Swimmer in the Secret Sea Read Online Free PDF

Diane. 'I know it's difficult to lose your first baby when you're thirty.'
     
    The last light of day went along the brick wall of the hospital. Laski sat by the window, watching as night came on. Diane, wearing a bathrobe, entered the room. 'I told the nurse we'd be taking the baby home tomorrow after-noon.'
    'I'll build a little box for him tonight.'
    Will you be able to dig a hole in the frozen ground?'
    A nurse peeked her head inside the door. 'There are some fluids in the hall if either of you want any.'
    Laski went out and found a tray of watered fruit drinks. He poured some orange into two glasses and returned to the room. 'Fluids,' he said, handing her the thin orange drink.
    The night visiting bell sounded. 'I'll be in first thing tomorrow afternoon,' he said, kissing her lightly on th e lips. Then he went down the green hall, toward the street, the highway, and home.
    The steel roof of the cabin was bright in the moonlight as he parked the truck in the drive. He opened the door to the shed, where his lumber was piled. How am I going to do this? he asked himself, looking at the long pile of pine boards and at his tools. He was overcome by a feeling of dread about making the coffin; he had no wish to build it, or anything, ever again.
    He fingered the smoothly planed surface of the boards; the heavy feeling in him remained, as if he were in a dark cloud, but he grabbed a board and hauled it out of the pile.
    Carrying the sawhorses into his studio, he spaced them out evenly. Across them he laid the long clean pine board. Then he brought his toolbox in and set it down. He pulled the metallic ruler out of its case and stretched it along the wood imagining the size of the baby's body.
    He laid his T-square on the mark, drew a straight line and sawed along it, thinking of the old days when men had always built the caskets of their loved ones, and he saw that it was a good thing to do, that it was a privilege few men had anymore. He marked the next line carefully and sawed a matching piece to form the floor of the casket.
    He joined the two pieces and then cut the sides and ends for the box. The time passed slowly and peacefully. He worked, sanding the edges of the pieces so that they would join well, to form a box that no one would see, but which had to be made perfectly. He drilled holes and countersunk them, and screwed on the sides and end-pieces.
    Squatting on the floor, sawdust on his knees and a pencil behind his ear, he turned the screws slowly, biting deep into the wood. He sanded along the edge of the box, making another fine cloud of sawdust, which filled his nose with a memorable smell. I built a house for us, with a room for him, and now I'm building his casket. There's no difference in the work. We simply must go along, eyes open, watching our work carefully, without any extra thoughts. Then we flow with the night.
    The little box took shape and he resisted feeling proud of it, for pride was something extra. I do it quietly, for no one, not even for him, for he's gone beyond my little box. But he left behind a fragment of himself, which requires a box I can carry through the woods. And the box needs a lid and I've got to find a pair of hinges.
    He rummaged around the shed and found an old rusted pair, small and squeaky, but serviceable. Marking the outlines for the hinges, he chiseled out their shape, so they slid snugly down into the wood. He tried the lid and continued setting the hinges, until the lid finally closed solidly. He worked the lip up and down a few times, enjoying the smooth action of it, until he remembered what it was for, and he saw again that there should be nothing extra in the work.
    He put away the sawhorses and his tools, and swept up the dust. Then he sat down in a chair and quietly rocked, back and forth, looking at the coffin. A vague dissatisfaction stirred in him, growing slowly more clear and troubling.
    If we bury him here, we'll be attached to this land permanently. I can have him