The Shores of Lake St. Catherine

The Shores of Lake St. Catherine

Devin Bradley

            Remnants of a hot, sultry day linger in the evening air, inviting you to a barefoot walk along the shore. And so you do. Drifting down the water’s edge, away from the crowd, trying to ease some of the overcast murk inside your head. You bend down to look at your face in the water, and ask your reflection,

-       Why is this so difficult? 

It replies,

- It’s just a simple hello.

But you just aren’t ready to act, and the cloudless afternoon is drawing to a close. Talking to her may not happen. If not today, then never. 

And that’s ok.  

Because the end of day is leaving the Green Mountains washed in gold, and that’s good enough. 

You make your way back to the picnic area to find not everything is as you left it; though she is no longer sitting in perfect repose where you last saw her. That feeling of relief turns your body into puddles of twitching nerves. Maybe it’s disappointment. How lost of an opportunity was it, really, if the action was nixed with such certainty?  

She’d seemed out of place on the sandy shore wearing her sundress and a floppy, oversized sun hat, amidst the swath of swimsuits and tanned, naked stomachs. Your missed opportunity plagues you, wondering if you would have ever approached her.

Children are on the banks of the water, their parents removing the last remnants of the lake off their goose-pimpled skin with sun-heated towels. They move in languid motion, as if to stall the inevitable close of a day—as if arrest of the inevitable could prolong the freedom of the afternoon.  

The water continues to dance, an echo of the last swimmers to leave their play. That desire to be still, to let the moment swallow you, beckons inaction; so you straddle the bench on a wooden picnic table, staring out.

All these people silhouetted against the early evening sheen reflected on the water become extensions of their elongated shadows. Moving in equal parts, they are both spurts and sweeping gestures. A child squeals and runs away from her parents as they chase after. Their annoyance a mockery, their cries of “get back here” give way to laughs and tickles as the father scoops the child into his arms. He carries her back to their picnic gear, most of which is packed and ready for transfer. The tip-tap of cooler lids snapping into place, the soft billowing of a towel as dirt and sand are flung from its fibers lets you know something is about to change. More families are ready to leave; more children, in varied stages of exhaustion, make their way to their cars. Some are laughing, some crying, some maintaining until they can get into their car seats, rest their head, and close their eyes.

So consumed in the poetry of it all, you fail to notice someone has taken a seat across from you. When at last you stretch from your position, you move your hand to the center of the table accidentally touching her hand. It’s a comfortable surprise. Familiar.  You don’t look at her, choosing, instead, to focus on your feet. There is no stiffening of her body. Instead of moving her hand away, she reciprocates by placing her other hand atop yours. You dare not open your mouth for fear of releasing the butterflies in your stomach.

You feel her as she leans in, closer, your body shuddering for a brief moment, waiting for what will come next. 

She whispers, “Look.”

You lift your head and watch the sun sink behind the mountains of Lake St. Catherine.  

The water ripples in disturbance and there, in the center of the mirrored setting sun, waist deep, stand two lovers. They are older, much older than you, and though you can’t tell, you might venture to guess somewhere in their mid-eighties. The woman has her hands gently wrapped behind the neck of her man, while he delicately holds her waist. He leans down to kiss and she lifts her head to meet him. They stand there, poised against the sunset locked in embrace. Between them is the water. He stands tall and never once do they break eye contact. 

At times there is an exchange of smiles, yet, for the most part, the two stare with intensity only experience can bring. They are lost in each other, blind to the spectators just beyond the sand. In trying to soak in each moment, study each movement, you notice he seems to be the one who moves in the water. A kind of slow dance to an inaudible rhythm as the woman stands there, holding him, never relinquishing her grip. Her entire body following his action.  

Then, sitting on the treetops, the sun gives its final bow with a burst of red and orange before whispering “goodnight”. In applause, the sky blushes pink then leaves the performance wrapped in soft greys and blues. 

The couple, who have held your attention this long, begin their own final promenade back to the shore. In all your staring, you failed to notice how frail the woman truly was, as she is lifted from the water and carried back to shore. A wheelchair waits; and that is where he takes her. She sits as he dries her off, gently caressing each leg. He must carry her often as you notice, despite his age, his arms are uncommonly fit. He wheels her away, and she waves to you. You wave back. As they near the parking lot, he stops and leans down so his head rests near hers. She points to something in your general direction, and they lightly chuckle. There is a tinge of self-consciousness working its way to your cheeks.

The man helps his wife into the car, lifting her with measured delicacy, before walking back to the beach. You expect him to stop, to offer you advice, but he moves past you with calculated footsteps. The light continues to dissipate, so it is now a race against the darkness. He bends over just where the water meets the land to pick something up—a forgotten towel—and holds it in his hand. He is turned in such a way you just barely make out the way he holds the object with one hand, gently petting it with his thumb. For a moment he stands tall before slumping at the shoulders, a deep sigh with no relief.  

That moment, with both of them in the water, is relived until you are sure it becomes etched into his eternity.  

There was something different about today. 

Because now he is wiping a tear from his eye. 

You see it, too: she will soon be a ghost in his arms. 

He bends once more, this time with a hand in the water, touching a memory. 

“They were incredible, weren’t they?” comes a voice across from you. “They come here almost every night.” 

Having forgotten this whole time you were holding hands with someone, you startle at her words. When you turn to who is sitting across, you see the silhouette of a large floppy sun hat. Like yourself, she has been here most of the day. She was the one capturing your attention as you tried relaxing on the shores of the lake. You enjoyed watching the way she flirted with life, laughing and playing and talking with absolute strangers. How could it be that here she was smiling at you, looking at you, holding your hand? 

She must have waited for your approach that never came.

Now’s the moment when you can finally act.

Say hello.

You move her hands so that you can hold both. She squeezes, and you understand what it means when they say one will see fireworks and hear the gong of bells. You are seeing them. You are hearing them. There is no denying this person is the one you would grow old with. You would gladly stand waist deep in the water and kiss her in front of an audience. You would massage her legs that no longer worked.  

You would carry her…

You would.

In her, you see a world of infinite possibility and hope. A cloudless sky. 

            You look out over the lake, nod and say, “I would have done that for you.” Her eyes dance. She smiles because she thinks she knows what you mean. Slowly, you break from her stare to look at her hands, held perfectly in yours. As hard as you want to hold them, you retract, leaving her with nothing. 

“But at some point, all I would have to carry is your memory, and I’m not strong enough for that.”  

So before she can offer a rebuttal, you walk away from the shores of Lake St. Catherine.