'It can't get you if you stand on the boards.'
'No, don't put me down, it'll get me, I know it will, I know—' He raked at her back again. She screamed in anger and pain and fear. 'You get down or I'll drop you, LaVerne.' He lowered her slowly and carefully, both of them breathing in sharp little whines—oboe and flute. Her feet touched the boards. She jerked her legs up as if the boards were hot.
'Put them
'Deke—'
'Dead.' Her feet touched the boards. Little by little he let go of her. They faced each other like dancers. He could see her waiting for its first touch. Her mouth gaped like the mouth of a goldfish.
'Randy,' she whispered. 'Where is it?'
'Under. Look down.' She did. He did. They saw the blackness stuffing the cracks, stuffing them almost all the way across the raft now. Randy sensed its eagerness, and thought she did, too.
'Randy, please—'
'Shhhh.' They stood there.
Randy had forgotten to strip off his watch when he ran into the water, and now he marked off fifteen minutes. At a quarter past eight, the black thing slid out from under the raft again. It drew about fifteen feet off and then stopped as it had before.
'I'm going to sit down,' he said.
'No!'
'I'm tired,' he said. 'I'm going to sit down and you're going to watch it. Just remember to keep looking away. Then I'll get up and you sit down. We go like that. Here.' He gave her his watch. 'Fifteen-minute shifts.'
'It ate Deke,' she whispered.
'Yes.'
'What is it?'
'I don't know.'
'I'm cold.'
'Me too.'
'Hold me, then.'
'I've held you enough.' She subsided.
Sitting down was heaven; not having to watch the thing was bliss. He watched LaVerne instead, making sure that her eyes kept shifting away from the thing on the water.
'What are we going to do, Randy?' He thought.
'Wait,' he said.
At the end of fifteen minutes he stood up and let her first sit and then lie down for half an hour. Then he got her on her feet again and she stood for fifteen minutes. They went back and forth. At a quarter of ten, a cold rind of moon rose and beat a path across the water. At ten-thirty, a shrill, lonely cry rose, echoing across the water, and LaVerne shrieked.
'Shut up,' he said. 'It's just a loon.'
'I'm freezing, Randy—I'm numb all over.'
'I can't do anything about it.'
'Hold me,' she said. 'You've got to. We'll hold each other. We can both sit down and watch it together.' He debated, but the cold sinking into his own flesh was now bone-deep, and that decided him. 'Okay.' They sat together, arms wrapped around each other, and something happened—natural or perverse, it happened. He felt himself stiffening. One of his hands found her breast, cupped in damp nylon, and squeezed. She made a sighing noise, and her hand stole to the crotch of his underpants.
He slid his other hand down and found a place where there was some heat. He pushed her down on her back.
'No,' she said, but the hand in his crotch began to move faster.
'I can see it,' he said. His heartbeat had sped up again, pushing blood faster, pushing warmth toward the surface of his chilled bare skin. 'I can watch it.' She murmured something, and he felt elastic slide down his hips to his upper thighs. He watched it. He slid upward, forward, into her. Warmth. God, she was warm there, at least. She made a guttural noise and her fingers grabbed at his cold, clenched buttocks.
He watched it. It wasn't moving. He watched it. He watched it closely. The tactile sensations were incredible, fantastic. He was not experienced, but neither was he a virgin; he had made love with three girls and it had never been like this. She moaned and began to lift her hips.
The raft rocked gently, like the world's hardest waterbed. The barrels underneath murmured hollowly.
He watched it. The colors began to swirl—slowly now, sensuously, not threatening; he watched it and he watched the colors. His eyes were wide. The colors were in his eyes. He wasn't cold now; he was hot now, hot the way you got your first day back on the beach in early June, when you could feel the sun tightening your winter-white skin, reddening it, giving it some
