The best laid plans of mice, men, and women. A work of fiction where a meticulously planned evening takes a ruinous turn…
by: Katrina Johnston
Within a cabin situated a few kilometers from Lake Wimnoek, Melanie decided she was the Scrabble Queen. Outside, it was raining. Inside, she conspired to win. After all, Melanie could be whatever she decided. She commanded an explosion of two and three-letter Scrabble words. And Bradley, her husband of twenty-one years plus a few months, understood.
“Where the heck are Andrew and Janice right now?” she asked, glancing at the old-fashioned wooden clock while raising her voice. “Those two should have been here by 5:30. It’s already a quarter past six. Janice is probably making a show at being fashionably late, again. Andrew can’t stand it. He says it’s usually about her red hair. She’s a fusspot for appearance. Thinks she’s Lady Gaga or something.”
Melanie arranged the Scrabble board alongside a velveteen bag of letter tiles. The game was just about to begin. Melanie banked on being the most charming of the summer-time hosts. Eventually their distant neighbors, some 8.5 kilometers away, were expected. Melanie and Bradley held an agenda. The losing husband and wife team would pay for at least two rounds of drinks at Jefferson’s Public House. Bring it on.
Bradley shuffled through the cabin, a bottle in his hand, a checkered dish towel over his forearm. Like a high-end waiter, he popped the wine cork. “Have we got a dish that will make the last of the strawberries look like we’ve harvested a bumper crop?” he asked. A rivulet of sweat crept down his hawk-like nose.
“Use the swan-shaped platter. It’s most elegant,” Melanie said.
“Righty-roo.”
The clock ticked gently. It struck the half hour. Then full on. Seven chimes. Melanie polished their best wine glasses one more time. The guests were far too late. Bradley sat himself down to wait. The couple’s silver-blue Hyundai Elantra never materialized. Melanie finished off her glass and went for a second. It was almost an hour and twenty since they’d been expected.
“And we’re out here in the boonies,” Melanie said. “It would be useless to try to give them a dingle with the service out here. I wonder if they got their days mixed up?” She drummed her short fingernails on the Scrabble table.
“It’s not entirely impossible,” Bradley said. He looked up from the sports section of the paper he had begun reading, “I think Andrew said they were going for a walk by the lake after dinner. But I’m pretty sure they knew game day was today. He’d said they’d come even if it rained.”
“Do you think the rain has something to do with their delay.”
“I dunno honey-child, I just dunno?”
“Please don’t call me child,“ she said. “But honey, that’s OK.”
On the shores of Lake Wimnoek, Andrew Lyman was standing under a bridge, hovering over the crumpled form of his wife. He was waiting for an ambulance, the coroner, the medical examiner, or the cops — whomever the authority of the moment was. His car keys lost during his repeated dives into the lake.
He hadn’t called. No cell. No service. He was dependent alone on a passing truck driver. A stranger, driving to a nearby campsite, had finally stopped and offered. Andrew had flagged him down by standing in the middle of the roadway. His wife’s body pulled out of the lake by her long messy, muddy hair.
He had practiced CPR. He could not believe his worthless attempts to go into the deepest waters, to find her, to bring her back underneath the bridge, and then his fruitless efforts to restore her breath.
Nothing. Forever.
“They have a radio dispatch at the campsite,” the stranger had explained. “Come on. I’ll drive ya.”
“No I’ll stay,” Andrew said. “I’ll not desert her now.”
The truck driver was well set to do the righteous deed. The helpful driver’s name was not noted or for that matter asked for. He had tried again to convince Andrew to come along, but Andrew balked. The truck driver would summon the authorities. He drove off as fast as he possibly could, throwing a rooster tail of dust and stone.
“Godspeed,” Andrew whispered as the vehicle sped past.
Alone. Desolate. His wife deceased.
Andrew had pushed her ever so gently, a slight tap on the backside. Not on purpose, of course, but she’d gone into the lake like a carelessly tossed piece of junk, over the shortest railing, and immediately she’d gone under.
Frantically Andrew had dived. Head-first to reach her, but he could not find her. Over and over again he dove until his lungs screamed. Fear-stoked adrenaline. By the time he’d found her and jangled her right ankle, she was not responsive. A rag doll with her long red mane. Mud caked hair. Her clothes sticky. He pulled her up and swam awkwardly toward the shore dragging her lifeless form, a heavy limpid burden. He dragged her out using both hands.
He rolled over and immediately began CPR.
Their board game evening and other inconsequential obligations fell out of his head like useless wads of scrap. Time was meaningless. Breath in, exhale out.
A desperate man. She did not respond. Not gasp or shallow breath. She was over. It was done. This was not a game. There was never ever again going to be a game. There were no words.
No words. No words. No words.
