It’s occurred to me that part of his appeal is the guarantee, as much as anything can be guaranteed, that he will love me and only me for the rest of his life. He will die loving me. By default, of course — he doesn’t have the time to find someone else. But if I could grant him more years, enough time to make it likely that he would abandon me for another woman, I would do it. I said this to him one night, when we were in the backyard, underneath the tree, telling the truth for once. Then you do love me after all, he replied, a smile spreading across his hollowed face. And I wondered if he might be right.
A red truck passes on the road, flecking my skin with gravel. I catch the driver staring at me in his side mirror. The wind has settled. The sky is still a clear blue, the brightness of the sun muted by some transparent sheet of cloud. It isn’t long before I see the low peak of Jimmy’s house in the distance.
“I need to get in the water,” he tells me when I turn up at his door, the costume pressed against my chest, the mask still on. His eyes are wild and determined. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m wearing a Bigfoot mask. I worry he’s beginning to get delirious, which the doctors told him might happen toward the end.
“You’re cracked,” I say. “You get tired after picking up a few pears in the backyard.”
“I need you to drive me to the lake.” He steps onto the porch and closes the door behind him.
“But you could get a cold,” I protest, pulling off the mask. A cold for Jimmy could be deadly. “And then you’ll be back in the hospital, which is exactly where you don’t want to be.”
“I had that dream again,” he says, glossing over my practical concerns. “Where the world is made of water. I woke up knowing I had to go to the lake today.” He looks longingly across the street, at my dented gray car. “And anyway, my body is where I don’t want to be, but there’s no changing that, is there?”
“I’m low on gas.”
He steps off the porch. “There’s a station on the way.”
“Remember when you told me you never learned to swim?”
“I don’t know how to swim,” he says. “But you do.”
He crosses the street and eases himself into the passenger seat. When I hesitate, he honks the horn. I wonder if he’s just trying to make everything go more quickly and has decided to enlist my help. Today it’s swimming, tomorrow skydiving. The thought paralyses me. It’s an effort for him to sit at the kitchen table or on the porch for a few hours. After we make love, which we’re doing less and less, he rolls onto his side and plunges into a deep sleep, as though he’s been drugged. I hear the engine start, which means he’s found the keys in the cupholder. I consider telling him I’ve just been fired and don’t feel like swimming, but he wouldn’t care. And he shouldn’t. He honks the horn again. I sprint across the street and join him.
I park underneath a sequoia and toss the keys into the glove compartment. Late afternoon sunlight pours through the windshield, illuminating ridges of dust on the dashboard. We haven’t been here since summer and the woods surrounding the lake look darker, more dense. I watch Jimmy get out of the car and walk to the edge of the lake, moving with all the speed he can muster. The Bigfoot costume and mask are heaped in the backseat, hollow and limp. They look like nothing special now, just a pile of rubber and synthetic fur.
I leave the car and stand with Jimmy on the bank of the lake. He removes his shoes and T-shirt, then unbuttons his jeans. He asks me to take off my clothes. The lake is a mile from the main road, shielded by trees and overgrown bushes. I feel emboldened by the enclosure and slip out of my shorts and blouse. I fold our clothes and place them on the knotted roots of a tree, align our shoes so they’re side by side. Once he’s naked, Jimmy wades into the lake, extending his arms for balance. I wait until his knees disappear beneath the surface, then follow. The water is cold.
“This is too shallow,” he says. “Let’s go out there.” He points to the thick darkness in the center of the lake.
“That will be too deep,” I tell him. “You won’t be able to stand.”
“I don’t want to feel anything underneath me.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His wet hand slides down my throat and rests against my collarbone. “Will you teach me to float?”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, meaning it. “But we have to start in shallow water.”
He nods. I tell him to let his body go slack. He relaxes a little, but it’s not enough. I tell him to let himself sink and when the water rises over his shoulders, I place my hands beneath his back and turn his body horizontal. We manage this in one graceful movement, like synchronized swimmers rehearsing a number.
“The trick is to let your arms and legs dangle, but keep your back firm.”
“I can do that,” he says.
I take away my hands and after he’s floated on his own for a while, I grip his upper arms and swim into the deep. I tell him to close his eyes, to not think about trying to stay above water, to pretend my hands are still pressing against his spine. The muscles in my thighs burn from treading and holding onto Jimmy. His black hair is glossy, his eyelashes long and curved. I can see the teardrop shape of his cheekbones, the green and purple veins in his face. He looks so delicate I almost drag him back to shore, but I know that’s simply not possible now. After we reach the center of the lake, I release his arms. His position in the water doesn’t change. I drift backwards and tell him to open his eyes.
“The sky is spinning,” he says.
I tilt my head back; water swallows the ends of my hair. My skin is numb. I see a huge cloud that resembles a mountain range and recall his wish to visit the Grand Canyon. Perhaps the failure to make that journey explains his persistence today. Maybe he has grown tired of seeing things only in dreams.
“How far out are we?”
“All the way in the center,” I say. “But don’t look. It’ll break your focus.” For once, he listens to me.
The sun is dropping, a brilliant orange disc with liquid borders. Jimmy is floating on his back, staring up at the sky. His lips are turning blue, but I don’t say anything. I’ve never seen anyone learn to float so quickly before, but maybe people learn faster when they don’t have much time. Time. I’ve grown to hate that word. I think of it often, how much is wasted, how freeing it would be if we weren’t always counting. I look at Jimmy, his skin excruciatingly white against the dark water, and wonder if he’s stopped paying attention to time, if he’s resigned himself to allowing the days to pass until they don’t anymore. I think of what he said back at the house, about how his body is where he doesn’t want to be, how neither of us are where we want to be, yet somehow, at this moment, we are.
“Will you roar for me?” he asks.
I shift in the water, creating small ripples that push his body farther away.
“Your Bigfoot roar,” he continues. “I want to hear an echo.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”