Come About

He was seized by a sudden sense of guilt and obligation. Even as he felt obliged, even as he wanted to leap out of his chair and speed across the lake to her, to bring her home, he couldn’t quite get up. He rocked his whole body half a dozen times before he got the necessary leverage to close the footrest of his recliner, which left him upright, but still in the chair. He leaned forward to catch his breath. The whistle sounded again. Coming, coming, he thought. Was she worried? Was she worried about herself or about him? Could she see a storm brewing on the horizon, rainclouds moving in over the lake? Or was she simply irritated at him for taking so long? He never knew what she thought. She lived in her own world, humming songs to herself that he’d never heard, joining groups for purposes that were completely alien to him, and when she prayed at night, sometimes with her lips moving and sometimes not, what on earth did she pray for? Was she praying now, out on the lake? Would she whistle so often and so loudly that her prayers would be answered and someone from a cottage on the shore would come out to assist her? Pushing against both arms of the chair, Mr. Prescott propelled himself to his feet. He might as well go get her; there was no way he could sleep through this noise.

He stepped out into the sunshine and walked from the porch to the beach, last year’s red pine needles crisp beneath his feet. As he reached the shore, he noticed that the breeze was still steady, rustling through the pine trees, kicking up modest waves in the cove. Odd. Perhaps it had died down briefly, and his wife had whistled, and now it had picked up again. He supposed it was possible; or maybe she was in some other kind of distress. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he looked out across the water, but he couldn’t see her boat. She must have been carried far along, past the point of the land that blocked his view. With one strong shove, he launched his skiff into the lake and stepped over the gunwales, wetting both pants legs in the process. This was his lot in life, he supposed, being oddly bound to this woman that he no longer, if he’d ever, understood. It took two tugs on the cord to start the engine, and then he was moving, the sputtering of the outboard resolving itself into a steady drone. Coming out of the cove, he saw her boat in the distance, the sails still full. She cut a clean line, parting the waters of the lake. It had been so long since he’d seen her sailing; now, she moved with ease, with grace, and he wondered what was wrong.

It seemed to take a long time to reach her; his skiff didn’t have much horsepower, and the wind kept pushing her ahead. He thought she’d hear the drone of his engine and drop the sails, but her ears must have been full of other sounds, the slap of the water on her hull, the snap of the sail against the lines. Eventually, he came up abreast of the boat, peered at her, still wondering what might be wrong. She let the sail drop when she saw him. “Is everything all right?” he asked. She looked at him oddly, smiled. “My dear, I was just about to ask you the same thing! It’s so sweet that you came to check on me. The wind’s been lovely today. I think it’ll carry me out to the far shore if I let it.” Her face was flushed from the sun. The whistle hung from a cord around her neck. He still didn’t understand. “Don’t you worry about me,” she continued, “I’ll be sure to whistle when I need to be picked up.” She smiled once more, raised the sail, and let the wind take her.