“Hmm?”
“You look like you were deep in thought just now,” he says.
“Oh. Well . . . I was just thinking about your mother.”
“Yeah? What about her?”
I’m not going to get into the god thing with him, so I come up with something else. “She’s pretty excited about some new art project she’s planning. Going to work on it over there in Greece.”
“Is that the one she told me about? Where she uses yarn or whatever to connect her life to that painter who used to live out back on our property?”
“Oh, you mean ‘Josephus’s Thread.’ No, she finished that one. You remember that Greek myth about the labyrinth? How the hero—Theseus, I think his name was—goes in there, kills the Minotaur, and then gets out again, thanks to Ariadne’s thread? So he won’t stay lost in the maze forever?”
He shrugs. Asks who Ariadne is.
“The king’s daughter. She gives him a skein of thread so he can save himself after he slays the monster. He unwinds it as he walks through the maze and then follows it back to the entrance. Your mom’s proud of that piece. Says it’s the most directly autobiographical one she’s ever done. I guess the point she’s making is that Joe Jones’s art not only led her to make her own, but that it also led her to being able to confront what happened during her childhood. Slay those monsters, okay? The flood, the abuse. She says that piece came out of all of the therapy she’s done.” I think about the monster Andrew killed on her behalf. How he hid the body in the same place where Jones was killed. How he’s entwined in Josephus’s thread, too, but may never get himself out of the maze his life has become.
“It’s all Greek to me,” he says. “So she’s working on another one now?”
“Yeah. Says she might call it We Are Water.”
His face darkens. “Is this one going to be about that flood, too?”
“No, I don’t think so. I guess the other one dealt with that, pretty much. Allowed her to move on. From what I gather, this next one is going to be about the gods and goddesses, the mysteries of the Aegean. She’s excited about some ruin she’s going to check out while she’s over there. An altar built by some group that worshipped the sea.”
“Yeah?” He picks up a flat stone. Stands and scales it into the surf.
“It’s true when you think about it, I guess.”
“What is?”
“We are water.”
He nods. “Sixty to seventy percent, if I remember my physiology textbooks. And the brain’s something like eighty-five percent.”
The brain, I think. That miraculous, mysterious organ. One part of mine is blocking me from using my legs, and another part is helping me to reconnect with my grandfather—to hear his voice, listen to his story. And who knows? Maybe my father will finally begin to speak to me, too. “Yeah, but that’s not what I meant,” I tell my son.
He looks at me, waiting. And so I open my mouth and try to articulate what it is I do mean. “All of life came from the ocean, right? Even us. We flip-flopped out of the water, grew feet and bigger brains, stood up and started walking. Makes sense, doesn’t it? For the first nine months of our lives, we float underwater. Then we hit the cold air, the glaring light of day, and start crying salty tears. Begin the lifelong challenge of trying to figure out why we’re here, what it all means.”
“Getting pretty philosophical in your old age,” he says. “Aren’t you?”
“Maybe. But think about it. We are like water, aren’t we? We can be fluid, flexible when we have to be. But strong and destructive, too.” And something else, I think to myself. Like water, we mostly follow the path of least resistance. Wasn’t that what I advised Andrew to do the day he confessed what he’d done: told him to shut his mouth about it? Take the path of least resistance?
“You know what I’ve always liked?” he says. “The sound of water. It’s, I don’t know, kind of comforting or something. You know? Rain on the roof, rivers flowing. I always liked listening to the brook out in back of our house—the way it gushed during the spring thaw, trickled in summer if there hadn’t been much rain. And the ocean. Close your eyes and listen for a minute, Dad.”
I do what he says, taking in the sound of the breaking waves, the surf lapping the shore. When I open my eyes again, he’s looking at me. “I’ve been wrestling with something,” he says. “Praying on it. Asking God for clarity.”
“About what?” I ask, although I already know what he’s going to say.
“I’ve been thinking lately about turning myself in.”
I want to open my mouth, make the case again about why he shouldn’t. Rescue him from what will happen to him if he does. But I’m not my son’s knight in shining armor or anyone else’s; I’ve given up that conceit. And whether or not I’ve let my license to practice expire, this time I’m Dr. Oh as well as Dad. Isn’t that what the best therapists do? Hold their tongues and listen? Let the sufferer follow his own path out of the labyrinth?
“I haven’t decided yet, though,” he says. “I keep going back and forth.”
I ask him the question I’m not sure I want him to answer. “You leaning more one way than the other?”
“Depends on which hour you’re talking about,” he says.
I look away from him then, look out at the rolling waves and think about umbilical cords, nooses, the skeins of string that tangle and connect us. If he does go to the police, does end up in prison, maybe he’ll save himself from this choked-up life he’s been living. Be able to breathe again like he did the morning of his birth when the cord between his mother and him that had sustained him for nine months now was strangling him. When I look back at him, I tell him to do what his gut tells him to. Wish him luck making his decision.
He smiles at me. Doesn’t speak at first. And when he finally does, he says what he said to me the last time we were at this beach, when we stopped in the middle of that run we took. “I love you, Dad.”
I reach over and take his hand in mine. Squeeze it. “I love you, too.”
“Fuckin’ hot out here, huh?” he says. “Now that the sun’s out?” Shielding my eyes, I look up at the sky. When did the sun come out? Before? Just now? I hadn’t even noticed. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s cool off.”
And without another word, he gets up, stands over me, and lifts me onto my useless puppet’s leg. Scoops me up in his strong arms and walks us toward the glittering water. Blinking back tears, holding on to Andrew’s tattooed shoulder, I gaze at the horizon. Together—father and son, the atheist and the believer, we enter the churning, mysterious sea.
Gratitude
I’m enormously grateful to my wise and thoughtful editor, Terry Karten, and my genial and gracious literary agent, Kassie Evashevski, for their help and guidance in helping me to make this a better book.
My appreciation also extends to the following writers whose critical feedback was important to the development of this story: Denise Abercrombie, Doug Anderson, Jon Anderson, Bruce Cohen, Susan Cole, Janet Dauphin, Doug Hood, Careen Jennings, Leslie Johnson, T. C. Karmel, Pam Lewis, Sari Rosenblatt, Amanda Smith, Ellen Zahl, and the women of the York Correctional Institution writing group.
Warm thanks to painters and educators Joseph Gualtieri and Mary Ann Hall for their guidance and inspiration with regard to all things artistic.
This story was informed in part by a devastating 1963 flood that occurred in my hometown of Norwich, Connecticut. For their connection to and generous sharing of information about that tragedy, I am grateful to the following: Tony Orsini, Tom Moody, Jim Moody, Sean Moody, Tony Longo, Norah Kaszuba, Frances and Dick Buckley, Dennis Riley, Bill Zeitz, and the good folks of D’Elia’s Bakery.
Thanks to the following who shared their time and information on a variety of subjects, or who connected me to people who informed aspects of this story: Steven Dauer, Laura Durand, Mary Kay Kelleher, Fran Kornacki, and Melody Knight Leary.
A nod of appreciation to my faithful office assistants, Amanda Smith and Jo
e Darda, and for their guidance and moral support, Justin Manchester, Charley Correll, Mark Hand, and Hilda “Prosperine” Belcher. As always, thanks to my good and faithful friend Ethel Mantzaris.
The publication of a novel requires teamwork, and I salute the Harper team, the best in the business, especially Michael Morrison, Jonathan Burnham, Kathy Schneider, Leslie Cohen, Tina Andreadis, Lydia Weaver, Leah Wasielewski, Milan Bozic, Fritz Metsch, Sarah Odell, Shelly Perron, Kate Walker, and the entire sales crew.
Special thanks to my bride of the past thirty-five years and the love of my life, Christine Lamb.
Finally, it is my sincere hope that this novel honors the lives and acknowledges the untimely deaths of Ellis Ruley (1882–1959) and Margaret “Honey” Moody (1938–1963).
Suggestions for further reading:
Thomas R. Moody, Jr.’s A Swift and Deadly Maelstrom: The Great Norwich Flood of 1963, A Survivor’s Story (Bloomington, IN: XLibris, 2013).
Glenn Robert Smith and Robert Kenner’s Discovering Ellis Ruley: The Story of an American Outsider Artist (New York: Crown, 1993).
A Note from Wally Lamb
The deaths by gunfire of children and their teachers at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, occurred as I was readying this novel for publication. I invite readers who are so inclined to join me in my response to this unfathomable tragedy by contributing to one or both of the following. Thank you.
Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence: www.bradycampaign.org
National Alliance on Mental Illness: www.nami.org
About the Author
WALLY LAMB is the author of four previous novels, including the New York Times and national bestseller The Hour I First Believed and Wishin’ and Hopin’, a bestselling novella. His first two works of fiction, She’s Come Undone and I Know This Much Is True, were both number one New York Times bestsellers and selections of Oprah’s Book Club. Lamb edited Couldn’t Keep It to Myself and I’ll Fly Away, two volumes of essays from students in his writing workshop at York Correctional Institution, a women’s prison in Connecticut where he has been a volunteer facilitator for fifteen years. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, Christine. The Lambs are the parents of three sons.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Wally Lamb
Wishin’ and Hopin’
The Hour I First Believed
I Know This Much Is True
She’s Come Undone
By Wally Lamb and the Women of York Correctional Institution
Couldn’t Keep It to Myself:
Testimonies from Our Imprisoned Sisters
I’ll Fly Away:
Further Testimonies from the Women of York Prison
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Credits
An excerpt from “Girl Skipping Rope” was previously published in Ploughshares, Winter 2011–2012, Issue 37.4.
“Ghost of a Chance.” Copyright © 1993, 1967, 1963 by Adrienne Rich, from Collected Early Poems: 1950–1970 by Adrienne Rich. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Cover painting © Thanassi
Cover design by Milan Bozic
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WE ARE WATER. Copyright © 2013 by Wally Lamb. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-0-06-194102-3
EPub Edition © November 2013 ISBN: 9780062199027
Version 09202013
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Wally Lamb, We Are Water
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