University of Northern Iowa

EpistleAuthor(s): Jonathan BarrettSource: The North American Review, Vol. 289, No. 5 (Sep. - Oct., 2004), p. 22Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127217 .

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NAR

Kim rushed over and pressed her face against the glass, a

halo of steam forming around her head. "My God," she

said, throwing the door open, "he's out there." She was

about to rush outside, but I stopped her.

"You'll freeze to death," I said.

We ran upstairs, hurried into our coats and boots, and

grabbed a flashlight. Outside, we followed the footprints down the lighted path onto the ice. The wind was blowing snow around, erasing the tracks. "He must've gone to the

hole," I said.

She called his name, but the word turned to smoke and

dissolved in the wind. We trudged through the snow as fast as we could. By the

time we reached the hole, my hair had frozen beneath my cap. With the flashlight, I scanned the lake for signs of Zephaniah

and stopped when I saw that the hole was open again. He had

gone through the ice and was trying to climb out, but each

time he grabbed the edge another piece broke off. Kim let out a noise like nothing I'd ever heard. She

scrambled toward him, but I held her back. "The ice isn't

safe," I said, handing her the flashlight. I got down on my stomach and started inching toward Zephaniah. The wind

was blowing snow into my eyes, blinding me, but I kept

going, waiting for the hole to open up and swallow me.

"Give me your hand," I shouted, when I felt a splash of water on my face. Zephaniah was heavier than I'd expected, and as soon as he grabbed on to me I started sliding into the

hole. I dug in my toes and pulled him from the lake. The ice

started to crack, but I was already rolling away, over and over,

holding the wet, frozen boy close to my chest. And then Kim was there, on her knees, shining the flashlight into Zephaniah's face. She was crying?tears had frozen to her cheeks?asking if he was okay. Together, we scooped him up and ran toward

shore, the runway lights guiding us back home.

In the morning, the phone woke me up. Kim was calling

from the emergency room to tell me that Zephaniah was

fine. "He's just tired," she said.

"Who wouldn't be?" I said.

"He's a very lucky little boy," she said.

Last night, after we had gotten back to the house, I had

tried to drive them to the hospital, but Kim had told me to

go inside and get into some dry clothes. I said I would meet

her there, but she told me to stay by the fire and get warm. I

ended up falling asleep. Now I offered to come pick them up, but she said her

mom was already

on the way.

"Well, we should get together soon," I said, and she

agreed.

"I'll give you a call," she said.

But several days went by, and she didn't call. Then it had

been a week. Then two. It was sometime after that, one night

in March, that I walked down onto the lake. I hadn't been out there since Zephaniah's accident, and I knew it would be

my last chance before the spring thaw. It was warm, and

though I took the flashlight, I didn't need it. There was

enough light coming from the stars and the sliver of moon.

There was no wind, no sound other than the crunch of snow

beneath my boots. I walked out to where the hole had been and found the spot where Zephaniah had gone in. It had frozen over, but the ice was bare of snow, like a dark window

looking into the lake. I wondered why he had come out here

by himself that night, wondered what he'd been looking for. I wondered what had gone through his mind when the ice

opened beneath his feet. I stepped onto the patch of ice and

glanced down. It was like standing on nothing. The black

beneath my feet seemed infinite, and for a moment I was

levitating. I got down on my knees and shined the flashlight into the ice, into the cracks and fissures, the air bubbles and

layers, the pieces that had broken apart and frozen back

together in new configurations, some opaque, some clear. It

was an entire frozen world. I stared into it for a long time,

and then I heard something: a high-pitched beam that shot from one end of the lake to the other. I told myself it was just the ice expanding, getting ready to break up in a few days. I

was safe. The ice was holding me. It was

just water frozen

solid, but it was enough. I was on top of the hole, and I

wasn't going in.

JONATHAN BARRETT

Epistle

The scent of the sea is like salt and sex.

The promenade is empty. I remember

us walking here: clothes soaked, your neck

and dark hair wet from the rain. Later,

you undressed in front of the mirror,

the scent of the sea?like salt and sex?

drifted in through the window. I stood near

you, watched your naked body reflect

off the glass: the soft echo of your hips next

to mine. We kissed. And you would whisper the scent of the sea is like salt and sex.

Now, I listen to the tide crash against the pier,

drop letters and small stones into dark water

while streaks of moonlight dance on the wet deck, soft wisps of wind like your words in my ear:

the sea is like salt and the scent of sex.

22 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW September-October 2004

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