| |
THE NEXT DAY RORY TRIED to explain that he wasn't feeling well so that he could leave early, but then his teeth spread in a toxic smile. Nobody asked him to stay. And when he passed by the nervous lady at the desk, he smiled on purpose and acted casual. She nodded and put her eyes down and was too afraid to meet his gaze. His eyes were sunken and dark and it often seemed like you got lost in them but not in the romantic way. It was in the confused, scared way someone gets lost in the forest – shouting to get out, afraid to be stalked and preyed upon. Like if you fell in, you'd come out covered in a black slick of oil gasping for air. That's what his eyes were like.
He went home and changed into the one pair of swim trunks he had, oversized and stained, and then put on a white t-shirt and sandals. He looked at his toes. He studied them. They felt unsure on land. He put lotion on his nose because that's what the sheriff did in the movie, and then he set out. He was talking to himself about the possible sharks he would see in the Gulf waters, about how great it would be to swim with them. As he walked he waved at people he passed by, but nobody waved back to the gangly man. The beach was covered with bright towels and umbrellas. Sun-kissed bodies ran and soaked, and the man that weaved in and out of them was only a minor concern. The idea of him blotting out the sun with his figure upset the people. They wanted him far away from their day. He was a leper in the town square. The one begging to be healed.
There was a moment, as Rory made his way across the white sand and through the fun commotion of beachgoers, that he remembered his first day. How Marisol was back then and how maybe it didn't change so much as grow into itself. He worked at the resort as long as it was there, back years ago when it was considered reckless for intruding on local territory. Everyone was nervous and wary that this resort would take the authenticity away from the beach. The locals who were hairy and always wore shorts and seemed to always have a layer of salt on them at first protested. But the resort worked. It was the two brothers' father, in fact, who helped ease the resort into the lives of Marisol residents. The resort appeased them with competitions, fundraisers, and tried to actively partake in local goings on. The brothers' father, Mr. Neil, as Rory knew him, was a strong and careful man. As Rory walked to the kiosk to talk to the two sons, he was still is unaware of the lineage. He wouldn't care even if he did know, it's important to point out, but he doesn't know or rather, doesn't realize. The connection failing to spark synapses. The two wires just missing.
Earlier, when P.J. woke up in his small room, he felt sick. It wasn't the beer or the hastily made dinner. It wasn't the existential nausea of having to do the same damn thing every damn day. No, although he's had that nausea before, this wasn't that. He was nervous. He had barely slept through the night, and his stomach was on a hot plate. Sizzling. Bubbling. Like when you drink too much coffee on an empty stomach. Or you stumble upon something not meant for you.
He tried for a second to recall exactly, frame by frame, the figure he saw last night. The man on the dune. The gangly knobby-kneed man. He tried to convince himself it was a nightmare or a dream, but it wasn't. And then he turned in on himself. Why was he so afraid? Nothing had happened. Nothing was wrong. Like when Dennis would shake him out of a terror in grade school. His younger brother routinely taking care of him – a secret he only told an ex-girlfriend once and then never again after seeing her eyes widen. What must’ve it been like for Dennis to hear his older brother bellow and shriek in the room adjacent? For Dennis to come out, and gesture to their father, also coming down the hall, that he'll take care of this one. Like parents swapping off on a toddler.
P.J. pulled the blankets up. Then he rejected them, deciding that going out into the sun to start his damned day was better than lying in bed right now, toiling in his past embarrassments, in his foggy fears that never seemed to go away. Not really.
When Rory reached the small hut, only Dennis was at the counter. P.J. was already on the water with a new group of passengers, only about four, and they had just left and approached the slope line. P.J. talked into the intercom, telling the unenthused bunch about the history of the resort and the history of Marisol Island. The small boat took the waves with ease, and the mist of the sea was refreshing. He was wearing his bright blue uniform and swim trunks. He replaced his baseball cap with a white bucket hat to look like Gilligan, and his brown curls poked out from underneath. He resented this. He needed a haircut, he thought to himself. He was starting to look like his mother.
"I don't see nothing," said a woman. Her thighs were pink and chapped and were burning on the hot tin of the bench. She wore a one piece that folded with her and hugged her like a casing.
"We're not that far out yet, ma'am. Don't you worry," P.J. said, rolling his eyes at the horizon. The woman murmured something behind him.
"The water is awfully dirty, huh?" said a man from Brooklyn.
"It's not dirty, it's just salty and sandy."
"You mean dirty."
"Sand isn't the same thing as dirt," P.J. retorted before catching himself. He shouldn't be arguing with them. If they reported him, he'd get a tongue-lashing from his boss. Or worse, his boss would tell his father who, in turn, would shame him over the phone. Maybe even drive in from the mainland. Now that'd be something.
"Oh, okay," the man said sincerely. P.J. turned and gave a smile to bring back the peace. The boat moved onward, rising slightly on the waves, dropping on the bounces. A daily rhythm. A comforting rock that P.J. tried to focus on.
From the shore, Dennis watched with his binoculars.
"How much for a ride?" Rory said, leaning forward on the counter.
"Ten dollars," Dennis replied. He put his binoculars down to get a better look at the man. He recognized him. If not from his face, then from his posture – like a signpost caught in the wind. He had a persistent lurch forward, like his back was trying to escape out of him.
Rory dug into his pocket and placed the money on the counter. Then Dennis remembered him. Maybe it was the look of his knuckles or the unusual movement of his lanky arms.
"You came yesterday,” Dennis explained. “You're the shark guy."
Rory was delighted by the nickname. His smile reached ear to ear. "Yeah, the shark guy," he said. He had never been an anything guy before. This felt right. It felt like a tailored suit. The shark guy. "I can't wait to see some."
"Don't hold your breath."
"Yeah."
There was a beat, and the two looked around and then at each other. For two seconds, Rory wondered what Dennis tasted like. Not in the cut him up and serve him sense, but in the way that if something with a maw swallowed him whole. In the way that if something with knives for teeth tore into his flesh and sinew and bone and he screamed and choked on his own blood then -
"Alright, you can go when the boat comes back in."
"When's that?"
"Probably twenty to thirty minutes. You can see them come back from the shore so you shouldn't miss them. You can just hang out until then."
Rory smiled large. Then he turned and walked to the shore where the sand was still wet, and he sat down.
Dennis watched Rory watch the boat. The man sat there in the middle of everything. He took out his small paperback and started thumbing through the pages like he was looking for a specific passage. The sun was high in the azure sky, and it was a little past noon. There was no breeze and the heat radiated off the white sand. Dennis put the walkie-talkie to his mouth and buzzed his brother.
"That shark guy is back," the fuzzy voice rang through on P.J.'s side. P.J. turned with his binoculars and saw Rory casually sitting cross-legged as the tide kissed his feet. He tried to imagine Rory standing on a dune, like the silhouette had been last night. He should've told Dennis about it, but now was not the time to bring it up. His younger brother once again saving him from a terror. Now was not the time. P.J. spat in the water.
"Is he riding next?" P.J. asked back into the receiver.
"Yeah, that's right.”
"Thanks for the heads up," P.J. said.
"Hey, we're pretty far out, and I still can't see anything," the pink woman said from behind him. There was a smattering of agreements.
P.J. put the receiver down and turned to the lady.
"I have snorkeling gear if you want to go in and under. Then we could see you under there," he said, gesturing to the Plexiglass bottom.
"Yeah, mom! Do it!" A little boy shouted, tugging at her arm.
"Oh no, I couldn't. Why don't you do it?" the woman said nudging the kid back. The boy looked at his own brother and it was settled.
P.J. turned off the motor and let the boat come to a stop. He gave the boy the snorkeling gear and fastened it on tight. Then he gave him a life vest and secured it.
"I don't wanna wear this," the boy said. "I can't go deep if I wear this."
"It's just the rules, man," P.J. replied. "I can't let you get in without it."
"Okay," the boy said nasally with the goggles on tight.
"I'm right here if you need help."
"Be safe, honey, take a deep breath of air," the mom said.
The little boy held the top of the snorkel closed and jumped into the water. It was warm and dark. He bobbed for a moment and waved at his mom and the others on the boat. He took a deep breath and went under portside. He swam smooth and he swam fast. And he swam against the buoyancy of his own vest. Then he felt for the underside and pulled himself under. He saw his mother and the others on that boat looking back down at him through the panel. The kid waved and the mom waved back happy and the image bothered P.J. Here, the kid was half underwater, his cheery face pressed against the glass, the rest of him gone and bleary and undefined in the murkiness of the gulf. Like he didn't belong there. Like he was trying to share two different worlds. The surface and below.
Back on shore, Rory put down the book when he saw this. In his mind, the waters out there were inhabited with the precise and prehistoric dwelling of a different creature. To him, it seemed impossible for anything to dive in and come back without being snapped at the heels by something quick and shiny. He was expecting violence to occur and for people to run and scream and for thick red to shoot out of the water like a fountain. But that didn't happen. And when the kid emerged from the water and was pulled back aboard, he felt like it was teasing them. Teasing him.
With his arms crossed, he started scratching at his elbow irritated. His foot tapped into the wet sand and he looked around at everyone else playing and swimming. He clenched his teeth. If one were close enough to him they'd hear a hushed muttering coming from between his chapped lips. It'd be the whispering of apologies. Emotional. Resonant. And sincere but not to any human that he may have crossed in the past, no, they were to the waves. And they were on behalf of a disinterested kind, but Rory apologized anyway.
On the boat, P.J. started to slack. He started turning the boat crudely, not paying attention to the swells of the waves or his own speed or the angle of how he hit crests. He repeated the same facts about the islands and asked repeatedly if the kid wanted to go back in the water. His mind was back on shore with the gangly man. He wondered if Rory would be the only passenger, and if that were the case if it would be awkward or uncomfortable in any way. If something did happen, was he near enough to the shore for Dennis to see? Then P.J. caught himself. Nothing is going to happen, he thought.
"Where are we going?" The man from Brooklyn asked. "I can't even see anything. What's the point of this?"
P.J. ignored him.
"Hey, buddy, I asked a question. Where are we going?"
P.J. turned the boat around, "Back to shore."
"Oh, what a ripoff," the man said to the woman. She agreed. P.J. nodded his head as well without listening. The boat approached the land.
As the boat came nearer, it looked like a drawing. With the young muscled man at the helm and the weak passengers bobbing along with each swell, it seemed like an image depicted once in black and white on old parchment. Something by Gustave Dore. Like the man at the helm was Charon either delivering them to a ring or back to the living. The Inferno. The Hell. The Gulf. Printed on yellow pages between ink and death, an arthritis hand scribbling for praise or for self bleeding.
Rory rose to his feet. He put his hands in his pockets and started rocking on his heels. He turned to a little girl making a sandcastle, and he shared the news of the approaching boat. She ignored him, and he smiled at her sincerely. In fact, everything Rory did was sincere. He was a simple man and had never been deceptive in his life. He usually only spoke when spoken to and he always gave clear answers to the best of his knowledge as scarce as it was. The fact that the little girl didn't share his excitement didn't bother Rory. She could've been verbal about her apathy, and he still wouldn't have minded. People often get upset when their interests are dismissed, but Rory didn't operate on these levels of emotion. They seemed trivial to him. He was so simple in nature that he proved almost profound. Like some perverse guru of self-confidence.
When the boat pulled up to the dock, he made his way towards it with intent. "Walk with intent!" he always thought to himself. He had heard some tour guide say it a long time ago when he was a child on a field trip to a place he doesn't remember. "Follow the ribbon and walk with intent!" And he did, too tall for his age but too stupid as well. The kid in class who hit his growth spurt too early, following the guide's ribbon-like it was a game. The woman and her children got off the boat grumbling and the man from Brooklyn was having it out with P.J.
"I'm saying I want my money back, son," he said. His face was pink.
"Sir, I can't give you a refund. All transactions are non-refundable, man," P.J. said, still standing on the boat. It bobbed in the water like it didn't belong to our gravity. Like it wanted out. To skid along elsewhere without a captain or a crew. The man stood on the dock stationary.
"I don't care, boy. I didn't see a damn thing out there. It was all brown and green."
"Sir, I can't help if you see anything or not. You could've swam under the boat like the kid. You paid for the ride, and you got the ride."
"I paid for -
"My turn?" Rory's voice cut off the man. The man had on a gray cap, and his cheeks were stubbly with white hair. He turned to Rory, and Rory smiled and repeated himself. "It's my turn. I think." Adding the last part as another calculation.
"Don't waste your money," the man said and gave a scowl at P.J. and then trudged down the dock back to the sand.
The two stood there facing each other, one a boy, one a man. Rory held his hands in his pockets and stood tall. The sea breeze blew gently, and the two listened to the random noises on the beach. Some kids off to the east were throwing a Frisbee. Some other kids, knee-deep in the water, played "keep-it-up" with a volleyball. Seagulls squawked. From the way Rory was standing, P.J. knew he was the silhouette from late last night. He wanted to ask him what he was doing around the boat, but he balked. He also wanted to be wrong. He looked at Rory and then over to Dennis who watched from afar. Rory stood there blankly.
"Wake up! Wake up!" Dennis once shouted, shaking P.J. awake. P.J. was in fourth grade, Dennis in second. This was years ago. P.J. had a nightmare and he was sweaty and cold and was howling in the night. Thank God for Dennis. Thank God for every day that Dennis is with him. How'd he get so afraid? How'd his soul become so fragile? His psyche so delicate? Like a Shoji door, one macabre image or ghastly thought could punch through it and shred it to pieces. Climb in. Grab him by the heels.
Rory looked at P.J. He offered his new nickname first and blushed. "I'm here again. The shark guy. Ready when you are," he said. A thin smile grew across his face. Though off-putting, it was not sinister. It seemed earnest. Maybe with a hint of desperation.
P.J. nodded.
"You're gonna be the only one," he remarked.
"I don't mind being alone," Rory said back. Again, earnest. The oil of his eyes not even reflecting the sun – just swallowing the light whole.
There was nothing left to say and no other passengers to wait for. He walked back to the bridge of the boat and motioned for Rory to come along. Rory diligently stepped over the gunwale and sat on the tin bench with his hands in his lap. He reached over and picked up a life vest and fastened it nicely. P.J. started the boat and went off. He felt nervous having his back to Rory, but he also knew that all this paranoia was unwarranted. Or, well, he hoped. The man hadn't done anything to him. In fact, it was probably unfair of P.J. to treat him this way, but also, deep in P.J.'s gut, he knew that most people probably treated him this way. That made him feel bad too. Made him feel sad.
P.J. buzzed Dennis to let him know they were departing, and then he started his speech about the founding of Marisol Island. He turned around to speak directly to Rory, but Rory wasn't on the bench anymore. Instead, he was on all fours looking through the Plexiglas. He was cupping his eyes to block out glares and pushing his nose hard against it. P.J. could see in his back pocket a folded up book. It was wet from where he was sitting.
"We're not far enough yet, man," P.J. told him. "We gotta get out further."
But Rory stayed on the floor looking down. He moved around, chasing shadows in the water, probably some errant grunt or sea moss, but it was too thick for him to see through. He soon sat back up on the tin bench. He looked at his ankles and then at the sky, and he looked like he was praying. His lips were quivering, and he was mouthing words so quietly they must've only been for him or for something unseen yet nearby.
It reminded P.J. not of church but how church is portrayed in shows and movies. Some desperate son of a bitch running into a massive and empty building. He's sopping wet from the rain. He needs one last saving grace, and he falls to his knees and begs. And maybe, just maybe some old priest hears him crying and approaches. That's always how P.J. regarded religion anyway. A last-ditch effort. Something you clamor for.
"When will I see something?" Rory asked. There was a shift in his tone. Earlier it was light and with joy. Had you heard it, you may have even thought the source was young, instead of the haggard-looking man it came from. But now it sounded assertive. Angry. It was heavy and serious. He looked, not at P.J., but directly through the Plexiglas bottom like he expected the boy to summon something for him. For a moment, P.J. didn't know if the question was even directed to him, or to whatever was underneath the boat, in the greenish brine.
"I'm not sure," P.J. said quickly glancing back to shore. Dennis seemed impossibly small and impossibly far. "We've been actually pretty unlucky all week. The water is too, uh, sandy and stuff. It's murky, you know?"
"Please show me something." It was directed at the glass again.
"I'm sure you'll see something," P.J. replied. He couldn't keep his eyes ahead. He couldn't keep his back towards Rory. The hair on his neck was tingling.
The vessel went forth. The day was bright and hot, and the vessel went forth. P.J. felt sweat form under his uniform shirt turning the blue into a darker color. The water was growing choppy, and P.J. wanted to be off the boat right now. He wanted to be far away from this man. Rory sat at the far end of the tin bench and whispered to himself. P.J. continued his talk about Marisol Island but caught himself repeating facts and stammering. After a couple minutes into his speech, he realized that Rory wasn't listening and hadn't been, so he stopped. The sun from the sky lined Rory's back along the ridges and lumps of his spine. He wrung his hands together and watched the glass.
P.J. first moved out onto Marisol Island three years back after graduating from the University of South Florida. He moved to the island with his father and Dennis. Their father was the head of the Seashell, and that's how they got their jobs at the kiosk. After a while, though, their father found a better job at a hotel on the mainland and so moved back. But the brothers had already gotten settled in. Dennis was attending community college when it suited him and when he felt like taking the forty-minute commute over the bridge back, and P.J. never really cared for change, so the two brothers just stayed there. They told their father that when Dennis got his associate's degree they would come back, unless some better position opened up at the Seashell. Now it had been three years and Dennis was really no closer to getting his degree, neither of them were close to getting a promotion, and their dad still paid most of the rent for their apartment. They didn't really see a point in making changes. These were the perks of coming from an affluent family. P.J. was never ungrateful per se, but he also didn't acknowledge his blessings all that often. He lived his life casually, often taking each wave as it came and rarely planning for the storms ahead.
The man behind P.J. was offering something he hadn't felt in a while. Fear. Danger. Unease. There was a time, years ago, when P.J. was a child around Halloween. His father, back when they lived in the suburbs, requested for him to go in the backyard and retrieve a lime from a lime tree they had planted in the season prior.
P.J. went out in that Florida night and in that Florida heat. The lime tree sat towards the end of the backyard near the edge of a lake that the suburbs wrapped around. And on the edge, in the black muck of the lakeshore, a figure laid – half-sunken, half drowning. Like a peat man, mummified.
P.J. heard it move before he saw it. A thick sucking sound like when you pull the plug out of a drain. P.J. turned and under the moonlight, coming out of the water, something extended a hand for help. A mouth opened and screamed. P.J. dropped the lime and ran back to the house, yelling for his father and for Dennis.
With a flashlight out, their father revealed what the figure was – a couple of turtles docked on a half-sunken tree branch. No hand reaching out. No mouth gasping for air, choking on mud. Just some turtles. And P.J. never wanted to feel stupid, scared, or wrong again.
"Are we out far enough now?" Rory asked. His eyes looked desperate. His nose was still white with lotion. He reminded P.J. of someone.
There was no point in lying to him P.J. thought. They were well past the slope, and if Rory didn't see anything, then that wasn't anybody's fault. "Yeah," he said turning off the motor. “We’re far enough.”
Rory dropped to his knees and started searching again. It was no use. From the sun above, you could maybe see a yard or two down into lighter green water, but then it got darker and darker and was soon void of light.
"Are any sharks down there?" Rory asked, rising to one knee.
"I have no idea, man," P.J. said.
"Do you have any chum?"
"What?"
"Chum. We could ladle some into the water and get a slick going. That'll attract some for sure."
"Man, I can't do that. I don't have any chum, and even if I did, I wouldn't want to attract a ton of sharks to a full beach."
"Why not?"
Back on the beach, Dennis left his station. He went to find food and something cold to drink. He left his binoculars at the stand and for a brief fifteen minutes, let his brother float out there on his own with the shark guy. He'd be fine, Dennis thought.
"Why not?" Rory asked again.
P.J. looked at him. It was neither sarcastic nor rhetorical. Rory's eyes were rimmed red and his eyebrows, though scraggly and ill, furrowed in confusion. The boat rocked steady.
"Because that'd be a disaster," P.J. explained.
"Well yes and no," Rory began as he stood to his feet emboldened and excited to speak to someone from a place of wisdom, "If you're thinking that the sharks would eat them up because they love eating humans you'd be wrong. They really just like to eat anything. They're machines. The chum would just get them going. Hell, they'd probably even try eating this here boat."
"Another reason why I'm not pouring chum," P.J. said. He went to turn the motor on. "Let's head back. There's nothing out here."
"No, wait," Rory pleaded. P.J. turned around, and Rory was leaning over the edge looking directly into the water.
P.J.'s patience was running out. He wanted to get back on land and get drunk with Dennis and be away from this guy. And then he thought, shit, maybe he should stop drinking. Maybe that's why he's been on this goddamn beach for three years. Because all he seems to do is get drunk with Dennis. Maybe all of that should change. But Dennis keeps him safe, and he loves Dennis, he thought.
"There's nothing here. And I have to bring the boat back," he finally said.
"Why? There's nobody waiting for it."
"Because it's hot and I could be doing anything else right now," P.J. winced at the aggression in his voice, but he still wanted to be clear. He progressed on a tight rope. "If you're sure something is here, you can grab the goggles and go down there yourself." He felt rude. On the off chance that the man would tell his boss that'd be it. Then more shame. Another three years wasted. More drinking with Dennis.
Rory stood still and was quiet. "Do you mean it?"
P.J. breathed with relief.
"I'll wait right here for you," P.J. was surprised that this was actually working. He could actually get this guy out of the boat for a minute or two. That wouldn't be as bad. He could breathe. Relax.
Rory looked at the goggles and the snorkel in the milk crate that was bungee-corded to the end of the tin bench. His lips curled in a sensitive smile. He took off his shirt to reveal a pale hairless chest just slightly spooned. He bent down and put on the gear. He fumbled with his glasses under the goggles for a minute and then decided to take them off and rest them on the bench.
"How do I look?" Rory asked. His question was heartbreaking because it, like everything else, was sincere. He wanted to look beautiful for whatever was beneath the waves. He felt, purely, in his heart, that something down there awaited him and could be impressed. His smile, in combination with his question, struck P.J.
"You look fine, buddy," P.J. said. He felt heaviness in his own words. His jaw felt tight.
"I'm gonna take this off," Rory said, unfastening the life vest.
And for some reason, P.J. didn't stop him. Again, if his boss saw. If his dad saw. But there was something unstoppable about this tall man. Something rang out that he didn't need any help in the water.
Rory shuffled to the edge of the boat and rested a foot on the starboard side. He looked to his right and saw the white sand of the beach stretch far in either direction. He saw the kids playing and the adults tanning and milling around. The hotels and bungalows seemed like little mountains just beyond the sand dunes. The sky beyond that was blue and clear. Beyond that, who knew. Then Rory looked to his left. P.J. stood there, nervous, leaning on the small helm of the bridge. The motor off. Beyond him, the glimmering water stretched forever, it rippled the reflection of the great sun and made everything shiny for miles. Rory liked that. He stepped his second foot on the ledge and stood.
"Silly beach, right?"
And then he plunged into the water.
It swallowed him whole and then settled as quickly as it splashed. After the quick rock of the boat, P.J. hurried to the side and leaned over. The sunlight illuminated only about a fathom down before he grew brown and bleary. Rory must have sunk like a stone.
"He just jumped off the boat," P.J. said into the radio to Dennis. "Dude was weirding me out, so I let him swim."
There was no response.
"Dennis?" P.J. radioed again.
There was still no response.
P.J. looked into his binoculars and saw that Dennis wasn't at the stand. P.J. rocked alone steadily on the boat. He walked to the glass bottom and looked through to see if he could see the man. He couldn't make out what he was seeing, but he did see vague shadows moving around deep beyond the light's reach. It looked like two shadows, faint and barely there. Then there were three, four, five, and the faint shadows seemed larger and denser. Then one of the shadows shrunk in size, then got big again, then grew darker and more defined. Something was rising out of the water towards the bottom. Something was coming up fast and was going to bump into the glass and P.J. was ready to see it. Then, through the brown murk of the water, Rory emerged, unconscious. His limp body floated up and his face pressed against the glass just like the boy before him. Sharing two worlds.
P.J. panicked. Rory's face looked half-dead already in that sandy water. He leapt off the edge of the boat and dove into the water, acting on instinct and instinct alone. The water was colder than he had anticipated. He quickly came back up for air. He had to regain his composure. He had to still his lungs. He looked at the edge of the boat and swam to it. He grabbed on to the edge with his right hand and with his left, he reached as far as he could under the curve of the bottom. He felt for Rory's arm or leg or anything, but the boat was too wide for him to reach. He let go of the edge and swam under, and with his eyes closed, he grappled the first floating lump he felt and swam with it to the other side.
When he broke water, he was panting for air. He held Rory like a child under his arms. The man’s head swung back and forth on his weak neck. P.J. understood that if anything happened to this guy, he'd be done for. He shouldn't have let him swim. He should've had someone come out. Now the two were both bobbing beside the boat, and P.J. wanted to let Rory go. For some reason, he thought that was the best idea. His muscles wanted him to release the tall strange man into the gulf and let him be taken down under by whatever shadows he himself conjured. But he didn't.
The gunwale was low enough for P.J. to reach. With his right arm still wrapped around Rory's torso, he used his left to grab the edge when it bobbed down. With great struggle, he pulled himself back into the boat and then reached down and pulled up Rory's limp body. As he pulled Rory out of the water, he saw more shadows dart back and forth and circle and merge and then disappear.
P.J. dropped Rory on the floor of the boat. He pushed in his chest, just below the sternum, pumping and praying. He opened Rory's mouth and blew in air. Rory's lips were salty and slimy from his own mucus, and his teeth were gray and wide-set. P.J. kept going and soon, he was rewarded with Rory spitting up saltwater.
The ride back to shore was silent. When they finally docked, P.J. tied the boat up and tried hard not to make eye contact with Rory. Rory walked down the dock, but stopped halfway. Then he turned around and smiled.
"Thanks," he said, showing his small gray teeth.
P.J. didn't answer. He didn't know if the thanks was for saving him or for letting him swim or what. He ran his fingers through his wet curls.
"They were all down there," Rory continued. His shirt stuck wet to his chest. His glasses looked large on his face. "They knew my name."