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I look up at the bridge now. Looks old and unstable, but the trains still use it. I spend a few minutes just idling in its slatted shadows. I like the sloshing of the water on the bridge’s legs and against my boat. Water’s pretty smooth here, so I lie on my back in the boat's hull for a few minutes, staring at the train tracks above. As the boat drifts, the amber sunlight moves over my face in gentle waves, turning the inside of my eyelids yellow-red.
I think this would be a peaceful way to die. And that’s morbid, because I don’t want to die. I laugh softly, peeking through my lashes at the bridge’s underbelly.
Train, don't come yet. I’m pretty sure I know its schedule, and it’s due in around half an hour. This thing is mostly made of wood. I know there's metal on it, too, but man—I wonder how sturdy it is. Right about the time I'm wondering, I hear some whistling. At least I think it's whistling. Sounds so out of place over the lapping of water. Then comes little boom, boom, booms.
Is somebody walking up there? I push up on one elbow, squinting against the sunlight that's beaming across my face.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM...
Sounds a little echo-y. I can’t see anybody yet—bright sunlight—but I can hear what I’d bet are footsteps.
Then they falter. That's when I see him. He’s tall, wearing dark pants with his arms bare, and I think a ball cap. Within a second or two, the guy’s walking right over me. I can't tell if he looks down. Doesn't slow, that's for sure. Then he's in the middle of the bridge. I hear a sound that's not the boom of footsteps before I see legs dangling off the bridge’s side.
Oh, damn.
This guy’s brave—or stupid.
I sit up more. Yeah, this dude’s definitely sitting on the edge of the bridge. He's got some long legs that are still at first...and then they start to swing a little. Probably just my imagination, but I feel like they're swinging in an agitated kind of way.
You should be nervous, I think at him.
The only person I know who jumped off the trestle bridge is Matt McGuin, when he was drunk on the Fourth of July, the summer after his freshman year of college. I guess the impact got him, and due to all the alcohol, he couldn’t swim up to the surface. Mrs. McGuin didn't even go to the funeral. Wouldn't come out of her house for months.
Something falls down off the tracks. I guess a little dirt or something. I’m frowning up at him when it happens again. This time, something hits me.
This guy's throwing pebbles? What the hell?
I shield my forehead with my hand, and right about the time I'm gonna shout up at him, there’s a creak. He’s standing. I think: good he’s leaving, he’ll be gone before the train comes.
But he jumps.
No, that’s not a jump. The mofo dove off the bridge. I see the blur of his form—fucking falling—and I note shoes on his feet. Holy shitballs. His massive splash rocks my boat pretty damn hard. I sit there with my heartbeat going haywire for a second, waiting for his head to pop out of the water. When it doesn’t happen, my heart shoots up into my throat.
Put the trolling motor down and get him!
He’ll come up below the boat!
It takes my brain another second to realize I need to dive in.
No shit, Miller.
Hesitation—thinking of those catfish. Then I tug my shirt over my head—why does that matter, dumbass?—and acknowledge that my hesitancy is because I'm hoping that his head'll break the surface any second.
When it doesn't, I do what any Fairplay guy would do. Lifeguard since I was fourteen, swimming in this lake since before I could walk. I step up onto one of my leather swivel seats and dive in after.
Motherfuckit.
There's always that initial shock of cold—even in summer. My head and shoulders break the surface, and my legs are kicking and my arms are treading. Dammit! I don't see him.
I dive under, kicking forward, maybe closer to the spot where he plunged under. Kind of don't remember where—
Oh shit! The fucker KICKED me! In the fucking temple! I surface holding my head, and the sounds of choking fill my ears. I'm wiping my eyes when he grabs onto my arm and pulls hard.
“UUUUUUUUGGHHK!”
“Uuuuuuuugggghhkkk!”
The awful choking sounds he’s making are terrible, and so loud. They would freak me right the fuck out—if I'd never heard another fucker choking.
I ignore that part and also the guy’s big-eyed face and open mouth, and when he won't stop pulling on me, I sorta lightly punch him, make my way around behind him. He’s still grabbing at me, so I slap at him again.
“Get on your back!”
