We were sitting on the porch looking out over the river. The three of us, John, Alice and me, stretching long legs in front of us indulgently sipping lemonade and letting the afternoon sun warm our bodies like basking lizards. The houseboat rocked lazily, the red canoe tethered to one corner, bobbing like an eager puppy at the end of its rope. My paint box and canvas were stowed safely against the weathered wall, out of sea, sand and sun. Satisfied, I closed my eyes and smiled.
Half way across the water is an island, just a sandbar with dense brush on its southern end. It’s been the focus of many of my paintings, something about it just draws me in. The sun, the shadows, the palette of greens and blues in the style of Monet’s Water Lilies, casting reflections in the flat gray water. I have paddled around that little island so often I could do it with my eyes closed. I have dug my toes in the sand and searched for shells along its shore, coming to know its intimate landscape.
John and Alice are in Portland a few days on business and hunted down my number. John is dark and muscular, his body in constant motion like a bee buzzing from topic to topic. Alice is fair where John is dark. She ebbs and flows with John’s energy– quiet, but with a quirky sense of humor. John constantly urges Alice on hiking trips in the mountains, bicycling down the coast, horseback riding through Utah. At first, Alice followed faithfully with the hope of the newly in love, but lately she has been begging off.
“We ought to do something,” said John.
I had my eyes on the island as daylight faded away. It was a smudge of gray on gray, barely visible by now, the line between water and land obscured, the horizontal planes shifting and changing. My body didn’t want to move, but it did seem a shame to end the day so soon. I looked over languidly. “We could always take a night canoe ride.”
“That sounds like fun!” John turned to rise out of the chair, upsetting his drink. In one motion he scooped up the glass and set it upright on the deck. I groaned at his new found energy, reluctantly stimulated.
“What about you, Alice?” I asked. She had not moved or spoken for several minutes, her eyes and mind somewhere else.
“That would be fun,” she said hesitantly. She didn’t seem as enthused as John, but that was okay.
Blood stirred, the three of us clattered our folding chairs against the side of the houseboat and pulled old sneakers over bare feet. Going out on the river made my heart glad in a secret way I didn’t fully understand. I was being transformed by a newer, tighter yearning for the water. By the time we assembled the necessary items it was totally dark. Flashlights guided our way to the end of the dock where the canoe rocked back and forth, beckoning. John climbed in first, then Alice, then me.
“Are you o.k.?” I asked Alice as she gingerly positioned herself in the middle of the boat.
“She’s fine! She’s fine! Just get her sitting down.” John called over one shoulder. Alice wiggled around until she was comfortable. Then I stepped in after her.
“I’m not sure about this,” she said.
“Would you rather stay?” I asked. John started sputtering.
“I didn’t come all the way to Portland not to get on the river. This will be fun.” He pronounced this last statement with finality.
I shot him a look but there wasn’t enough light for him to see my expression. It didn’t matter to me if Alice went with us or not, but I didn’t like John pushing. Alice didn’t respond, so I kept my mouth shut. No sense getting in the middle of a husband/wife thing.
John was impatient and irritating, had always been so, but somehow I needed his energy. When we were all three at the university John was the passionate crusader of causes. We fought constantly, argued loudly over social issues I can’t now recall. Alice was the rock. She had always been the solid core of my relationship with John. I could never bring myself to admit I needed Alice as much as I needed John. Without them, my life was out of balance. We drifted apart after graduation. I practiced law a few years, took a leave of absence, then found myself in Portland dreaming of being an artist. John and Alice found common ground and married. I remember flying out for their wedding.
I untied the canoe from the side of the deck, took a paddle and pushed off. John was already drawing us swiftly away into the inky blackness, pulling one oar in long powerful strokes, me in the back struggling to keep the boat going straight through the night water. I preferred a leisurely paddle around the island and back but John was busy jabbing into the water determinedly. Alice sat in the middle, back erect, hands together, staring straight out into nothingness. She didn’t like water or night, and Alice was uncomfortable, not in the boat, but in her skin.
All around us the world was silent and black. We heard only the sound of the water, the splash of the oars, and John. Is this how he handles everything now? I wondered. I knew my way to the island by feel and as we grew closer to the bank silhouetted by the moon, I told John to cut to the left so we could swing around.
John slowed slightly and said, “How close can we go? I can’t see my hand in front of me!”
I frowned and thought for a second. “No, we can’t go too close because there are pilings.” The old upright rotted stumps of the dock that had been built out here long ago hid just under the surface. In daylight you could simply go around, but at night you couldn’t be sure exactly where they were.
I didn’t want to spoil their fun so I tempered my reluctance with, “we could go a little closer, maybe.” This was all John needed to hear. He turned and drew his paddle hard and fast. It was hopeless to counter John’s powerful strokes. There was no room for the lazy conversation I had hoped to have.
Suddenly we stopped with a hard thump. John had run us right into a pile! Alice was squarely centered on top.
“Rock the canoe!” I said. John and I rocked the canoe. Alice didn’t move. “Move over a little!” I called to Alice, but she didn’t move. John pleaded, I pleaded. We rocked the boat. Poor Alice, stuck in the middle, her body trembling with effort, her hands clutching the sides of the canoe, was afraid to shift even the slightest bit. The black water lapped the sides, riding dangerously high each time we tipped the boat as far as we dared. I could just make out the cylindrical shape below, afraid it would knock a hole in the bottom of the canoe.
Back and forth we rocked. Round and round we spun. If it hadn’t been so dark out, anyone looking across the water would have laughed at us. Whirling like mad men on the water.
Finally, after what seemed forever, John steadied the canoe and wedged an oar between the boat and the wood. I heard a welcome scraping sound as we floated free once again. Quickly we checked for damage, feeling with wet, numb fingers for water coming through. The wind blew through our sweaters and across our faces, sprayed with drops of river. No rush of wetness through our groping hands. We sighed in relief.
Suddenly it struck me how silly it was. I laughed out loud. John started laughing too. Poor Alice was exhausted. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “Oh, Alice!” I said. ” We’re ok, now.” John wiped his eyes and hiccupped. He didn’t look at Alice as I reached an arm around her as she had done for me in the past. John’s vision was the black nothingness that stretched in front of us to a line of lights where the houseboats nodded and blinked.
“I suppose we should start rowing back,” he said wistfully.
An unspoken wall had crumbled. We were all three, once again students with equal potential. Alice trailed her hand over the side of the canoe as we headed slowly back. Exhaustion kept John from his frantic pace for the first time since I’d known him, and I was content to guide the canoe from behind and he was content to let me.
“It’s pretty enough with the lights on the water,” Alice said. And we rowed back to the houseboat with only the occasional sound of the paddle in the river to stir our thoughts.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 