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Gravity Hill
A novel by Susanne Davis
© 2006
The excerpt below comes from a chapter from Susanne Davis’s recently completed novel, GRAVITY HILL, which is under consideration for publication. The chapter was featured at the 2006 Boston Fiction Festival and was published as “Under the Surface of Glass” in Boston Fiction Annual Review.
Jordan found the accident site between the bridge and the bottom of Gravity Hill, the place where Clay had died. Almost every first date in town started or ended at Gravity Hill. Someone had erected three small white crosses at the top of the hill. Bunches of dead flowers lay in a heap. In one hand Jordan carried a warm beer and in the other a pack of peanuts. She was on her way home from work, and she wanted to sit for a while by the water and listen to it.
The Quanduck was shallow this time of year and the moon made a silver path across its surface. The peanut shells made no sound as they fell away from her hand and floated like tiny boats. She and Clay loved the river, all the kids did.
From down river a sudden light plunged out and shown on the water. Then there was a splash and a bobber surfaced and floated. Often there were fishermen at night shining trout. She wanted to be alone and at the same time it didn’t really matter. She broke more peanuts and flung the shells in the bushes out of courtesy to the fisherman.
“You stupid ass, Clay.” She removed the long sleeved flannel shirt that she wore at the glass factory to protect her arms from the hot bottles and tossed it aside. The night was warm and the air felt good against her skin. Underneath, she wore a plain white tee shirt, which had come untucked from her jeans. The jeans were stiff and uncomfortable; one of the several pairs she had bought for the factory. She took off her steel-toed work boots and socks, tossed them near the flannel shirt and sunk her toes in the water.
The light of the fisherman had moved closer upstream, but Jordan heard no sound of him until a fish broke the surface with a splash. Then she saw the line play like silver thread being pulled through the water and a moment later a trout arced in the air, gleaming in the light as the fisherman pulled it to shore.
The burn mark from the accident started high up on the trunk of the oak tree, which towered over all the others. There was no undergrowth there; it would have burned away in the fire. There was a rustling in the brush; Jordan thought it was probably a deer, who smelling her, would now skirt around the clearing. She watched the spot, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, when the fisherman emerged into the clearing.
“Hey, how you doing? Catchin’ anything?” Jordan stood and brushed off her pants.
“Yeah,” the guy said. “It’s okay.”
He had a loose build, broad shoulders and strong legs. A bunch of trout hung on a line looped through his belt, strung through the gills, their dead eyes staring at nothing. He wore a wide-brimmed hat so that she couldn’t see his eyes but she knew he was staring at her.
“Want some peanuts?” Jordan held out the few that were left.
The guy took the peanuts. “Figured someone was up here. Saw your peanuts going by.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. Once I saw your light, I tossed ‘em over there.” She pointed to the bushes. The empty beer bottle shone in the moonlight, along with the scattered shells.
“You want a cold one?” he asked. “I sunk a six pack near the bridge.”
Jordan picked up her shirt, socks, and shoes and they started toward the bridge.
The man asked, “What brings you out, this time of night?”
What brought her out was none of his business. “That your piece of shit truck up the hill?” Jordan asked. “I saw it coming in.”
The guy laughed. “Okay. You got any more lines like that?”
“Maybe.”
He shined his light into the water until it caught a silver gleam, then he pulled the six-pack from the water and handed one to her. “You hungry? I’m gonna cook these trout. Only way to eat ‘em. Straight from the water.”
Jordan nodded. She hadn’t eaten anything but the peanuts since her sandwich that afternoon. She followed the guy onto the bridge. He leaned his pole against the cross beam and opened his tackle box. A knife lay on the top tray. He took it and cut a fish from the line, laid it on the tackle box, and whop! The head splashed into the water below.
“You want me take the bones out?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Take those bones.”
He sliced down the body, holding it gently between his fingers. His hands weren’t clean, but they were thick and strong like the rest of him. He took the point of the knife and lifted the skeleton, peeled it right away from the fish then went down to the river and rinsed his hands and the fish, once, twice, three times. While he did that, Jordan rifled around for some twigs to build a fire. He helped her get the fire going and then he cooked the fish until it turned the color of a toasted nut, lifting it off to put a piece on each of the two tin plates he took from the bottom of his tackle box.
“This is good,” Jordan said.
“You eat much trout?” the man asked.
“My brother and I used to fish,” Jordan said, taking a mouthful of beer.
“Used to?”
“Yeah.”
The man waited.
“He died in a crash here. Last month. Stupid fuck.”
The man watched her stab a piece of trout and stuff it in her mouth. “Boys die in car accidents,” he said.
“There are so many better ways to die,” Jordan said. She drained the can of beer and reached for another.
“My cousin was with him,” the man said. “Tim Hatch.”
Jordan looked at the man more closely. With the hat and fishing clothes, in the dark night, she had not recognized him. He was handsome, with a long nose and blue eyes as pale as water. Her girlfriends always teased her she was a sucker for blue eyes. Fine lines curved around his mouth. The beer was giving her a buzz, but she remembered him now.
“You sang that song?”
He nodded.
“I wanted to talk to you, but you left.”
“Didn’t feel much like talking,” he said, looking down at the fish on his plate.
“You blame Clay?” Jordan asked.
“No more than the others,” Win said.
“You made everyone cry. You live here?” she asked. Asheville had a population of 2000. There weren’t many people she didn’t know.
His fork glinted as he put a piece of fish in his mouth. “Not anymore. Like I said that night, I lived with Tim’s parents for a year when I was in high school.”
“When was that?” The skin around his eyes was thin like onionskin.
“A long time. Ten, twelve years ago.”
“Which is it? Ten or twelve.”
“Twelve.”
“Why are you still here?”
“I’m sorting through Tim’s stuff, getting the house ready for sale.”
Jordan remembered then he had said he was the last one left. She thought it must be hard to be the only one. “Tim was Clay’s best friend. I liked him.”
“He had a good heart,” the man said.
“I was supposed to leave for college next month. I had a scholarship. But I gave it up to stay home this year and help my dad.”
“You worried about him?”
“Yeah, both him and my mother. But mostly him,” she said, raising the can to her lips.
They drank without speaking, until a faint drum of thunder started in the distance. A jagged line of lightening parted the clouds and another arched up from the ground to meet it.
“Did you see that?” Jordan asked.
The man dipped a shoulder. He looked darker now. A crack of thunder split the silence and another thread of lightening lit the clouds.
“You never said your name?”
“It’s Win.”
“Win?” Jordan asked.
“Winthrop.” His eyes traveled down her body. “What’s your name?”
“Jordan.” She pulled her jacket tight.
“Jordan. That’s not too common. We’re gonna get a storm, Jordan,” he said. “I’m headed for that shelter, just across the bridge.”
“Whatever,” she said. The dilapidated shack had been a tool shed for loggers in earlier decades when they ran logs down the river to the sawmill, now defunct. Clay and his friends had partied there, but since the accident, the resident state trooper patrolled the bridge area and the parties had moved elsewhere.
Win kicked some dirt on the fire and collected his gear. They had finished the six-pack.
Jordan stood and brushed herself off. “I’ll take this with me,” she said. “They’re trying to clean this place up and keep the kids out of here.” But she didn’t move, just held her boots and shirt and socks in one hand and the empty six pack in the other.
When the rain hit, Win offered her his hand, and she took it.
They reached the shack, and Win let Jordan go first. She stumbled and fell, dropping the beer carton and her clothes on the packed dirt. The smell of mold rose up as she felt around for the scattered items. One window let in some light. Win took off his hat and down tumbled his hair, all the way to his shoulders. It was thick, beautiful brown hair. He looked a little wild, his eyes darting over Jordan in a way that made her look at her own body. Her legs were spread; her t-shirt clung to her breasts.
She shivered.
“You’re chilled from the rain.” His voice sounded husky. He knelt between her legs and put his coat over her shoulders. She tried to push herself away, but her back met the wall.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “Tell me, what does your name mean?”
She wrapped the coat tight around herself. Her mother had picked the name for the baby girl she dreamed of having long before meeting her father. “It means descending, flowing down.”
Even with the coat, her teeth chattered.
“Well, that’s real pretty.”
“Fuck, it’s cold,” she said and wondered how she came to be there when she knew better. But knowing better was never a guarantee.
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