Black Ribbon

Rowdy wagged his tail. He doesn’t even mind my singing. Dogs will forgive anything. Considering his tolerance and devotion, I should have stayed where I was, on good, reliable, and, above all else, blessedly dry land, albeit it at the edge of that nasty stuff that creeps through both layers of your coat, right to your skin, where it feels just horrible. But I stepped onto the dock and coaxed: “Come on, big boy! It won’t hurt you! The dock is dry, and Kimi isn’t here to push you in.”
    Kimi had done it once, at my father’s place, whether accidentally or deliberately, I don’t know. Rowdy hadn’t blamed her. Instead, he’d thenceforth treated all wooden docks as members of a secret Rowdy-drenching society, fanatical conspirators devoted to the goal of getting him wet.
    When he succumbed to my cajoling by placing all four paws on the planks, his resistance diminished, and I had no trouble in leading him to the end, where I stood and surveyed the lake. As I’ve mentioned, the day had been outright hot for Maine in late August. The evening, although warm for Maine, was cool by ordinary standards; before taking Rowdy out, I’d pulled on a sweater. Consequently, when I noticed the swimmer, my first thought was that it must be someone with a thick layer of subcutaneous fat. All I could see was an unidentifiable head and the slight wake left by arms and legs silently stroking beneath the surface. If the lake had been a tidal river, I’d have assumed that the head belonged to a seal. I remembered how hot Maxine had looked at dinner. Her face had been damp, its veins prominent.
    Goody-goody believer in the buddy system, I disappointed Rowdy by settling down on the dock. Refusing to follow suit, he turned to face the shore and whined softly. “Shh!” I whispered.
    Far out on the lake, a boat putted. Although sound carries and echoes over water, I heard nothing else until the lone swimmer coughed, lightly at first, as if a few drops of water had gone down the wrong way, then deeply and loudly, with involuntary force. The. head dipped, legs kicked, and arms flailed. How far out? No farther than Elsa and I had swum that morning, no distance at all to a lifeguard gifted with buoyancy, as many yards as a powerful man can toss a rubber toy. But the Red Cross course I’d flunked had cautioned even the buoyant against impetuously plunging in. A flotation device should have been mounted somewhere on the dock. None was. Dragging Rowdy after me, hollering, I dashed to land, onto the little pebble beach, and to the first of the upended canoes—only to remember that the paddles were stored in the main lodge. Even so, I reached in, fished around, and found what I needed—a seat cushion, a flotation device.
    Croaking out pleas for help and calling to the swimmer, I stumbled back over the rough rocks and jumped onto the dock, Rowdy bounding beside me. Only when I reached the end, maddeningly close to the helpless, frantic swimmer, did the problem hit me: What was I going to do with Rowdy? The flat dock hadn’t been designed for mooring boats; it offered not a single upright or cleat to which I could fasten a leash. Furthermore, the flex lead, with its long cord and bulky plastic handle, was meant exclusively for dog walking, not for tying out. If I reached under the dock, I’d presumably find one of the wooden legs on which it sat. I could pull out a length of cord and, working underwater and in the dark, loop the cord around a support, knot the cord, and...
    “Rowdy, down! Gooooood boy!” I removed his lead, yanked off my shoes, and showed Rowdy the palm of my hand. “Stay!” I’d done the best I could. If Rowdy broke, if he took off after a wild animal or another dog, or if he followed his nose to the kitchen of the main lodge or even into Rangeley in search of the golden with the come-hither scent, at least he wouldn’t get fouled up by the flex lead. And if you’re wondering why I didn’t trust Rowdy, let’s just say that if forced to choose between obeying me and zipping off after a raccoon or a porcupine, he’d act like a malamute every time.
    With the seat cushion clutched in my hands, I jumped feet first off the end of the dock, bobbed up, kicked, and fought the weight of the sodden clothes that dragged me down. No wonder I’d flunked Red Cross. But the cushion was buoyant, the swimmer near. Too pumped to mind the cold, I frog-kicked hard.
    How long was it, really, between the time the lone swimmer