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Jane M. Downs<br />
He punches in the tape. Music explodes, then settles into a familiar strain that relaxes him,<br />
propels him through the delicate snowfall. He will climb steps strewn with shoes and<br />
small sailboats. He will gather his sons to him, breathe in their salty scents, feel the small,<br />
tight muscles of their backs.<br />
6<br />
<strong>The</strong> landscape stiff with cold. Without James you are in pieces. <strong>The</strong> wine makes you clumsy.<br />
You see yourself and your sons as the nighthawk would: a torn branch floating on the<br />
lake.<br />
James said that when he set off a round of ammunition, he released pieces of himself. He<br />
said he was lodged inside each human being he’d killed.<br />
<strong>The</strong> cove. <strong>The</strong> far shore where you first drank from his body. He kept touching your face.<br />
And now, you are crying. You turn toward the house. Light flickers through birch. Two<br />
cones of light on the lawn. You stand up and call his name, your voice a flame. <strong>The</strong> Old<br />
Town rocks. Philip yells, “Sit down!”<br />
He pulls at your shirt, and you jerk away. <strong>The</strong> Old Town lurches onto its side. You aren’t<br />
able to stop them from falling. You follow.<br />
Water rushes into your ears and mouth. You cannot see or think. <strong>The</strong> paralyzing cold<br />
steals your strength. You struggle to the surface. A hand grabs your hair, drags you down.<br />
You pull the weight against you. It thrashes away.<br />
Michael’s head bobbing near the Old Town. You grab his arm. He clings to you. He gags<br />
and spits. You cannot feel your body. Your wet clothes pull you down and down. Your<br />
lungs burn.<br />
You hear Philip splashing. He swims away from you toward the lit windows of the house.<br />
You know you have only minutes before the cold completely drains you. You reach for<br />
him again and again. He’s beyond your grasp, arms flailing, head jerking from side to side.<br />
Michael’s chattering teeth against your throat, his jaw working as if unhinged. You plow<br />
through the water to the shore where you sit, Michael cradled in your arms. His eyes click<br />
open and shut. He is choking.<br />
You fumble for James’s knife, your hands blunt, without fingers. With your teeth you cut<br />
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