O ROMEO!

O ROMEO! 

Ophelia drowned. 

Red and blue flashing lights unsettle the dark silence when the rescue team arrives and surveys the scene. They create a perimeter and work through the mist that formed over the murky water but her tangled garments hold her under. And the receding tide washes away any clues. Her secret was safe. At least for now. 

No shots rang out. There were no screams. The old man had dozed off by the time they arrived. Though it couldn’t have been long. Their calm was unnerving. A life had been lost but no one was in any position to say. Or tell anyone anything they didn’t want to know. They had their procedures. And followed protocol. The old man tells them what he saw but it’s hard to make out everything he was saying. He slurred his words and I didn't want to get too close.

Ophelia had kept to herself and they left her alone. Mostly. That’s what she wanted they thought. She was from a good family and didn't move in their circles. Small towns can be rather provincial. But perhaps her demeanor was more a plea for help than disdain for their life style. Of course she knew she was different. Her clothes had absorbed their resentment and soaked in their pain. And weighed her down once she capsized, sinking her fate. 

I only spoke with her twice, briefly, and she was pleasant enough. Polite, not engaging. And she always wore flowers in her strawberry hair. I had heard the rumors about them. His family had influence. He might run for president someday they said. It was a story that people were talking about.

They were in no rush as they carried the sheet-covered gurney up the embankment. I turned over and tried to sleep after I snuck back in but my heart was still racing. The colored shadows pulsed on the curtains inside my room keeping me awake. I got out of bed and watched from the window as the ambulance drove away. Ophelia was dead and no one was talking. 

When the wind had picked up earlier the insects went silent. I remember now. It was strange not to hear their chirping but with the storm passing through I hadn’t given it much thought. I had some things on my mind. And had just started writing. Somewhere in that silence her last breath was exhaled. When exactly is what they needed to establish. Who made the call? Had she uttered any last words? It would have been easier for her to explain herself, but there’s no chance of that. They did their job, and when they checked all the boxes and left from the scene I knew it was over. Things may become clearer when the tide comes back in or when the sun rises and dispels the fog. Someday perhaps something will surface.

They called it an accident. Those were the headlines. But I think they knew. There was more to this story.

I had taken a walk to clear my head after the rain subsided. She was already in the water but I didn’t know that at the time. I saw a canoe had capsized. I heard rustling and looked around. I noticed a hooded figure walking along the tree line then dissolve into the mist that was hugging the shore. It was only an instant, but enough to make me wonder. What had I seen? It could have been merely shadows of shifting forms in the fog. Still, I wasn’t the one who’d been drinking. 

Then I saw something familiar in the water. Flowers …  and that hair floating out from under the keel near the dock. I turned the hull over and found her body twisted in the wooden piles. Her face was angelic. Even enticing. I stood there for a moment, then made the call. I didn't want to get involved but I felt I had to do something. That’s when I saw the old man sit down. Heave a big sigh. And take another swig.

We’d read about her years from now perhaps if anyone ever looked into it further.

And found the report. About her condition. By morning the old man would forget

everything or figure what was left swirling around were spectral impressions of a perplexing dream … or some vision he thought when they pressed him further. Yes, a delirium. It had all gone too far. He needed to stop drinking and maybe look for a job.

Or perhaps it was I who dreamt it all. In my confusion from the frequent night terrors I'd been having. Lack of sleep is prone to cause delusions, or at least impair judgment. The old man told me so himself this morning when I went to the diner for coffee and saw him there standing outside the door looking disheveled. It was late, just before noon. None of it happened he said. I hadn’t mentioned a word. What I asked. None of it he said still counting the money. I saw you. Black, no sugar.

It was not pursued by the papers and no posts had gone viral. They should have by

now. If there were any suspicions. But there were no reliable witnesses. I had no evidence. Only my word. Nothing upon which a solid case could be built. There remains the slight lean of the street pole standing on the other side of the quaint country road. And the leaves that are beginning to turn. No need for panic. The season is changing. Things would run their course.

Poor Ophelia I thought … to have that be all. Her final curtain call leaving Romeo

alone on the stage to fend for himself having waded in too deep to ever return. His mother and the rest are left only to wonder. His father felt confident. And no one says a word. They knew he’d play the part. For the sake of the family. Sure there’d be others. He had established a pattern and had a tendency to take risks. But daddy would always be there. So his secret was safe. For now. It was an American tragedy. In a small town by the lake shore.