Free Breathing Water by T. Greenwood Page A

you were busy opening another bottle? Did you leave the burner on while you were fabricating ways for me to leave you?” I am growing. In the darkness, I feel my bones expanding to accommodate me.
    He stands up and knocks the chair onto its side.
    I start backing toward the house, slowly. I am trying to make the tiger angry. I want him to attack.
    â€œDid you singe the sauce while you were imagining me with someone else?”
    I am certain that he will strike this time. That these bruises will be real. As he puts his hands on my tightened shoulders I will him to hit where it will show. I want his careful kicks, his soft fists to leave marks this time. This will be the proof I need. The violet blossom of broken blood vessels, the blue berry, the evil imposter, will be my proof. But instead he strikes with his words, pushes me softly into the camp, and, later, into the bed, covering my mouth to keep me from telling anyone that there is only one door and it opens to this again and again.

June 29, 1994
    T he clock said three-thirty when I heard someone walking on the front lawn below my window. The sound was heavy, watery, and thick. I was too afraid to sit up. The curtains were open to let in the breeze, and he might have been able to see me. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on the sound of his feet. But behind my eyelids, I saw Max’s face. I saw Max watching me as I plucked the oyster shells from the sink, as I dumped soggy cigarette butts from the empty beer bottles. On the back of my eyes, I saw Max walking slowly toward the camp to find me, to make me go back with him again. I forced my eyes open, forced Max away. He was dead. He couldn’t come here anymore. Suddenly, I realized that it might be the break-in kids: high schoolers who broke into empty cabins to drink and smoke pot. But it was too late for that; it was that strange spot of time between deep night and dawn. The sky was black, but the air smelled of morning. I pulled the blanket away from my ears so I could listen for voices.
    I heard the steps again, the swish of pant legs and dew-drenched grass. My heart was pounding so loudly, I swear I could see my chest rising and falling. I inched my way slowly to the edge of the bed and crawled carefully onto the floor. The wood was hard on my knees as I made my way to the window. There was silence.
    I peered out the corner of the glass, trying to see the yard below. It was too dark. There were no streetlamps here. I heard the sound again, and shrank back down to the floor. I looked through the window and it was like peering into nothing. I sat on the floor until I was certain that whatever was making the noise was either gone or just part of a dream I was having, and then I crawled back into the bed. I drifted in and out of sleep until Magoo’s rooster started his cockadoodle-dooing at five-thirty and the sun was warm on my bare shoulders.
    As I carried my coffee with me outside, I decided that I must have imagined the invasion. It’s something I have done since I was little, talking myself into a fearful frenzy. I walked to the edge of the lake and felt calm. Silly. I put my feet in the water and drank the hot coffee. It was a strange sensation, terribly hot and terribly cold at the same time. I enjoyed this odd equilibrium of hot and cold, frightened and calm until Magoo started up his chain saw.
    I walked back to the camp, whistling loudly over the chain saw’s roar. And then I saw a glass jar on the steps to the unused front door. I walked slowly across the yard, thinking that maybe it was just the jar I kept the paintbrush in, stinking of turpentine and speckled with red paint. But there was something odd about its shape. Something unfamiliar.
    I bent down and picked it up. It was a jelly jar, the kind with beveled edges. For marmalade or raspberry preserves. But there was no lid, and it was filled with murky water. The shape of the glass made kaleidoscopes of whatever was inside.