Though we had all brought bathing suits, not one of us paused to grab ours for this escapade. Interesting. But Rory and Pia had jumped up and gone galumphing into the forest so fast you could say that none of the rest of us had the chance to rifle through our backpacks and scare them up. For my part, I had no intention of swimming, but I had to wonder about everybody else, especially Sandra, who I thought wouldn’t skinny-dip in a million years. I loved my friends but wasn’t eager for them to see me naked or, frankly, to see them in the buff.
The beam from Rory’s flashlight danced around us as we barreled through thickets and brush on our way back to the river, sharing the merlot that at this point we drank straight from the box. In came my usual terror of everything—night creatures! Insects! Murderers!—but I found myself loving the sweet taste of the air, all the wildlife I couldn’t see, furred ears turned in our direction, and the approaching nearness of the living water. I followed the sounds of laughter and whooping up ahead until I stepped out onto a slender bank of sand, free from the clutch of trees.
Because the river was so wide, we could see a great expanse of sky, and though the sun had set some time ago behind shadowy mountains, the underbellies of clouds blushed pink. To the north, a jagged scrim of geese squawked across the glowing horizon. I wondered how the sky could feel so vast at times, so alive with the complex narrative of clouds and sun, moon, and stars; at others, so nothing, so commonplace and unremarkable. Was it because of where we were, or because I so seldom looked up?
Rory and Pia had already disappeared into a crop of young swamp maples on the island that bisected the river. The saplings yearned skyward, their roots clutching river rocks as they drank from the sandy soil beneath. A thought bubble concerning Pia and Rory drifted by in my half-buzzed brain—Maybe they want to be alone—but I continued to hop from rock to rock across shimmering strands of water, emboldened by wine and the insane beauty all around me. I was starting to enjoy the idea of doing whatever came next because it seemed like fun. My God, when was the last time I’d spent even an afternoon with that as my mantra?
? ? ?
The pool opened before us like a granite ice-cream scoop buried in the center of the stand of trees, a perfectly round hole three yards across and deep enough for Rory to cannonball, naked, from its slippery edges. All of us watched, stunned silent, as his compact bullet of a body displaced enough water to soak us through.
Pia went first, of course. She whipped off her T-shirt like a guy, grabbing the hem and pulling it over her head without regard for hair or makeup. Next came the hiking shoes. Stumbling this way and that, she kicked them off, barely untying the laces; then socks, belt-shorts-and-panties in one sweep; last, her bra—the center clasp of which she flipped open—then flung the thing from herself as though it had been burning her flesh. For a moment she reached her arms out skyward, as if acknowledging some sort of award, then, giggling but without an ounce of self-consciousness, she dropped her arms and began to pick her way along the mossy banks to the edge of the pool, grabbing at branches to steady herself.
Rory watched, bobbing and smiling from the center of the oasis.
Pia, naked. She was as beautiful as we had imagined her, the kind of athletic woman’s body that becomes nearly impossible after a certain age: toned arms; flat, nearly concave belly; not an ounce of back fat or bounce at the hips, instead just taut, curved muscle defining thighs and the backs of her legs. She found a toehold at the lip of the bowl and jumped, laughing, hair flying up and set ablaze by the vestiges of light, pale limbs flashing. In moments she popped out of the water and flipped her hair back, dog-paddling toward us.
“Come on, guys, get in here! It’s perfect!”
“It’s okay,” Rory said, watching us. He turned onto his back and began to float. “I have five sisters. I’m harmless.”
Rachel held her hands in tight fists, jammed into her hips. In her face I read disapproval, rage, maybe disappointment? She was another who surprised me sometimes . . . then she said, “Oh, what the fuck,” and began to unbutton her shirt.
11
As Rachel tried the slow-and-painful method of entry into the dark water, lowering herself in bit by bit, I heard the thump of shoes on rocks and several unzippings. Sandra stood shivering as she faced the forest, wearing only her high-waisted panties and a beige bra, her hair a shining black shroud.
“Hey, Loo,” I said, sipping wine from the plastic box. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this, you know.” I might have belched right then. “I’m not going to do it.”