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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “At the Zoo” Down in the Dirt v210 (8/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Cross My Heart
Donald Reed Greenwood
Jerry abruptly decelerated his Prius, careening the tires to the curb, snugging them tightly to the concrete. His digital watch displayed 10:00 AM. His timing was perfect as always; he despised being late. The very idea agitated him. Heck, a lot of things did.
Today was important; their special Saturday, the day he and Emma surreptitiously slipped away to a secluded, private swimming hole on Conundrum Creek.
It was more than an outing, it was an annual ritual. He was no longer surprised by the constancy of the weather. It was cooperating as usual, with the temperature hovering around the mid-80s, the air slightly humid, but not uncomfortably sticky; a warm and sunny July day.
Just perfect.
He opened the drivers’ side door, shut it forcefully, briskly double-stepped up the weathered, crazed concrete walk, and emphatically banged the old, worn knocker on the hastily painted, brush-stroked door of Emma’s duplex. That, and the sight of bubbled and peeling paint on the trim was irritatingly unavoidable.
Emma was notoriously inept at maintenance. When she did attempt to perform simple tasks, it was a slapdash effort; just so infuriatingly typical of her. He’d have to step in once again, and good grief, fix what needed fixing, whether it was a leaky faucet or a loose towel bar.
She was predestined to be fawningly apologetic, such a useless reaction that was excruciating to endure, whenever he performed repairs for her. Muted sulking was far more preferable.
My God, she desperately needs monitoring.
At least, Emma reacted promptly to his rapping. Draped in an XXL tee-shirt concealing her bathing suit, it was a contrast to her footwear, a pair of beyond broken-in hiking shoes. The familiar, thread-worn Jansen backpack was slung on one shoulder. Her face exhibited that trace of reluctance, overruled by a determination to fulfill the ritual. The discordant expression never wavered.
The ride was pleasantly brief. Stillwater was a small burgh, and the stream was a leisurely 30 minute transit outside of town. He recognized the familiar rotted pine stump, defying nature by its presence, and still standing as a lone sentinel, surrounded by a mixed stand of juvenile oaks, maples and sycamores. Jerry eased off the gas and navigated the Prius into a left turn, maneuvering into a denser tree canopy, just inside a cleft in the rugged hillocks that defined the creek valley. The ground was rough, gravelly and interspersed with weedy overgrowth.
The spot was shrouded by the foliage, and well off the road; a long forgotten, abandoned access. Braking the Prius to an abrupt stop, Jerry exhaled, relishing the isolation. It was theirs and no one else’s, a secret place with an unrevealed history.
They trekked through the tall grasses overwhelming the abandoned trail, down to its termination at the water’s edge. On the shady bank, they shed their backpacks, their eyes briefly fixated on the plane of the water’s surface, occasionally brushed by a gentle breeze; a familiar place, near the mouth of a small seasonal rivulet, reduced to a dry gully by the summer drought. Occasional, circular ripples interrupted that fluid plane, revealing the presence of small sunfish feeding on hatchling insects, who dared to flirt with the danger of an even swifter demise in the brevity of their existence.
Now finally relaxed, Jerry broke the silence that had so far dominated the excursion, swiftly morphing into his hyperactive, chatty self, indulging in a meandering, pointless, but deliberately dominant, one-sided conversation. His endless chatter intentionally avoided the obvious.
Emma had been completely silent. Until now.
“Jerry, why do we do this?”
“Em, you know we owe it to Sara.”
“The hypocrisy is suffocating. It channels my conscience into a maze of false illusions. The more time that passes, the more I experience a chilling sense of unease. It’s relentlessly consuming me. I can’t escape it.”
“I know you’re conflicted. Look, it was traumatizing for both of us. But Em, after her death, we both agreed that this is how we would honor her. It’s an act of remembrance.”
“Jerry, swimming in these waters feels like an unwanted intrusion; an unholy violation, as if the stream resents us. I sense it in every movement of my legs and arms.”
“And my God, it was so morbid. Her bruised, bloated body was found a week later, downstream at the bridge, wedged in the woody debris of a sandbar. The cause of Sara’s death was ruled an accidental drowning. Jerry, only you and I know the all the circumstances related to her tragic passing. The police investigation has never been fully resolved.
“We know the truth. We can’t ignore the reality of it any longer.”
“Look, Em, I tried my best to rescue her. She swam well beyond the safety of our placid little pool, practically begging to be pulled into the current. I’d warned her before, but Sara was a free spirit; capricious, always testing the limits. She never listened to me, you, or anyone.”
“My ears will never escape the memory of her horrid shrieking, right before she sank below below the surface. I swear, I was exhausted and spent, struggling to reach her, With so many hidden, underwater obstructions, the effort was too treacherous.”
“There was no saving her, Em.”
“Jerry, I stood on the bank, and watched you. I admit I was numbed by disbelief, by the suddenness. One moment she was alive and laughing, splashing water at you. In mere seconds she was struggling for her life. I know I’m not blameless. But I refuse to deny what I witnessed. I know you could have tried harder. I watched you falter; you chose to give up. Admit it, Jerry.
What my eyes won’t ever repudiate was your cowardice.”
“Listen to me. No one else knew we were meeting her here, not in this forgotten place. You recall what an avid cyclist she was; insistent on pedaling here alone, instead of riding with us.”
For God’s sake Em, we agreed we’d never talk about this again. Ever.”
“We are now.”
“Jerry, It wasn’t until her neighbors noticed Sara’s extended absence that the police began searching. When her body was discovered, she was so unrecognizable, dental records were necessary to identify her. The thought of it chills me.”
“Em, I disposed of her bike and backpack. Only I know how and where. I swear, it will remain a mystery, an unsolvable one. Be grateful I spared you the knowledge of it.”
“Jerry, it’s been five years. Five years of mounting guilt. I can’t live with it anymore. We have to go to the police, and tell them everything we know. Sara deserves a respectful closure, not this sanctimonious pretension to reverence.”
“And you and I need closure. It’s the only pathway to salvaging our souls, Jerry.”
With his face evolving into a dark frown, Jerry muttered sternly, “Em, remember our vow to each other?”
“Yes....I do.”
“So say it, Em. Say it out loud.”
She momentarily hesitated. With an apprehension that almost muted her voice, she uttered the mantra.
“No one else shall know. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Jerry reacted in a sudden pitiless rage, born of a fury that had festered for five years, forever in fear of Emmas’s desire for confession. Afraid of her betrayal.
His primal quickness, kin to that of a predator, attacked and immobilized Emma. Like a vulnerable gazelle, destined to be culled on the African Savanna, she became paralyzed, overwhelmed by stunned, disbelieving shock.
Violently pushed into the murky water, Emma struggled vainly as Jerry’s lethal, muscular madness imprisoned her head beneath the surface, his intent unrelenting and ruthless. Engulfed and overpowered, her body surrendered, limp and motionless; her consciousness extinguished.
Crawling up the now muddied bank, wearied from the struggle, Jerry gasped for air, haltingly and robotically repeating the oath.
“No one else shall know....”
Slowly raising his head above the crest of the creek’s embankment, desperately gripping the fingers of his left hand into the clay soil, wet and slick from his flailing hands, his right hand attempting to grasp the exposed roots of a tree growing perilously close to the creek’s edge, his parroting voice was abruptly silenced. The sight sent a swirling, fearful maze of thoughts and emotions flooding into his brain.
Dazed, he whispered, “Sara.....How can it be? Why are you here?”.
Her horrid shrieking, unceasingly reverberating against the stony hills rising above the insistent, flowing waters, was the answer.
An ethereal entity enveloped Jerry, his lone desperate hand losing its grasp, sweeping him away from the slick embankment, away from the placid pool, out into the troubled, turbulent waters of the swirling current.
Downstream, a sandbar, a child of the current, impaled with rotted logs and twisted, broken branches, awaited; eager for an embrace.
