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The Last Swim of the Season
- Wayne State University Press
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The Last Swim of the Season The gold-speckled Formica was now gray countertop. Stainless steel had replaced the hideous green enamel sink (dulled by a young girl’s angry scrubbing with a Brillo pad), and someone had painted the lower cabinets a dark red—surely the tenth or eleventh coat of cheery color on doors that never latched completely to begin with. Beyond that, the kitchen area was much the same as the last time she’d been there, with Dan: stacked randomly on the open shelves above the counter were mismatched dishes and cups, more than a few of which were the knockoff Delft pattern she’d recognized as once belonging to her grandmother’s summer place—typical housewares of a Michigan cottage. The plumbing hadn’t been updated either, if the musty, mineral-rich, lead pipe and ant-powder smell of the place was any indication. But except for the countertop and sink, and a few recent photos of her sister Susan’s family anchored by Home Depot magnets on the fridge, the only recognizable difference in the kitchen was a Post-it note on the outside of the cupboard to the left of the sink, where the coffee mugs were kept. It read: WHAT’S THE POINT? In Which Brief Stories Are Told 114 ) “Dad?” she said. The fact that the back door had been unlocked—as surely the porch door was—told nothing, for it was a rare occasion that her father would ever set the deadbolt, and then only if he could locate the key. It was, after all, an island, as he often reminded his daughters, a small island. Everyone knew everyone else, and they didn’t reckon a thief among them. The removal of anyone’s property—by tourists, say—would likely arouse the suspicion of the ferrymen, who were islanders. And besides, what was there to steal? Standing now at the stainless sink and facing into the cabinlike space that realtors liked to promote as an “open floor plan,” Karen could see the logic of her father’s argument. Beyond the countertop “bar,” which served as both an all-purpose table and a half-wall that separated the kitchen area from the living room, the familiar brown-and-red plaid sofa bed slumped like discarded laundry against the pine panels of the one windowless wall. Opposite was the fireplace, framed by windows. On the far wall, matching replacement windows were framed by bookcases stuffed with disorderly books, supine and perpendicular. The only other furnishings in the main room consisted of two aluminum folding chairs, a thick birch-legged coffee table, a small, pressboard entertainment center, and a folding card table, upon which paperwork crowded a laptop computer. Karen shook her head. With the exception of the computer, there was little that anyone would likely want to steal. “Dad? It’s Karen,” she said. Then louder: “Dad!” The bathroom door was open; empty. Nor was he in the bedroom , always oddly spartan and neat, compared to the bookshelves , a quilted coverlet straightened on the double bed, photographs of Karen and her sister as young girls arranged carefully on the knotty pine dresser. Nor on the porch—the room that Karen, as an irritable adolescent, had occupied most often. Through the three walls of screened windows she could see up [18.205.114.205] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 13:18 GMT) The Last Swim of the Season ( 115 and down the shoreline in both directions, out onto Lake Michigan . But there was no sign of him walking the beach. And it was unlikely, given the temperature of the water, that he’d be swimming . Still, there was evidence that he’d not been gone long: an unwashed coffee cup and cereal bowl in the sink, the reading lamp glowing beside the computer, a currently dated quart of milk in the fridge. No smell of gas, Karen thought to herself. No sign of foul play. If he’d gone to the store, he’d be back soon enough. After all, he’d not been told she was coming. There was no reason for him to hang around. Karen decided to brew a pot of coffee and wait on the porch. Patience, he’d often told her, is no more than accepting the present moment on its own terms. “Have him tell his First Lady story,” Susan had advised. “Or ask him about his column, his new book...