Story: Drownings (part three)

Drownings

(part three)

McAlley tested the integrity of the earth, found the river’s edge would hold, stooped a second time. The posture reminded him. “See this, Faia. ID, Bitterroot Cooperative. What sort of place, do you suppose?”

“Hiking gear? Herbals…? Her guesses were bored. He could sense her chin above his shoulder, her voice immediate to his ear.

“Carmadge, it says. Dustin. Oh, well. He drowned himself for that. Give an age?”

“We don’t know that our fellow here has aught to do with Dustin.”

“Make sure it is a fellow.”

Seeing that it had no eyes, that much of the face was abraded, that fish had done their nibbling, that the hands seemed draped with dirty green bandages, while the trunk bloated tightly into a light-colored pullover, the belly into drawstring pants, he could note nothing from its loose fetal pose, as to sex. The hair was darkened by water, auburnish, a curl or two dried in the air; the length, if curly, hard to judge.

“Faia, you don’t mind? I want your thoughts. Does a person dress for drowning? I observe one shoe yet, a slip-on sort of trainer. We are how far from that wharfside what-have-they?”

“Bar and Grill. You can catch the smell of burgers. Glassblowing, yoga. Little shops, yarn. Confectioners, maybe a bakery.”

“And what’s the foolery called altogether?”

“Old Parish Centre.”

“For the moribund district, named. Very good. They have the pontoon bridge crossing?”

“Until they finish the work.”

“Take another look, then. We’ll go over ourselves, since it’s downtown we need to be.”

Faia stepped in a nudging way that moved McAlley aside, and listed what she saw of interest. “The tide coming and going would have rolled it along, down among the rocks, before it gassed. Does a person dress for suicide in any circumstance? Pills, I might think, laying oneself out. Jumping…off building, into water, likely some nexus of despair and opportunity. But male, yes…or, I’m betting. The neck and shoulders. I don’t see a watch, or a ring. Or an earring.”

She pivoted, taking the lead. This time they used the stairs above the tunnel roof to the quay—old brick bright-mortared, capstones rustic. A pergola of rusted steel with vines sheltered some outdoor tables. The day had dust in the air; dust and a certain grit littered these. It seemed no one’s job to come out with a hosepipe.

McAlley leant at the Centre’s entrance, asking for a manager or security chief.

“Oh, is it?” the reception desk said. “Another…sad. Gives me the creeps, I’m sorry if I say so. I wish they’d stop.”

“I shall leave you with my card.”

3

Drownings

Drownings (part four)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)