing the February air for a scent of the lost man. The black mutt that belonged to Collin whined loudly at a small circle of rocks on the bank where someone had built, and then abandoned, a campfire. Searchers from the sheriff's office walked a mile in each direction from the spot but found no indication anyone had struggled into the trees.
      "Midnight's a smart dog. Maybe he smells where Collin made it to shore," I said to my brother after he spoke of the weather conditions. The sun had set on the first day of searching; the wind was blowing harder and the temperature had dropped to less than forty degrees in the water and twenty degrees on land. They had decided to resume looking at daylight the next morning.
      "Rory, he's smelling where Collin built a fire a week or even a month ago." My brother, Jimmy, had taken off from his job managing a brokerage office and driven four hours to aid the effort. "He had five minutes, ten minutes max in the water until hypothermia got him. If we're lucky, we'll find the boat first. Then we'll know where to look for him."
      "How's Aunt Helen?" Collin's mother was the only woman searching on the water. She had gone out in a small johnboat, the same type aluminum craft in which her son had launched. She wanted to look over the narrow coves for evidence of human activity. Aunt Helen thought her son might have swum to shore and constructed a shelter. My cousin was a skilled outdoorsman: he had built his own cabin and had been building a boat. It was not impossible that he could be waiting for someone to find him on the thin rock bluffs where the high water mark met the treeline.
      "She's not good," Jimmy replied. "We made her put on Collin's coat and a life-preserver." He hesitated, then said, "They made someone ride with her in the boat all the time."
      I knew the coat, an old buffalo hide that would have been resting across the seat of Collin's pickup truck. From what the family could put together, Collin had backed his truck and trailer to the water's edge around four in the morning on Saturday, waking a man with the sounds of country music radio. The same man, a sixty- five year old retired farmer who owned the boat launch ramp, reported Collin missing to the lake patrol early the next morning. It was not unusual, the retiree said, for someone to go out early and spend all day on the water fishing, so he hadn't been concerned until daylight. When the lake patrol arrived, Midnight was waiting in the bed of the pickup truck, having endured over thirty hours of the freezing temperature.
      "They afraid she might collapse?" I asked. Our aunt was a widow, losing her husband only four months earlier. I imagined her long legs extending from the coat that would stop at her knees. Aunt Helen was a striking woman, as tall as her son and as tall as my uncle had been before cancer pushed through his lungs. I pictured her wrapped in Collin's coat, her brown hair blowing, tears on her cheeks. But she would not be crying alone; all searchers would have tears on their cheeks, brought up by the cold wind.
      "No. Everyone is here with her." Jimmy sighed into his mobile phone. I knew he would be tired, like everyone in our family would be tired.
      "Everyone except me." I lifted a glass and tossed its contents down my throat, thankful that Jimmy could not see me taking comfort from a bottle. "It's going to kill her anyway. It's too much for anyone." Feeling the pin pricks of inactivity, I bent my right knee, brought it to my waist and extended my right foot. I could still unfold my leg parallel to the floor without displacing my hip, a dead giveaway of poor technique.
      "Probably." Then Jimmy told me he needed to retrieve a depth finder a fisherman had offered for the search. The electronic equipment was designed to send a sonar signal bouncing off schooling bass under the water. My brother was going to use it to look for something much larger.
     

* * * *

      Table Rock Lake is a flooded forest and the rotting remains of oak, sycamore and cedar are misleading. A clump of these decapitated trees can be mistaken for fish instead of shallow water and it is not uncommon for a bass fisherman to scrape his fiberglass boat, costing him several hundred dollars in repairs. For other boaters, the jagged wood poses more than an expensive inconvenience. A leak in a canoe or pontoon boat is serious, especially in cold water and this is only one reason why boating at night with low visibility is dangerous. Especially in the middle of winter; especially if the boater is alone; especially if the boat is a work-in-progress and the captain is full of Jim or maybe if he had been feeling highbrow, then Jack.
      Everyone who spends time on the lake has a close call. They can tell you how easy it is to get lost or how a tornado blows up suddenly or how, if you fall overboard without a lifejacket, the boat will float away fast. But everyone is shocked to hear of a death, as if they had monopolies on harrowing experiences. A fog of discomfort settles on them, rubbing against their brains and reminding them they are luckier than they deserve. They resolve to practice boating safety and they warn their teenage children about avoiding foolishness in the water. But they will gradually let go of caution and within a year, an average of six people's lives will end in the lake and the fog of disbelief and bad memories will roll over the lucky ones again.
      I was not surprised when Jimmy called to tell me he was looking for Collin under the water. I know how it can win you over.
      The lake can roll gently, inviting you to stand in your boat, feet apart, looking toward the horizon where the land meets the sky in a spectacle of blue and orange light. At night, the water may rock and whisper, a lilting air, the energy of a river captured by a dam; contained, but pulsing - an organ beating stoically to spite its confinement. The stars and the moon can entice you to stand and throw your head back, to feel the pitch and roll of the energy under the hull.
      It's a cruel collusion between the lake and vertigo to make you feel as though you are flying, mimicking the suspension of a grand jeté. Leaping into the air and floating, the result of the shift in your center of gravity. Leaping, hanging, then landing, toe-ball-heel, reclaiming energy from the floor to throw you skyward again. The lake is like dance - with its admonitions and hardships.
      "Don't give too much energy to the floor, ladies, steal it back by landing light! Steal it back!" The ballet mistress pounded her walking stick against the firm wooden floor and admonished us during my days in crowded rooms framed by straight lines of the exercise barré. Mirrors lined the walls, exposing each movement, each physical imprecision. Those years of practice are removed from me now, succumbing to the insinuation of mediocrity and contributions from changes in life that no one wants to waste time explaining, except to say that former pursuits can be cast aside, without being deemed unworthy or unsuccessful and without aspersions of waste or blame on the years dedicated to them. There are plenty of other occasions for labels of blame and waste.
     

* * * *

      On the second day of the search, the air outside my window was dusty and warm. The black asphalt intersections shimmered; even for southern California, the February heat was unusual. Two tall palms drooped over the street corner, a dismal effort by the landlord to landscape his apartment building's property. The sun was setting over the lake when Jimmy called, reflecting the difference in our time zones and I knew how blue-black the trees by the lake would look under the settling darkness. Natural trees, growing from well-loamed soil, instead of the rubbery trees squeezing life from the desert.
      "Nothing yet," Jimmy yelled above the static of his mobile phone. The terrain around the lake is hills and dense woods, creeks and hollows. No matter how much money the phone companies spend to plant transmission towers on top of the mountains, my family members complain they never get a signal when they need one.
      Jimmy told me how they had been out in boats, looking during the day. Rescue divers had been called in by lake patrol. But underwater visibility was poor and even in their drysuits, the water temperature limited the divers' down time to about thirty minutes.
      "Thirty minutes isn't enough. What can they cover, a few hundred yards? It isn't enough time." It was three o'clock according to the digital clock on my microwave oven. Too soon to pour a glass of wine, too late to visit a career counselor.
      "The deeper the dive, the less time they can spend underwater. The lake's eighty-feet deep in some spots," Jimmy said.
      "It's not like they're being asked to raise the goddamn Titanic. It's an eight-foot boat. It's there somewhere."
      "Rory," he said, "All I can tell you is what they told us. I'm learning more about the human body and the cold than I ever wanted to know. You on tonight?"
      I had not told him, had not told anyone about the combination in an afternoon rehearsal two months earlier, the fantastically difficult jumps, the glasses of wine at lunch, the corner I was supposed to spot to maintain orientation, crashing to the floor, the company director loosening the ribbons of my pointé shoes and carrying me offstage, the barely concealed anticipation of my understudy, lighter by ten pounds and ten years worth of living, the pronouncement of the doctor that I had, perhaps irreparably, injured my anterior cruciate ligament, those words leaving his mouth, suffocating me like clumps of soil filling my nose.
      I hesitated. There might be no harm in enlightening him - injury was no shame, perhaps avoiding a greater shame - the weigh-ins, the breath tests, the reduced roles for mature dancers, the dismissal with cause.
      Jimmy spoke before I could answer. "I have to go. This connection is shit." I imagined him wearing a heavy brown jumpsuit, with a stocking cap on his light blonde head and thick brown work boots on his long, narrow feet. I hoped he was warm enough, was protecting himself.
      "Who's taking care of Midnight?" The old dog would have gray hair on his muzzle and paws and would likely limp stiffly, instead of trotting on the shore. The cold wind whipping off the water would be hard on his joints.
      "Aunt Helen's got him. He's been going out in her boat." Jimmy sighed, annoyed with my suggestion the family would forget about Collin's dog.
      "That can't be right. Midnight's afraid of the water."
      "I'm sorry, I can barely hear you," Jimmy shouted. The crescendo of static cut the phone signal.
      "Why have a phone you can't use?" I could not hear if he answered me before I placed the receiver into its black cradle and opened the refrigerator, looking at the jug of white wine I had not quite finished the day before.
     

* * * *
     

The lake glistens under Table Rock Mountain, a level-topped protrusion reaching above the heads of fisherman, swimmers and bikini clad sunbathers reclining on boats with cold beers and trashy paperbacks. If you hike to the top of the mountain, avoiding the poison ivy, the thorny brambles and the rattlesnakes, you'll find a round space, clear of trees. You'll find a crumbling rock wall, remnants of the lookout point of southern rebellion. If you can balance on the stacked stones long enough, you will see past the tops of the tree branches to examine the trails up the mountain and satisfy yourself that no one is headed your way. Then you can settle into the thinking you need to do or you can stare at the water below.
      During calm days, the green gray surface of the lake ripples; during rough days, the splash of waves against the shoreline and gray rain sheeting from the sky reminds you of two lovers colliding, biting at each other, tangling together in an embrace so fleeting they will attribute the moment to a scene in a movie, forgetful of their own passions.
      And you have the sense that if the water is going to take you - it will - and no amount of care or caution or invocation of God will aid you. The ferocity of the river that was choked by a dam did not disappear; it only pooled and condensed, licking upward with protruding fangs, a freezing embrace, settling over graves of Indians and pioneers, over bodies sacrificed to the divided state's border conflict, the bloodiest fighting of the secessionist struggle. The river that once washed away the detritus of human settlement now hosts the wrecks of consumer culture: the car parts and food wrappers and plastic storage containers. The water harbors waste for future generations, perhaps people for whom the lake will be a fantastically preserved archeological dig. They will drain the basin and unearth treasures that we cast away, careless in our hurry to rid ourselves of objects without value.
     

* * * *
     

Ten years before he went missing, Collin took me out in his father's boat. He had graduated high school the year before and lived in a trailer the shape and color of a silver bullet, befitting the green gray tint of leaves and oval pinecones in the half-acre of land his mobile home occupied.
      He had planted a vegetable garden and ate smoked venison from the deer he shot in season. His dog, Midnight, had limped out of the woods, probably a fighting pup that had escaped his chain or his cage. Collin fed him and soon after, Midnight slept beside my cousin and followed him everywhere - except on the boat. When Collin and I pushed off from the bank, we left Midnight a pile of dog biscuits and a deflated basketball. The dog yelped and ran along the shore, ignoring the toy and his treats. I heard Midnight's barks fade as Collin opened the motor, taking us around the bend of the cove, into deeper water.
      "Collin, you have got to be the only guy in this state with a dog that can't swim." Our private jokes were plentiful. A disaster, I teased him, a dog that could not swim.
      "Rory, you've got to be the only girl in this state who hasn't been kissed." He smiled. Another disaster. A girl who could dance but had never been asked to do so by a boy.
      "Shows you what you know." I always alluded to the possibility of mysterious lovers, tall and dark men who walked over the mountains to toss roses on the floor of the barn where I practiced. I wasn't ugly, but had small breasts and thinning hair, the result of required buns during lessons. On stage, though, hair didn't matter and small breasts were advantageous, so no, it wasn't impossible about men and flowers. The existence of adoring men was definitely possible.
      "Imaginary boyfriends don't count." Collin cut the engine and opened the lid to the fish live well. Instead of fresh lake water, it was filled with ice and beer. "You want one?" He picked a can out of the ice, popped the tab and pitched it back into the live well. Collin cursed every piece of trash; he was meticulous about keeping the lake clean.
      "Nope." I was not a drinker, then, believing ballet required more discipline.
      "You leaving next week?" he asked. Collin had brown hair, brown eyes and brown skin, a deep tan that covered him even in the winter. I did not know if he had a girlfriend - we had never spoken of it - but I hoped he did not. He was too much a part of the woods and water. I didn't want to think of him leaving it for a girl.
      "Day after graduation." Everyone else in the family knew the day I would board a bus to California, the trip that would ruin my life, get me pregnant, cause me to be homeless, or some variation on those outcomes. But Collin didn't participate in family gossip or pretended, for my benefit, not to listen.
      "You need to learn to have a drink," Collin thrust a hand into the thick plastic compartment full of ice. "Cold beer is the best." He turned the ignition key with his free hand.
      "I can't drink this." The can was near my face and I reached for it, hoping Collin would take control of the steering wheel. The boat was moving forward, fast.
      "Yes you can, you've got all that balance. I'm not stopping until you drink it all." Collin opened the throttle, flinging my body against the passenger seat. There were no life jackets and I gripped the open beer in one palm and the seat under my legs with the other.
      Collin stood up in his seat, squeezing the wheel between his knees. I watched the front of the boat rise. Bass boats are designed so that at high speeds, most of the hull hovers above the water as the speedometer climbs. Thirty-forty-fifty- sixty. That's miles per hour, and that's not as high as the needle can lean.
      "We're going to die!" I screamed. The craft began to chine walk, a severe side-to-side roll of the boat. A chine walking boat was unbalanced and required more, not less, input from the driver. I was afraid to grab at the wheel, afraid it might flip the boat. Collin was still standing, his body jolting. The steering wheel gripped between his knees was his only source of balance, the boat's only source of guidance.
      I threw the beer at the water so that I could use both hands to hold on to my seat. Liquid sprayed against my lips, the fermented beverage tasted like the metal needles I threaded to sew ribbons to pointé shoes.
      "Stop it now! This is insane!" The violent rocking motion turned my stomach. I knew I should orient myself, spotting, it's called in dance. I fixed my eyes on the visible bald spot on top of the unmoving mountain.
      "No. This is like dancing on both feet!" Collin yelled and raised his arms as we sped forward. We bucked from side to side, racing toward the deep middle of the lake, under the mountain's shadow. I sat crouched and still, running my tongue around my lips. I wondered if the tank would run out of gas or if we would be tossed out. Either way, I prepared to swim back to the shore that was at least a mile away in any direction. I kicked off my tennis shoes and breathed deeply to fill my lungs with oxygen, mentally rehearsing the correct way to hitch a person around the chest to keep the nose and mouth above water.
      Collin was a terrible swimmer.
     

* * * *
     

"We found him." Jimmy called again on the third day when the sky was dark outside my window, safely past the time to be drinking a guilt-free cocktail. The drink required olives but because there were none in my apartment, I improvised with peeled grapes. At the rate of two grapes per drink, discounting the possibility of spoilage, I had approximately a month before I would be forced to enter a grocery store. Luckily, the nearby liquor store took orders for delivery over the phone.
      "Where are you?" I asked. Jimmy's voice came from a clear signal, indicating use of a landline.
      "I drove back home. Made record time," Jimmy replied. "Listen, you should know.."
      I cut him off. I imagined Jimmy standing in front of a fire his wife of five years would have built for him, the care she would have taken to help him remove his wet and soiled clothes, the hot coffee waiting as he pulled into the driveway of the house I had never seen.
      "I've read the news on the Internet." This was true. I had been logging in throughout the day, monitoring the regional wire service's website. "Besides, I think I know what happened." This was not true. The news had mentioned nothing about the cause of the accident.
      "Did you know he was wearing his tool belt?"
      I understood Jimmy's question. Whatever had gone wrong with his homemade boat, Collin had tried to fix it. He would have been heavily weighted, drawn to the bottom of the lake by an assortment of screwdrivers, hammers, pliers, an awl, metal screws, bolts, nuts and nails, a level, a tape measure and a flashlight, to help him find the problem. Implements of independence from banks, contractors, stores, salesmen - and obsolescence - pulling him down past the dead tree tops to the rotting tangle of roots of the underwater forest.
      "You on tonight?" Jimmy interrupted my thoughts and the salty water slipping past my cheeks.
      "Yes," I said. Tasting vodka in the grape, I glanced at the digital clock. It read nine p.m. "Yes, um, yes." It was fine, I decided, to continue lying. I could blame it on my grief later.
      "Must be a really late show." Jimmy voice was even. I heard plates and silverware being set on a hard surface in the background. "I've got some more calls to make. Aunt Helen knows you probably won't make it back here for the funeral and it's ok. She knows what you thought of him."
      A bubble of nausea erupted in my stomach, gurgling with acidic pain up to the back of my throat. "Wait, Jimmy, wait. Who found him?"
      "Midnight. Started barking like hell over this one spot. We hooked Collin and pulled him in the boat."
      My memory was fluid, disbelief mixing into the pool of Jimmy's stated account. It might have been the alcohol. It might have been acceptance flowing easier with the advent of the unthinkable that was easily imagined, the shock that was easily predictable. Maybe I didn't know anything about what had happened in the years I had been gone. So I murmured, "I remember...Midnight being afraid of the water."
      "Well, he's fine with it now." Jimmy replied, an edge slipping into his voice. I could imagine him thinking, the damn dog is fine, really.
      We ended the conversation with Jimmy telling me how the family thought it was such a shame they had not seen me in six years and perhaps they should make more of an effort to get to California to see me dance.
     

* * * *
     

The boat didn't run out of gas that day on the lake and I don't know how long Collin could have maintained his balance. We were brought to a stop by the flashing lights and bullhorn commands of the lake patrol officers who had, they said, been radioed by the retired farmer near the launch ramp. The officers knew Collin - everyone around the lake did - and they let him off with a warning for speeding and a citation for missing life preservers. The younger of the two officers tipped his skipper's cap to me and said "Have a good day miss," when he was finished with his business.
      "Were you trying to get us killed?" I yelled at Collin after the officers had powered away. My hands trembled, but I reached into the live well and pulled out two beers. I handed one to him and popped one for myself.
      Collin did not answer. We motored, slowly, back to shore where Midnight barked and leaped, dropping his deflated basketball at Collin's feet. Instead of riding in the cab, I lifted myself into the bed of the old pickup truck. Midnight grabbed his toy in his mouth and followed me, jumping easily off the ground. I wrapped both arms around the dog's fuzzy head, gripping him tightly. The truck rolled and bumped over the rough chat road and I fixed my eyes on the stark bare mountain top, orienting myself for the ride ahead. I remembered the leaping arc of the boat and the feel of skimming over the lake like a low-flying bird and considered: If I had been tossed to the air, would I have sunk, graciously, through the crest of the waves, opening my eyes underwater to look for my cousin and after satisfying my conscience, have swum to shore?
      I turned to peer through the truck's rear windows. In the rearview mirror, Collin's face was set and calm; he sipped his beer and drove slowly. Or would I have struggled to hold onto the body that could manage anywhere but in the water, promising that we would either swim to shore or enter, together, the forest below us?
      As the truck turned onto the main highway the mountain disappeared behind a crest of tall trees and my questions leaped away from me into the air, jealous of their own energies.

Krista McGruder's credits include North American Review, storySouth and Carve Magazine. She lives in New York City and serves as fiction reader for the online journal SmallSpiralNotebook.com.

  Krista

  McGruder