Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue
And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then
Of course Barbara noticed Tom's change of mood. This was no common writer's block, for he filled whole notebooks with short-hand scribbles but never typed them up. "Too definite" he said, and claimed that it left no room for polishing or the flight of imagination. He lied, of course.
In truth his mind sagged under all ideas, and he longed to write till his fingers ached. For a while Tom tried to channel this surplus imagination into a gossip column under pseudonym in Weaver's newspaper, but parroting hearsay about the Beatles did little to ease his mind. All this restrained creativity grated on him, but lying to Barbara griped him even more.
To dispel these thoughts Tom spent more time with her, dining on the porch or diving in the lake. In the silent void he was as cut off from the world as an astronaut in space. Only Barbara could reach him there, as she glided like a mermaid through the waves above.
Yet the love poems rankled Tom the most. Were they recording real feelings, or mere fiction come true? Was Barbara but a pawn that fate put in his way, and her free-flying affection attaching arbitrarily to him like a spider's thread? Would these feelings wane if he put down the pen?
To Tom's grateful relief, they survived. In the end, it helped him reconcile with the thought of never writing again.
The crux was money. How would they pay for heat and food? He couldn't demand that Barbara provided for both of them, nor leave her without a roof over her head if the cabin must go. She trusted him. She'd endured enough when their unmarried cohabiting became the talk of the town.
In Her Dreams did well, yet not good enough to afford a lifelong break from authorship. Reluctant to seem greedy, Tom broached the subject of profit with Emil only once. Since his assistant writer had more business sense than Tom, the poet had let him take care of bank errands and routine calls to the publisher.
"That's the problem with being a breakthrough poet. You're critically acclaimed, but not read by the masses. Or should I say, people sneak-read your works to see if they're worth four bucks - and when they've skimmed it through, they put it back on the store shelf. People these days only want sex and violence for a dime."
"And what am I gonna do about that?" Tom shrugged. "I don't feel like writing explicit stuff."
"Write more. Show them you're a poet laureate in training. They'll buy your books then."
Tom wavered. No more writing, he'd vowed; the results were unpredictable. What if he wrote about falling stars, or Ragnarok?
But what if he wrote about a million dollar treasure hidden somewhere in Bright Falls, then went looking for it once the story came true? Modern currency buried in the forest would look too much like a robber's haul, but he'd heard that the county museum paid you plenty for a valuable archeological find. In an old mining town like Bright Falls, it wouldn't be too incredible if two miners with dreams of the good life had struck gold - and loaded a chest full of the precious nuggets in a rowboat and set course for the other end of Cauldron lake, when the half-rotten deck suddenly gave in and the whole craft went down in seconds...
He was at it again, drawing threads from what he knew and spinning them into tales of which the lake became the backdrop.
July 1970
"Dear, you look so troubled".
Her words called him back to reality and his cooling coffee. With effort he parted the fog of thoughts.
"Aw, just headache. Happens sometimes when the water's cold." He managed a smile. This was no time to brood, when his idea had worked and the only thing left was to raise the treasure.
Barbara wrapped her arms round herself. "I'm freezing, too. Let's get inside."
Together they climbed up to the cabin, its illuminated windows casting planes of light on the boards. A relief that had eluded Tom for a very long time settled in his bones.
"Morning honey." Warm lips to his temple. "I'm going for a swim. Pancake batter's in the making, so I won't be long."
"Mmmh…" Diving always brought this deep, drowsy sleep. "Take care."
"Think you could make coffee till I'm back?"
"Mmh, yeah."
"Good." Her hand slid through his hair as she withdrew. Squinting, he could just make out her slender figure by the foot-end of their bed as she shed clothes and put on her swimsuit.
On the porch, Barbara turned on the radio. Soft-voiced singers, exotic dance rhythms, she liked them all. The only music she felt hesitant about was the kind which seemed to drag both its performers and listeners down into depression and drug abuse.
"You're such a mother-hen, always worried about everyone" Joy had once remarked in jest. "I bet Tom gets really pampered at home."
"Oh, when he looks too happy I send him out to chop a few fathoms of wood."
Joy knew she was joking. Tom happily chopped wood and shoveled snow, because it helped clear his thoughts. In fact he'd been very busy around the house of late, she thought with the usual twinge of worry.
Peaches-and-cream-colored clouds forebode the sunrise. Below lay Lake Cauldron - cold, clear, and impossibly deep. While its scenic surroundings attracted hikers and photographers, the lake itself did not tempt to romantic strolls in the shore water or playful splashing with swimmies. Like the color black absorbed all light without paling, the lake remained cool and crisp even during long heat waves. The only person besides Tom and Barbara that swam here was a retired, humorless major living across the lake. The children of Bright Falls preferred the water-filled sandpits a few miles outside town.
She would just try and have a look at the treasure, then get back and eat breakfast with Tom. Barbara let her bathrobe fall to the boards and eased into the water, breath held between her teeth. She cleft the surface with long, sweeping strokes - seen from above, a speck in a giant, matted eye. It was difficult to say where Tom descended last night, but over two-hundred swim strokes later Barbara slowed to tread water and glance over her shoulder. Far enough – she'd have to start looking now, or risk running tired with the dock out of reach. She took a deep breath and dove.
There it was, incredible like one of the Anderson brothers' fishing stories. Strewn over a rock face, gold glimmered with a spectral shine in the lightless lake. How it had gotten here was a mystery, even more so how Tom could dive here near-daily and not spot it until now.
A light headiness crept upon her; time to ascend for air. With two strokes she broke the surface.
The mist had left the shores and drawn in over the lake. Typical Cauldron Lake weather; once on a particularly foggy morning, Tom had remarked that they "lived in a pan of porridge." Barbara decided to head back, before he got worried. She could hear the radio noise, though weak and static-ridden, and set off towards it. That battery did not fare well from damp nights on the porch.
The music died altogether. She halted in confusion. Had Tom stepped out and turned it down? Left with a dense wall of fog ahead, Barbara called out to her companion.
"Tom? Tom, don't shut off the radio, I need it to-"
A wave struck her. She whirled around in the cold murk, barely made it back up before the next one crashed over her with deafening force.
"Tom! Help!" She screamed, water streaming down her face. "Help! Help! Tho-mas!"
The radio. She could hear it echo over the lake, as if someone had turned up the volume to block out her frantic screams. Her ears did not hear the lyrics anymore, just mindless bawls. Waves weltered over her like stampeding beasts, blinded her, pulled her down under. Her hands shot towards the surface, grasped at thin air.
Hoping she'd float to the surface if she just stopped struggling, Barbara hung on a moment beyond the very last.
The maelstrom swept her into the abyss.
Quietude.
"Barbara?" Thomas came down the stairs into the kitchen. "Barbara?" Maybe she still did her laps along the dock. He dipped his thumb in the bowl of pancake batter to have a taste on the sly. Boy, could Barbara bake. He half expected her to come in from the hall and wave her finger at him in jest: "You're a proper one for sweet things!"
No note on the kitchen table. That meant she wouldn't be gone for long. He put the percolator on the stove and sat down to wait. Perhaps she'd dashed off to borrow a cup of sugar.
Ten-thirty. Morning paper finished, coffee poured into a thermos. She'd probably met with a friend on the way, stopped to chat. Fully possible.
When the clock passed eleven-thirty, he grew worried. Something was off.
"Hello Cynthia, it's Tom. Is Barbara there…? Oh. Okay. Well if you see her, let me know." He put the phone back in its cradle.
His imagination began to concoct things – maybe her bike got stolen, and she had to walk home. Or she'd been hit by a drunk-driver and lay unconscious in hospital. But a brief call to doc Nelson disproved Tom's suspicions.
Noon. He breathed too fast, yet he forced himself to slowly circle the cabin and look on the porches and in the front yard, in the tool shed and the earth cellar, high and low. Her bike stood leaned against the wall. Had she walked to town? Maybe she'd come home just now? He went inside again, called out, searched every room. He found the dress she'd been wearing still hanging in the bathroom.
And all the while a voice in his head kept asking, "Has she even climbed out of the water?"
On his umpteenth round to the lake-side porch, Tom's ears picked up a quiet murmur. Subdued music wafting from the radio. When he leaned down to switch it off he glanced over the railing.
"Oh, no-"
Shock stabbed through him. Barbara's bathrobe lay at the edge of the dock, its sleeve waving in the water as if it fished round for her.
