got played after that, and they stayed on the floor. He noticed George Dozier, a retired cop and friend of Marcus’s, dancing beside him with his wife. Karras broke a sweat, and after the dance took off his sweater, revealing an old Hawaiian shirt underneath. He ran into Al Adamson, tough as ever, who pointed at Karras’s shirt and laughed. Karras went and got another beer. In the kitchen he talked with Kevin Murphy and his quiet wife, Wanda, both of them gone gray. Murphy’s shirt was pinned up where his arm was missing; Karras patted him on the shoulder before walking away. Then someone dimmed the lights, and the party partnered up and slow-danced to “That’s the Way of the World.” Karras stood alone, quietly sipping his beer, the EWF tune reminding him of hope, and how it had once been in this city that was his home. But he wasn’t sad. He was with his friends. He hadn’t felt this good in a long while.
Clay, dancing with Elaine, his chin resting on her shoulder, winked at Karras from across the room. Karras raised his beer and smiled.
TWENTY-THREE
On the opposite shoreline, the sun fell behind the forest of pine, and dusk settled on the creek. Bernie Walters had another beer, watching the clouds reflected on the water. The creek was calm and smooth this time of day. Looking at the creek like this, with the clouds painted on its flat surface, it was like he was looking down on the sky. If you looked at it long enough, thought Walters, you’d come to believe that you could jump off the dock and never hit water. If you jumped you would just fall out, into the sky.
“Jeez,” said Walters, looking at the beer can in his hand, “I better slow down.” He set the beer on the dock, rested his hands on his belly, and leaned his head back against the chair.
He woke in darkness. The clouds had cleared, revealing a ceiling of bright stars and a bright half-moon in the black sky. The air was cool but not bitter. It would be another mild winter night. He’d sleep right out here on the dock; it would be nice.
Walters reached into the cooler for a beer and lit a cigarette. It was too late to think about cooking supper. Walters decided he would just drink.
He drank another beer, and then he was out of beer and got up from his chair. The dock seemed to move beneath his feet. He peed off the side of the dock and tottered up to his pickup, parked beside the trailer. He grabbed a six-pack from the bed and a fresh pack of smokes off the dash of his truck, and his sleeping bag from the back of the cab. He stumbled and fell to one knee on the way back down to the dock. He gathered the things he had dropped and squinted, looking toward the water. The dock was clearly defined in the moonlight. Soon he was on the dock and back in his chair.
He cracked a beer and lit a cigarette. Looking out across the water he thought of his wife and son, and he began to cry. He wiped tears off his cheeks and beer from his chin. The tobacco burned down to his fingers, and he flipped the butt into the creek. He sat in the stillness of the night, listening to the quiet run of water beneath the dock and around its pilings. He killed his beer and decided to call it a night.
Walters spread his sleeping bag between his chair, his cooler, and his fishing rods and the edge of the dock. He was too drunk to move everything back now. He would be all right.
He removed his Orioles cap, set it on the dock, got into the bag, and zipped it to his neck. He lay on his back, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at the stars, the last wisps of clouds, the moon. His eyes grew heavy and he fell to sleep.
He dreamed that he was falling.
He opened his eyes, and he was falling. The black water rushed up to meet him.
The cold water shocked him. He was numb at once, and his head went under as he tried to free his arms from the bag. He freed one arm and kicked furiously at the bag. Now his head was out of the water, and he used his free hand to try and unzip the bag, but his hand was like a club. He kicked at the bag, moving himself away from the dock. The bag and his clothes were heavy and he was going down again and he kicked.
“Aaaah!” yelled Walters. “God!”
He kicked, and the bag was down around his waist. He went under and came up and kicked and now his legs were free. But his legs were moving very slowly. His clothing weighed him down, and he couldn’t seem to move his legs. He treaded water and almost at once he was tired. He saw that he was far from the dock and the pilings around it. His arms ached. He tried to float, but his clothing and boots dragged him down. He let himself drop beneath the water so that he could rest. He fought and broke the surface of the water with a gasp. He could no longer feel his feet. His arms barely moved. He looked at the shoreline and knew he could not make it to the dock.
Daddy!
Walters turned his head. He was near the sunken rowboat. He could see the tip of the bow.
He used his shoulders and will to cut the water and move toward the boat. He went under and came up. He choked in air and moved toward the boat again. He shut his eyes against the water that was rising and then he closed his mouth and he was down.
He felt something solid and grabbed it. He pulled himself to the solid thing and hugged it.
I have reached the boat, thought Walters. I’ll float myself up now and I’ll be at the boat and above the water and I’ll hold onto the bow while I get my breath.
He tried to push away from the boat, but he was held fast. His down vest or his shirt, something was snagged on the boat. He panicked and writhed violently, watching the bubbles from a cough of exhale explode around him. Something slid across his neck, and he shook his head in panic and was bitten in the face.
In his panic, he let out the rest of his breath.
He had no air in his lungs. He was dizzy and his chest burned and he could no longer move his arms or legs.
In the gray water he saw shapes. The silhouettes of a woman and a little boy dog-paddling toward him.
I love you, Vance. I was always proud of you, son.
Bernie Walters relaxed. He opened his mouth and breathed. The creek flowed into his open mouth and flooded his lungs.
It didn’t hurt. It was peaceful. His chest didn’t burn and he was no longer cold or anything else.
The darkness came like a kiss.
TWENTY-FOUR
Frank Farrow lit a Kool. He leaned forward, dropping the match into a kidney-shaped ashtray set on a cable- spool table in front of the living-room couch.
Roman Otis stood in front of a rectangular mirror, running a little gel through his long hair, softly singing the Isleys’ “For the Love of You.” He couldn’t quite hit the highs like brother Ronald, but he had it in spirit. That was one nice love song there, too.
Otis smiled, admiring his gold tooth. He patted his hair, turning his head so the gel caught the light. You had to be careful not to put too much of that gel in your hair. He’d seen some brothers in the old days overdose it, goin’ for that Rick James look, came out lookin’ like glue and shit.
“Hey, Frank,” said Otis. “You just dye your hair again, man?”
“Some stuff I picked up at the drugstore down in Edwardtown,” said Farrow.
“Finally got that shoe polish out, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Otis pursed his lips. “Looks good, too.”
Farrow glanced at Gus Lavonicus, sitting at an old desk, trying to write a letter to his wife. He had the push end of a pen in his mouth, and his lips were moving as he struggled to compose the words. His legs were spread wide, as he couldn’t hope to fit them under the desk, and he was fanning them back and forth. When you got right down to it, thought Farrow, the guy was nothing more than a giant child. Farrow should not have agreed to let Otis
