Gwen, in Green

He was working in calf-­deep water, reaching out in front and dragging cut weeds towards him; he was getting ready to turn and stack the cut weeds onto the pile on the bank when the ax blade cut into his leg behind the knee, severing tendons and slicing through the joint to leave his left leg dangling by the tissue surrounding the kneecap. He fell backward with a splash, blood spurting. The second blow severed his right arm at the elbow. There was no pain, only the awareness of a heavy blow, but his eyes saw and knew, and he screamed hoarsely, a sound of ultimate terror, the sound of knowledge. His arm was gone, his leg gushing blood. The irreparable had been done, and he screamed his disbelief.

“Gwen?” he said, his voice trailing into another scream as the ax, bloody, sharp, and deadly, narrowly missed his left wrist and lopped four fingers off at the second joint.

Then he was crawling for his life, leg dangled, his arm gone, blood darkening the water. Gwen, his Gwen. Her fourth blow was weaker, the pain still there, but the initial strength of adrenal action gone. The blow laid open the calf of his good leg and glanced off the bone; but there were other blows as he moved more slowly, his eyes blurring and his life’s blood swirling out in arterial gushes into the clear pond.

She continued to chop, breathing in sobbing agony. The strap to her bikini top had broken. The small scrap of material hung from her neck, flapping with her movements. Water and perspiration and blood beaded her lower legs.

When it was over, when she had, with cold, logical reasoning stopped her hysterical sorrow, she worked steadily. First things first. First, all the water plants were carefully placed back in the sand, planted lovingly. Then the pain was eased.

George lay face up in shallow water. And toes up in shallow water. And fingers up in shallow water. And in small bits of finger in shallow water. And it was over. The dark clouds of blood released into the greenness were being dissipated and absorbed. To avoid dripping blood, however, she went to the house for large towels. He was quite heavy. One light tap with the ax on the almost severed leg lightened the load.

She placed him, in some approximation of order, in their bed, and stood looking down at him. “I am so damn sorry, darling,” she said. His open eyes screamed at her accusingly. She closed them. They didn’t want to stay closed.

She checked the pond again and washed the sands of the edge with water cupped into her hands. She stored the ax and saw in the garage. It was rapidly growing late; the sun was almost down. She crawled in the shallow water, moving her hands, stirring the settled blood and swirling it away.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” she asked, standing ankle deep in the water, the pulpy, green, replanted things caressing her bare feet and ankles.

She drove the M.G. into the garage beside the pick-­up and closed the door. There was a full five-­gallon can of gasoline for the power mower. She struggled into the house with it, doused the living room rug, went into the bedroom, and poured the rest on George. When she threw a match into the living room from the deck, the resultant whoosh singed her hair and pushed her back with a blast of heat.

She stood in the water, ankle deep, and watched. When the fire topped out, the ceilings and roof falling in a towering storm of sparks and flame, she had to go deeper. From there, just her head out of the water, hair floating on the clear green, she stayed and watched until she heard the vehicles coming up the road.

“Now,” she said. “Now.”

She submerged, swam underwater, deep, deeper, to the center of the pond, lungs beginning to ache, stars exploding before her open eyes. There was no light, but the darkness was friendly, familiar. In the deepest part, she reached down, found them, clasped them in her hands, and pulled herself down among them. Her body was buoyant and wanted to rise, but she clung, worked her arms, her feet, her legs down among the tangled, pulpy, cool water plants. They caressed her cheeks. They soothed her body. She was still wearing the bikini, bottom in place, halter loose. “Now,” she thought, and it was so beautiful that she wanted to cry. She exhaled. Bubbles erupted at the surface, unseen; She inhaled. Her body, no longer made light by the air it contained, settled slowly into the soft, thick growth.

“Why,” she thought, “it’s like going to sleep.”

20

“What you got here,” the real estate man said, “is your own little island. One road in. The canal cutting you off from the rest. Big high fence along the canal so that no one can get in without coming up the road. Ideal for privacy.”

“Mighty poor soil,” sighed the prospective buyer, his hand full of sand. He let it trickle drily through his fingers. “I’d have to have it tested.”