Truly Elemental: And Other Retro Faerie Tales

Truly Elemental

Summer, 1957

He fell in one day and we had to stop using the pool.

Then, he ate our dog, and my parents stopped trying to get him out.

It's my turn to clean the pool. Actually, every day is my turn since I'm the only one who goes out into the backyard anymore. We tried to ignore the problem, hoping he'd leave, but he burst all the pipes in the kitchen and gave my mom nightmares, so, here I am.

My parents are excellent at ignoring problems.

I'm excellent at pool skimming.

The sun glares on the mixed cement, blinding white, and I pause—my hair caught in the arm of my sunglasses. They're a cheap Bakelite and I give them a yank, hissing when they tear free. My scalp stings but I can see where I'm walking now.

The flamingo thermometer stuck to the house says ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit. The weather man said a balmy seventy-five in the shade. He must own an igloo. I just call it hot.

I'm regretting my choice not to change into my swimsuit. My knee-length skirt makes my thighs sweat and my panties stick to my hips. Even tying my blouse up around my ribs doesn't change anything. I'm not showing enough skin to be useful.

Sweat tickles my spine, dampening my waistband.

Gross.

The water looks delicious, though. It glitters like cracked crystal. Blue fractures trembling under the sun's bright rays. I want a taste. I want to jump in and cleanse the heat away. To smell how summer is supposed to smell: Pool chemicals and suntan lotion. Not body odor and rank salt.

If it wasn't for him.

I drag the net along, catching stray pine needles and keeping an eye on the smudgy figure sprawled at the bottom of the deep end. Ankles crossed, arms tucked behind his head, he lays still—dappled by the changing surface light. On some days I think he's dead, but then he'll push off and glide in laps around the pool. Glimmering in and out of the sunspots before diving back to the bottom again.

Some days he'll do tricks. And he might as well be one of the guys at school because I know he's showing off just for me.

He's not doing anything now. Except, maybe sleeping.

I step over a blood swipe on the cement. It stretches from the lawn over the lip of the pool and onto the tiled wall. The blood is going brown, but the flies keep insisting it's fresh. They crawl quick, here and there, buzzing away when I pass and returning like mindless addicts once my shadow retreats.

I pull the net in and shake out a few feathers and what I think might be a shred of a red dog collar. Not Genevieve's. Genevieve's was blue.

I hated that dog. I roll my eyes just thinking about her piercing bark and snaggleteeth and those stupid "fashionable" bows the groomer always tied into her silky fur.

I laughed when he dragged her in. Dumb bitch wandered too close and tried to lap up the water. Next thing, she was a blooming blood patch in the deep end.

I shake the net again. There are no bugs in the pool anymore. Never any bugs. And no accidental snakes, either. Although, I have fished out more than one decapitated reptile head. He keeps himself well fed.

It's been weeks since I last swam in my own pool. I just want to strip and jump in. I've seen him watching me while I tan in the yard: his elbows hooked over the cement edge, his dark crest of raggedly scissored hair sparkling-wet in the sun.