Looking Back at the Lake

“I can think of no better way to celebrate America,” Harold said. “Than having everyone run from a shooter at a Fourth of July parade.”

It was a bitter thing to say. Nancy knew Harold was growing bitter. She thought limiting his time in front of the TV would help. But he still saw the world on fire from his smart phone.

“Celebrating nationalism in true style. Public execution,” Harold added.

“That’s enough,” she said. Nancy took the phone out of Harold’s hand and placed it in the cup holder of her camping chair. “Have you heard anything from your brother recently?”

Harold looked out onto the lake. He searched the water for some bit of fun. A splash, a laugh, a scrap of youth still blossoming. He could hear it happening. His eyes just couldn’t detect where it was. Maybe it’s around the bend — just out of sight.

“He hasn’t returned my calls since he was discharged,” Harold finally said. “So, he’s out of the hospital. But doing what? I don’t know.”

“You think he’s back at it?”

“Does it matter?”

“He’s your family. Of course it does.”

A group of teenage boys rushed from a parking lot nearby. Four boys headed for the shore. Some showed their age in the definition of their jaws and shoulders, others still soft and unformed. They had straight bang haircuts like Harold had when he was a boy. The water splashed high in the air and sparkled as they trounced through the shallow water. One of them let out a shout. A duck took flight from the reeds near shore.

“I’ll try calling again,” Harold said, watching the boys at the shore. “For all we know, he might be dead.”

Nancy saw her husband’s eyes, avoiding her. Fixating on the lake.

Harold wasn’t always bitter, she thought.