Read Online The Twilight Swimmer by A C Kavich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A C Kavich
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injury, but she wasn’t in the mood to be prompted.
“How did you get home?” Spider went on. “Zombie-walked the whole way?”
“I got home fine.”
Spider sighed audibly. “I know you got home. I’m asking ‘how’. How did you get home?”
Brandi looked back inside the house where her parents were still sitting at the kitchen table, watching her speaking on the phone. When she caught her father’s eyes, he quickly looked down at his empty plate as if searching for one last morsel of meatloaf. Her mother made no such attempt at hiding her curiosity, going so far as to hold her hand up to her cheek, thumb and pinky extended in the universal hand-sign for ‘phone’. What this gesture signified, Brandi could not be sure. Was she meant to acknowledge that she was on the phone? Was she meant to get off the phone?
“I have to go,” she said to Spider, flatly.
“Okay, I mean--” His voice had gone high and soft, full of disappointment. “Is there some way you need me to apologize that I haven’t covered yet? I’m sorry in that way too, I promise. I’m sorry in the fashion of those words that you need me to say.”
“I have to go,” Brandi said again, her impatience asserting itself in the tone of her voice.
“All right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bye,” said Brandi, hanging up before Spider could say anything more. She sat on the deck for a while longer, still holding the phone by her ear as if Spider was still on the other end. For her mother’s eyes, so she would leave Brandi alone. Brandi stared out across the dark lawn, at the trees that lined it on two sides, and at the small wooden dock by the water where her kayak was tied up. She wanted to bolt straight for it, to drop the phone in the grass and run, but the moment of ecstasy she would feel as she shoved off, her parents screaming and waving for her to stop, would be too short-lived to warrant the consequences. She abandoned the fantasy and returned to quiet observation of the night scene, greens and blacks. And in her head, she heard the first notes of Bolero and began to plan her late night reverie.
Now, hours later, the rising music drowned out the world.
She didn’t hear the glass deck door slide open with a low whoosh. She didn’t hear the wide feet slap wetly on the linoleum in the kitchen, water streaming from wet skin and clothing, dripping and pooling. She didn’t hear the feet slip on the smooth wet surface, then move to the tan carpet of the living room where the texture on the soles scraped, imperceptibly, against the tightly-woven strands of fabric. She didn’t hear the strong hand grip the banister as the wet feet compressed one stair at a time – a slow ascent. She didn’t hear the feet padding down the carpeted hallway. She didn’t hear the doorknob turn. And she didn’t hear the lungs, the lungs so familiar and so foreign, draw in short, rapid breaths as the eyes, brilliant gray, took in the sight of her reclining body.
But then the song ended. Brandi looked up.
The Swimmer was standing in her open doorframe, wearing her father’s khaki pants and flannel shirt. The saturated clothing clung to his long, slender body like a second skin. One sleeve was twisted uncomfortably at his thick shoulder. The pants hung low on his hips, unbuttoned and partially unzipped, the two mechanisms too alien for the Swimmer to have attempted employing either or even recognizing their purpose.
Brandi recognized him a split second later and tried to stop the scream issuing from her throat, but it was too late. It rattled her bedroom window and all but peeled the paint off the walls. Like any scream in a silent night, it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She scared herself with the intensity of the scream, drawing her knees up to her chin and pressing her back against the wall as she took in the sight of her inhuman visitor.
Inhuman. He must be, she thought. He stood perfectly still, his expression
“How did you get home?” Spider went on. “Zombie-walked the whole way?”
“I got home fine.”
Spider sighed audibly. “I know you got home. I’m asking ‘how’. How did you get home?”
Brandi looked back inside the house where her parents were still sitting at the kitchen table, watching her speaking on the phone. When she caught her father’s eyes, he quickly looked down at his empty plate as if searching for one last morsel of meatloaf. Her mother made no such attempt at hiding her curiosity, going so far as to hold her hand up to her cheek, thumb and pinky extended in the universal hand-sign for ‘phone’. What this gesture signified, Brandi could not be sure. Was she meant to acknowledge that she was on the phone? Was she meant to get off the phone?
“I have to go,” she said to Spider, flatly.
“Okay, I mean--” His voice had gone high and soft, full of disappointment. “Is there some way you need me to apologize that I haven’t covered yet? I’m sorry in that way too, I promise. I’m sorry in the fashion of those words that you need me to say.”
“I have to go,” Brandi said again, her impatience asserting itself in the tone of her voice.
“All right. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bye,” said Brandi, hanging up before Spider could say anything more. She sat on the deck for a while longer, still holding the phone by her ear as if Spider was still on the other end. For her mother’s eyes, so she would leave Brandi alone. Brandi stared out across the dark lawn, at the trees that lined it on two sides, and at the small wooden dock by the water where her kayak was tied up. She wanted to bolt straight for it, to drop the phone in the grass and run, but the moment of ecstasy she would feel as she shoved off, her parents screaming and waving for her to stop, would be too short-lived to warrant the consequences. She abandoned the fantasy and returned to quiet observation of the night scene, greens and blacks. And in her head, she heard the first notes of Bolero and began to plan her late night reverie.
Now, hours later, the rising music drowned out the world.
She didn’t hear the glass deck door slide open with a low whoosh. She didn’t hear the wide feet slap wetly on the linoleum in the kitchen, water streaming from wet skin and clothing, dripping and pooling. She didn’t hear the feet slip on the smooth wet surface, then move to the tan carpet of the living room where the texture on the soles scraped, imperceptibly, against the tightly-woven strands of fabric. She didn’t hear the strong hand grip the banister as the wet feet compressed one stair at a time – a slow ascent. She didn’t hear the feet padding down the carpeted hallway. She didn’t hear the doorknob turn. And she didn’t hear the lungs, the lungs so familiar and so foreign, draw in short, rapid breaths as the eyes, brilliant gray, took in the sight of her reclining body.
But then the song ended. Brandi looked up.
The Swimmer was standing in her open doorframe, wearing her father’s khaki pants and flannel shirt. The saturated clothing clung to his long, slender body like a second skin. One sleeve was twisted uncomfortably at his thick shoulder. The pants hung low on his hips, unbuttoned and partially unzipped, the two mechanisms too alien for the Swimmer to have attempted employing either or even recognizing their purpose.
Brandi recognized him a split second later and tried to stop the scream issuing from her throat, but it was too late. It rattled her bedroom window and all but peeled the paint off the walls. Like any scream in a silent night, it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She scared herself with the intensity of the scream, drawing her knees up to her chin and pressing her back against the wall as she took in the sight of her inhuman visitor.
Inhuman. He must be, she thought. He stood perfectly still, his expression
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