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The Brink
She had a fanciful way of recounting it, in later years, that he privately found cloying and cliched, even as he always put on a self-effacing smile whenever she retold the story. "I felt," she would say, "in the instant his arm went around me to pull me out, that I would be safe, that it would be all right. And I wasn't fool enough to let go, even once I was back on dry land!" Of course, he himself had invented an even more fantastic version of it, albeit one reserved solely for their children while still very young: "I once threw a gold coin into a wishing well," he would tell them, "and out sprang a beautiful nymph, straight into my arms!"
The truth was, of course, less romantic than either version. He had been in the process of trying to get the perfect picture of a rare type of Calopogon orchid that only grew in this sort of a bog. (She eventually would learn to live with his obsessions, how oblivious and short-tempered he could get when immersed.) She'd been curious, and meaning only to approach from behind to get a look at the flower over his shoulder, had tripped, flailed, and plunged nearly headlong into the the dark water to one side.
They had both had the lecture from the tour guide that such a quaking bog, for all its delights, could be dangerous; go under and you might find yourself trapped beneath its vegetative skin, to drown in the hidden lake beneath. One day there would be a walkway, a railing, signs warning not to deviate. There had been none of that then, and no one had told them not to venture so close to one of its watery mouths.
They had both had the lecture from the tour guide that such a quaking bog, for all its delights, could be dangerous; go under and you might find yourself trapped beneath its vegetative skin, to drown in the hidden lake beneath. One day there would be a walkway, a railing, signs warning not to deviate. There had been none of that then, and no one had told them not to venture so close to one of its watery mouths.
He had reacted without thinking in the slightest. His hands had flung out to grasp her, his camera sent in a short downward arc to vanish with a plop into the water. They had grappled with each other; her terrified, he from an awkward, unbalanced crouch and acting on impulse, no plan in mind. What saved them was that she had stopped trying to just grab onto him and had clawed her fingers into the turf itself by the time he had, imprudently, tried to heave her out by the armpits and toppled in himself.
But they weren't actually together, not yet. It would still be just a few minutes before his fingers slipped down to make contact with her warm, exposed shoulder, and a thrill more visceral than electric ran through them both. Before, in subtle answer, she shifted her thigh slightly so that it rested against his.
It hasn't happened yet, the tipping over the brink, this instant the gravity of their lives irrevocably overlapped. But it will, in just a moment, while amateur hand-shot video plays on a screen in a darkened room. Are you watching? Just wait.
His leverage had been just enough to pull her up a little further, enough for her to hang on unassisted. He, despite having just seen what not to do in such a situation, grabbed onto her in the panic that always comes with an unintended plunge into deep water. Then he came to himself, grabbed a tiny shrub nearby instead, and in seconds others were there, pulling them to safety.
She was beautiful in those days, that much was true, almost actress beautiful. Indeed, she had done a few modeling jobs, enough to know she didn't want it as a career. (That her eyes were set just a bit too far apart really only lent her a sort of otherworldly, slightly alien beauty.) But he'd hardly noticed her, beforehand -- he liked nature as subjects, the smaller the better, and never really looked at people much. And in the immediate aftermath, all he felt was resentment. He'd lost his best camera, and almost a full roll of shots, because of that stupid clumsy woman. While everyone fussed, he managed to be polite; she said how lucky she was he'd been so quick thinking. He said he was just glad she was all right.
His resentment lasted the rest of the trip. He avoided her. She didn't notice; she was horrendously embarrassed by the ordeal. She summoned the courage just once to talk to him on the tour after that, during the lake cruise at the end: she managed a joke about not falling in. He said he'd drink to that, and they toasted their flutes of champagne. She mistook his stiffness as modesty. She thought she might have a crush on him.
She was beautiful in those days, that much was true, almost actress beautiful. Indeed, she had done a few modeling jobs, enough to know she didn't want it as a career. (That her eyes were set just a bit too far apart really only lent her a sort of otherworldly, slightly alien beauty.) But he'd hardly noticed her, beforehand -- he liked nature as subjects, the smaller the better, and never really looked at people much. And in the immediate aftermath, all he felt was resentment. He'd lost his best camera, and almost a full roll of shots, because of that stupid clumsy woman. While everyone fussed, he managed to be polite; she said how lucky she was he'd been so quick thinking. He said he was just glad she was all right.
His resentment lasted the rest of the trip. He avoided her. She didn't notice; she was horrendously embarrassed by the ordeal. She summoned the courage just once to talk to him on the tour after that, during the lake cruise at the end: she managed a joke about not falling in. He said he'd drink to that, and they toasted their flutes of champagne. She mistook his stiffness as modesty. She thought she might have a crush on him.
He never admitted to her how much he'd disliked her at first. He could have, certainly, during the intense initial flush of romance when almost anything can be forgiven, overlooked. Or really any time in the decades to come, when such a confession could have sounded quaint, even amusing. But time has a way of making small choices seem irreversible, and he'd long ago learned how she liked to sanitize her past. It had come to feel as though, even if she'd never say as much, his confession would only sully her own memory of their finding each other. And to what end?
After all, he always told himself, he was the idiot who'd been more concerned with a camera than a pretty girl casting him shy smiles. And instead of confessing anything, he always just reminded himself how lucky he'd been that Cordelia had gotten up for some wine when she did.
Cordelia, the tour organizer, had held a little event about a month after they got back for the artists among them to share their work with interested parties in the community. Just before it started, the hostess had sat down beside him on the couch along one wall, making the rounds to chat up the presenters, while the folding chairs before them filled up. The elderly painter who would be showing some of his pieces inspired by the trip took the seat on the other side of her. And so, when she arrived at the last minute (not being one of the artists presenting), and Cordelia said she thought she'd go get a refill in her glass before getting the evening started, there was only one obvious seat near the door. It was file past a lot of people in folding chairs, or take three steps over to the couch in the corner. So, she took the couch. Next to him.
She was delighted and nervous to be so close to him; they hadn't seen each other or exchanged a word since the end of the tour. But he looked up as she sat down, and for a moment only saw a quite attractive girl in jeans and a pine green sweater designed to slip artfully off one shoulder. So when he recognized her after that first instant, taking in the nervous, apologetic quirk of her mouth, he felt a sort of disappointment in himself. It hadn't been her fault. She must have been so embarrassed, tripping over him and nearly drowning them both. Yet she was still brave enough to say hello, to sit next to him.
For the first time, he really smiled back at her. Her heart leapt in her throat. And when he sat down after his presentation of a few of his best photos, feeling even more magnanimous in the glow of the polite applause, and saw the way her eyes were shining at him, he got his courage up himself. During the painter's segment, he stretched an arm down the back of the couch, carefully not touching her -- but she at once leaned into him like they were old comrades, had known each other for years.
And indeed, those in the audience who noticed them (her bare feet slid out of sandals and tucked under her; his casual half-embrace) assumed they'd been a couple for some time. Cordelia, like a few others from the tour, wondered if she'd just been unobservant; had they gotten together before or after he pulled her out of the bog?
It hasn't happened yet, the tipping over the brink, this instant the gravity of their lives irrevocably overlapped. But it will, in just a moment, while amateur hand-shot video plays on a screen in a darkened room. Are you watching? Just wait.
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