The Weight of Feathers

Lace brushed a hand over his thigh, leaving her wet fingerprints on his pants. “You coming in, or not?”


His shirt was already unbuttoned and off, from almost going in after her. So he pulled off his undershirt, his socks and shoes, but kept his trousers on. If his grandfather had worried over Cluck taking Lace’s dress off the night of the accident, he’d have strong words about Cluck pulling off his pants to swim. Going shirtless was bad enough. If Cluck wore nothing but his boxers around a girl, Pépère would know. He’d just know, the same way he knew, years ago, that Cluck was lying about having made himself right-handed.

Cluck didn’t jump or slide in. He found where the bank sloped instead of dropping off, and waded in one slow step at a time. The water soaked his ankles, then crept up his trouser legs.

If Sara-la-Kali and the Three Marys wanted to pull him back, he’d let them. But they didn’t, so he let the nivasi near him.

Lace dove down again, too far for him to see her shape.

He waded in up to his chest, the water cooling his skin. “Lace?”

She grabbed him and pulled him down. He stumbled forward, and went under.

He opened his eyes and saw the colors of her. The black of her hair, her skin the brown of river alluvium, the rose salt of her tail. Light streamed through her like she was made of water.

He ran out of air fast. When he tried to get to the surface, she held him down. He fought her, and she held him tighter.

The muscles around his lungs tensed and then cramped. She was killing him. The truth that she was a Paloma, a nivasi, dug into his skull. She would murder him before she would love him. She would keep him under and drown him.

Water got into his throat, and he couldn’t fight her anymore. She wrapped her arms around his chest, pulling him into the dark. Then she dragged him out of the water and up onto the bank.

The light stabbed into him. Air flooded into his lungs, shoving the water out.

She turned him onto his side and held a hand to his back. “Breathe.”

He coughed up the water.

She held onto him. “Breathe.”

He sat up and gasped to get his breath. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I was trying to move you,” she whispered. “Look.” She turned his head.

The muscles near his lungs eased and then tightened again. Two figures showed through the tree cover. Two of the guys from the liquor store.

They threw pinecones into the river and pulled wild pomelos off a tree.

“What are they doing here?” He didn’t have to try to keep his voice low. He didn’t have the air to break to a whisper.

“Our families are closer together than you think,” she said.

He hadn’t thought about it since the accident. He’d gone out looking for Eugenie, and Eugenie never would’ve seen Lace if they didn’t share a band of woods with the Palomas.

Lace’s cousins found all the ripe pomelos, tugged down each yellow-green fruit. The tree seemed to straighten its shoulders, free from the extra weight. Lace’s cousins moved on, toward the Palomas’ side of the woods.

“What the hell can you do with those things?” Cluck asked. Pomelos were bitter as cough syrup, especially the wild ones.

“Aguas frescas,” Lace said. “With enough water and sugar, you can make anything drinkable.”

She pulled herself up on the bank, her tail dragging through the mud. “I’m sorry I almost drowned you.”

His breathing evened, but the guilt of thinking she was trying to kill him made the tensing of his lungs worse. “Better you than them.”

She lay on her back, squinting into the sun, and covered her breasts with her palms. The sun shone off her wet hands.

“It’s because I was hungry,” she said, like he’d asked her a question.

“What?” he asked.