While we talked, Tyler walked to the truck, then came back. “Hey, I got you something,” he muttered, nervously pressing the ring box into your hands. When you opened it, your grin grew huge. “Oh, it’s gorgeous!” you said, slipping the ring onto your finger. “Thank you, thank you!”
Tyler was grinning too. “Well, I didn’t want you forgetting about me since we aren’t seeing each other in class every day.”
“Awww … I will never forget about you. Ever, ever.” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed him twice, quick little pecks. “Come on, let’s jump together.” Both of you holding the tire swing, you backed up and ran for the edge, planting a foot in the tire just as it sailed out over the lake. Holly, when you jumped, your ring winked in the sun. You hit the water with a massive double splash, then popped back up laughing. The swallows swooped down from their mud nests clumped across the bluff’s stone face, crying and wheeling above your head.
Now, Tyler cuts the motor and we coast toward the bluff. Your pa-paw drops the anchor from the aft deck. The anchor chain rattles down through the hawsehole for a long, long time, dropping all the way to the drowned forest. The swallows dive at the boat, scolding us, slicing the air a few feet above our heads. At the crucifixion, swallows screamed at the Roman soldiers, trying to warn them of the terrible crime they were committing, trying to stop them. That long, hot afternoon, they kept trying to warn us too, didn’t they, Holly? I know that now.
But you and Tyler treaded water together, holding each other, giggling and kissing in the shade of overhanging pines. Swinging lazily on the tire swing, watching the two of you below, it struck me that my cousin had been about my age when she forgot about Swallow’s Nest Bluff. We might not remember it either by next summer. I would have to bring Tim and his friends out here soon, before we lost the way.
But that day, with the cool breeze rolling off the lake, it was still our secret place. I called down, “Hey, Holly! Can you still do a backflip?”
You laughed. “Haven’t done one in years.”
“So? You still got it in you.” I stuck a foot out and caught the earth again to stop the tire from swinging. “Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat. I’ll do it with you.”
Tyler joined in. “Come on, I want to see.”
“Fine, okay. And just one, then we go home. The water’s already getting too cold.”
The bluff is steep. The only place to climb out of the water is a natural staircase of algae-slick stone. You climbed carefully, with Tyler close behind. The swallows cried and wheeled, but we ignored them. We stood inside the old rubber tire as Tyler dug his heels into the dirt and pulled it back. I remember the great branch overhead groaning, he pulled us so far. Then he let go. We whooped as emptiness rose up around us like a whale, swallowing us whole. We plunged down its throat, jumping high and fearless, scattering the shrieking birds. Our feet kicked the blue out of the sky.
We speared the water, and I lost sight of you. Momentum drove me down, down, until the black branches of the drowned forest licked at my heels. I started kicking back to the light, breaking the surface with a gasp that turned into a laugh. Tyler stood high on the bluff cheering. The water was getting cold, so I climbed out quick. By the time I reached the top of the bluff, though, Tyler had turned quiet and nervous. He was shielding his eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
“Holly? Holll-yyy!”
There was just the bull’s-eye of ripples spreading out from where you’d vanished. Soon, they vanished too. The ancient water forgot you’d ever been there. That was when the knowing—even before I dared say it out loud—felt like gravity grabbing me by the stomach. The swallows never stopped screaming at us.
Your pa-paw steps onto the deck, startling me back to today. “Well, guys?”
“Guess we just play,” Tyler says.
Nodding, your pa-paw swings his Dreadnought around. He picks out “Shave and a Haircut,” then says, “I know. This one, Holly always liked,” and teases a buttery-smooth melody from the strings.
Your pa-paw plays for the swallows and the bass boats slicing along the channel. An hour passes in drowsy stillness, in sweltering heat and the damp stink of river muck. Tyler climbs to the roof of the boat’s cabin to see what he can see from there.
Dear Lord in Heaven, please help Holly. Please give us the strength to face whatever we must face.
Kneeling—the hard rubber deck hurts my knees—I try to pray. But every time I glance over the side, the milfoil has gotten a little thicker around us. I go back to the aft. Plant stalks wrap around the anchor chain and are tangled in the propellers.
“Stupid seaweed has us snagged again,” I call out.
On the roof, Tyler nods. “Good. Means Holly is listening.”
“But we need more than this. We need to know what to do.”
“Give her time, Jane. We have to give her time.”
I glance over the side again, trying to peer past the swaying weeds and murk. You dove down and got tangled in something on the bottom. The trees down there made it too dangerous for rescue divers, so we all just left you there. We had a funeral and said the prayers and buried a box full of letters and photos, but we left you down there, all alone inside the drowned forest. Is that why you can’t rest, Holly?
“Come on, Holly,” I whisper into the lapping, muttering water. “We’re here. We’re waiting. Tell us how to help you. Just tell us.”
The last ember of sun burns down. It’s dark but still sticky hot. Needing a break, your pa-paw calls Tyler down to take over playing. I duck into the cabin to get sweet tea for everybody. Tyler starts playing “The Drowned Forest,” since that one already called you once. Bo must have talked to his parents by now. Tyler must be worried but doesn’t let on.
Crunching an ice cube between my teeth—it tastes like pure, delicious cold—I sit with your pa-paw and listen to Tyler play. “You really think Holly’ll know it’s us?” I ask. “I mean, it’s just music. It could be just a radio somebody left on.”
Your pa-paw shakes his head. “Two people can’t play a song the same way, even if they wanted to. Everybody puts their own style into it. I’d know Holly’s style anywhere. She knows mine.” Moths mob the deck light, creating a fluttering lace of shadows across his face. He adds, “My momma’s been dead twenty years. Sometimes I hear songs in my dreams, and I’ll know it’s her playing them just from the way she played.”
“Your mom played guitar?”
“Oh, goodness. She played fast and hot like a string of firecrackers.”
I chuckle. In my mind’s eye, I see the old woman from American Gothic rocking out, doing huge windmill strums.
“What’s so funny? Everybody knew how to play a little down in the holler, or at least dance some. There wasn’t any other way to knock the dirt off your boots. And Momma, she played like you thought the house was burning … down.” He turns.
A soft splashing comes from the stern. We all turn, but the deck lights blind us, turning the darkness beyond them construction-paper black. Something rattles up the anchor chain. It’s climbing out of the water and over the railing.
“Pa-paw?”
Dashing, crowding the gangway, we yell over one another. “Holly, we’re here!” “It’s okay!” “Holly, Holly!”
Crawling into the light, you’re thin, thinner than I could imagine. Your skin is dusky red like a newborn’s. It’s the color of dried blood. “Pa-paw? Help.”
Dropping to his knees, he holds you. “I’m here, Little Bit.”
“Pa-paw, I’m cold.” Arms hug his neck. You cling to him like ivy.
Your skin is … clay. It’s damp red Alabama clay. It splits when you move, and pale spikes of milfoil grow between the cracks.