Sunrise On The Lake - 1. Chapter 1

He walked down to the edge of the lake and pushed the small aluminum boat into the water. It was cold to the touch and for a moment he thought of going back inside and getting some gloves. But instead he just climbed into the boat and sat down. He grimaced as the cold from the seat soaked through his jeans and he wished for a moment that he had worn the ones with the flannel lining—or had at least put a pair of long johns on. Then again, maybe he could have grabbed one of the boat seats from the shed. But he hadn’t, and he really didn’t want to waste any more time thinking about what he almost wished he had or hadn’t done.

He pushed one of the oars against the hard bottom of the shoreline. The boat slipped easily into the water. He smiled. It was a good old boat. The best $300 he had ever spent. Plenty of room for a tackle box, a cooler and still enough room for 3 people with fishing poles. And stable as hell. Couldn’t tip it over if you tried. Well, you could—but you would really have to try. And even then you would only really succeed in falling in—not actually tipping the boat over.

He put the other oar in the water and rowed a few strokes. The water was smooth as glass and the strokes seemed almost effortless. He closed his eyes and rowed. He knew the lake like the back of his hand—or more accurately, like the body of his lover. He could find his way over every surface in the dark with his eyes closed—just by the feel of the water against the oars, like he could by the feel of Michael’s skin against his hands.

He raised the oars and let them rest on the sides of the boat. He opened his eyes and looked around. He had rowed out to the middle of the lake. The mist was thick and he couldn’t see the shore. But he didn’t feel disoriented, not here, not on this lake. He could feel the difference in the air on all four sides. On his left, the air was cooler, damper. And if you smelled the air in that direction, it smelled light green. The lake turned to swamp over in that direction and there were lily pads and pussy willows and frogs, lots of frogs. Great place to catch bass—if you could manage to keep your line.

Behind him, the air felt more “lived in” and he could smell the faint scent of a wood fire. The house was back that way, and about this time every day you could smell breakfast cooking through the kitchen window. Michael was always an early riser, liked to catch the first trout of the day.

Ahead of him the air smelled of pine—especially when there was such a heavy mist. The woods were thick with pines at that end of the lake, and it was as if the mist drew the smell of pine right from the needles on the trees.

And on his right, the air felt warmer, a little heavier. To the right was the east—and even though the sun hadn’t touched the horizon yet, it was already warming the air that drifted across the concrete of the new road that gave the “public” access to their lake.

He turned his face to the east and stared into the mist. He took a deep breath and let all the scents fill his senses, let them turn to colors in his mind. The light green of the swamp, the smoky gray of the wood fire, the deeper green of the pines and the soft peachy pink of the coming dawn all swirled around in his head.

There was nothing like sunrise on the lake.

He picked up the oars and started rowing. He closed his eyes as he rowed. He knew the lake like the back of his hand—or more accurately, like the body of his lover. He could find his way over every surface of the lake in the dark with his eyes closed—just by the feel of the water against the oars, just like he could find his way over Michael, just by the feel of his skin against his hands. He could tell when something wrong was in the water—like he could tell when something wrong was on Michael’s skin.

He opened his eyes, though he really didn’t need to, not to know where he was. He could feel the change in the water. He was over the deepest part of the lake now. And he could feel the difference, could feel the depth. It was over 30 feet here—he had seen that the last time Michael had brought the fish finder with them. It was strange, really, how the lake bottom took a sudden drop right here. Five feet either way and the lake bottom was barely ten feet down. They had always speculated that at some point in the lake’s distant past a meteorite must have crashed into the lake bottom, leaving a sort of crater down there. Of course, Michael always pointed out that there could be any number of reasons why the bottom suddenly dropped like that. But they both really liked the meteorite theory. And whatever the reason the bottom dropped out, it was something that you could really feel right through the oars.

He raised the oars and brought them right inside the boat. He sighed and leaned back a little. He could smell the wood fire. It was strange how the air currents picked that up and carried it to him. He was almost at the other side of the lake, much closer to the pines than the house. But he could smell the wood. And the heat, he almost thought he could feel the heat from the fire on the back of his neck.

He looked to his right and saw the sky turning light blue just as it touched the horizon. There were still trees there. They hadn’t cut them down when they had put the “public access” in. He couldn’t see them now, not yet. The mist was still too thick and the sun not yet high enough to give them that back-lit silhouette look that was so striking. How many pictures had he taken of that? Too many, Michael would say. Claire loved his pictures, though. Of course, she was his sister, so she would.

He closed his eyes as he thought of Claire and of Michael. He loved them both so much. He felt the warmth on the back of his neck again, a slow warmth, like hands slowly massaging him, working their warmth into his skin. He sighed as he imagined they were Michael’s hands.

He opened his eyes and looked toward the sunrise. The sky was blue and pink now, the sun just starting to peek up over the horizon, like it was shy, hesitant, like it didn’t quite want to see. But it did see. He could tell by the way it stared at him through the trees, could tell by the sharp lines of white breaking through the trees. They were pointing at him. Like fingers with sharp nails. Fingers of accusation.

He turned back toward the house. The mist was black, dirty. A wood fire burned dirty. So did other things. He felt the heat against his face. Heat from the wood fire. And he saw the glow—it was like a sunrise, almost. A different sort of sunrise though, maybe an October sunrise, a Halloween sunrise, all orange and yellow—and black, from the smoke, from the dirty smoke, from the dirty wood, from the dirty bed.

He turned away abruptly. He had always wondered if the bottom of the lake was like a crater here. Michael had always wanted to dive down to the bottom, to see for himself. Claire had wanted to go with him. She was always so curious. About everything. About the lake. About everything. About Michael. About everything. Always so curious.

But the lake was theirs. Not hers.

He pushed the body over the side of the boat, watching as the detergent bottles filled with concrete, that he had tied around his ankles, took Michael down to the bottom of the lake. It was their lake. His and Michael’s. Never Claire’s. He looked back at the house. He could see it clearly now. Or what used to be the house. It was all flames now. Red and orange and yellow and black… dirty black smoke from the dirty wood from the dirty bed. It wasn’t their bed now, not his and Michael’s. She could have it. It was hers now and she could stay there. Would stay there.

But the lake was theirs, his and Michael’s. He sat for a moment and watched the sunrise. It was already starting to burn off the mist. It was going to be a nice day. He smiled as he stood up. It was a good old boat. The best $300 he had ever spent. Plenty of room for fishing tackle, a cooler and still enough room for three people with fishing poles. And stable as hell. Couldn’t tip it over if you tried. Well, you could—but you would really have to try. And even then you would only really succeed in falling in—not actually tipping the boat over.

He picked up the detergent bottles filled with concrete. They made great anchors. Heavy as hell really. He felt the boat tipping slightly. It tipped, but it didn’t tip over. Amazingly stable, really. The most you could do was fall in. He held one in each hand and tossed them into the water. The most you could do…

He closed his eyes as he fell, instinct making him hold his breath as head went under the water. He was never really very good at being underwater. The idea of having nothing around him to breathe but water had always panicked him a bit. Michael was the swimmer, so at home in the water that he was practically a fish. And Claire… she was like a fish, too. An image of a shark flashed through his head. A shark with a big white toothy grin trying to pretend it wasn’t doing anything wrong while bits of Michael dribbled out of the corner of its mouth…

He opened his eyes as he felt the detergent bottles hit the bottom, felt the ropes jerk on his legs. He looked around. The water in the lake was always so clear, even down here. And damned if it wasn’t a crater of some sort. They had been right about that. He could see how the sides seemed to curve as they rose—like the craters you saw on the moon. And there was Michael. He had left his eyes open. It would have been wrong to not let Michael finally get to see what it really looked like down here. Michael had always wanted to dive down to the bottom, to see for himself. He smiled. It was good he had finally gotten to see.

He reached out and pulled Michael toward him. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over Michael’s skin. He knew Michael’s body as well as he knew the lake. He could find his way over every inch of him, knew the feel of every inch of his skin against his hands. And he could tell when something wrong was on Michael’s skin—just like he could tell when something wrong was in the water. There was nothing wrong on Michael’s skin now. And there was nothing wrong in the water. Nothing that didn’t belong here. It was their lake. His and Michael’s. He brushed his lips against Michael’s ear and let his breath out slowly, let the air leave his lungs—and slowly let the water take its place. It would always be their lake. His and Michael’s.