Art by Jen Watt
The Reunion
by Garrett Bliss
You’ve come back. I always knew you would.
That path down to the water is a little trickier than it used to be. Neither one of us gave it a second thought back then, but today you take each step carefully, testing the ground before shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
Your hair, now grey. Shoulders, slightly stooped.
Don’t rush on my account. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer.
I have been there, beside you, from time to time. Indeed, it was my hand that made you duck at Chancellorsville. The bullet that split the tree that day had your name on it.
I know things like that now. I didn’t realize I would. There’s so much I didn’t know.
Did we imagine, back then, we were only a few years from a war that would have called us both to serve before we were even men? Would that have changed anything? I know now you would not have returned. Without my intervention, that rebel bullet would have found its mark. Who knows if there would have been one out there with my name on it.
Probably. It’s evident I was not destined for a long life.
You might wonder why I saved you. I know I do. I was protecting the boy who walked over to me when I was sitting beneath a tree and asked what I was drawing. I was still the new boy at school, the one others ignored. But you left the group you were walking with and you said such kind things. Only later did I learn your skills far exceeded mine. Do you remember that day in your dormitory room we drew each other’s portraits? When I was done, I handed you what I had drawn. You shook your head at the proposed trade. “I’m keeping this. I want you to keep that.”
That is who I saved.
If everything had not ended for me that day, what happened here would have always haunted me. It still does, of course, but it’s not the moment you would think. You’d be surprised. It’s not the memory that wakes you in the middle of the night, what seizes you in the middle of the day—you bite down, the muscles in your arms go tight, you snap your pencil in two and you throw it to the ground.
It passes. It always does. You move on.
Since I know you’ll never ask, I’ll tell you: It was the way you brushed my hand away. The look you gave—so brief and yet, for me, it has been eternal. A look of anger, disgust, fear and confusion.
You’re doing well, I see. Still enough of that school boy athlete’s balance and grace.
I was the one who suggested coming here that day. We had been here before, and I knew you wanted to come back. No one can hear you now. Admit it.
Say it so I can hear it. Say it for me.
Before the bell had rung for first class, I knew it would be a hot day. Maybe the last one of the year. I only had time enough to suggest we come here at the end of the day before we both had to run our separate ways to class. I didn’t see you again until the end of the day—history with Mr. Cooper.
What happened that day? I know something did. Tell me. I deserve that much, don’t I? I’ve had so much time to go over every detail of that day, to notice things I didn’t see at the time. Like the way you didn’t look at me when you sat down one row ahead of me.
When Mr. Cooper called on me, I had no idea what he had been talking about. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know.” I figured—no matter the question—this was a safe answer. There was laughter, of course, but he moved on. He called on you. You answered confidently. No one laughed.
It was still hot when Mr. Cooper finally let us go, his shirt was stained with sweat. His collar sagging in the heat.
Did you notice the quiver when I asked, no louder than a whisper, “The river?” Probably not. But you said yes. Or, rather, you nodded, and that was enough.
You were the one who found this spot. Or have you decided to remember it differently? Because I don’t.
Not deep in the woods. Not too far from school. Just a well-hidden curve in this offshoot of the mighty Penacook.
It had rained the night before. Hard. The river was running high and fast. The sun-drenched rock where we left our pants and shirts, where we would later lie down to dry off, was barely above water.
You were the first one in. You dove under. I waited for you to surface, for the spray to fly from your hair as you whipped your head back, for your shoulders to rise and fall as you took that first, deep, hungry breath.
You swam, under water, to the far side of the pool. You always could hold your breath longer, but we don’t need to dwell on that.
When I called out, raising my voice over the sound of the swollen river, “Is it cold?” you held up your finger, shushing me.
I dove in and swam to you. We floated beside each other on our backs. I splashed you. You did not splash back. When you rested on a submerged ledge, head tilted back, your face to the sun, I joined you. As soon as I sat beside you, you swam away. I followed. I surfaced, facing you, and found my footing on the slick rock below. I brushed water off your shoulder with the palm of my hand. Again, more slowly. I was sure this was what we both wanted. I still believe it. Your chest filled with air and then relaxed. My fingers traveled down your arm. Your hand was open, waiting to wrap your fingers around mine. I took a quarter step closer.
And then it happened.
The palm of your hand slammed against my shoulder. I was knocked off the slippery rock. My ankle twisted and scraped where no soft moss covered the rock.
I know this now. I didn’t feel any of this then.
My head struck a rock when I fell back. Hard. I closed my eyes at the dizzying pain. I felt the back of my head. Breathing hard, face red, you told me to “get away.” And then you came for me. This time you pushed me into the water with both hands. As soon as I surfaced, you were on top of me. You pushed me under. You were stronger, but I slipped out of your grasp. I kicked to propel myself away.
I made sure I didn’t kick you. Can you believe that?
I came up for air and you were there. You held me tight by one arm so I could not slip away this time. With the other, you pressed down. I needed to release the pressure in my lungs, to relieve the crushing ache in my chest. Somehow, I broke to the surface. I still remember the gasp that burst out of me. A monstrous groan. You pushed me down again. I stopped kicking. I let go of the last air to ever fill my lungs.
It was over.
The silence surprised me. Stunned me, really.
I wonder if that is why the sounds of that day have endured as they have in my memory. Mr. Cooper’s stick of chalk hitting the blackboard each time he wrote down another name or date. Your chair scraping the floor. The church bell chiming the top of the hour, only fifteen more minutes until we would be free. The gentle whir of the lawnmower through our open classroom window. As we walked through the woods, birds called to one another. A flock of geese flying by. The high-pitched buzz of mosquitos, drawn to the smell of the sweat on hot skin. The wet squelch as my shoes pressed into the dirt path, still soaked from the rain the night before. And then, of course, the river.
After class, when you nodded that we would still meet for a swim, you told me to go ahead, to wait just inside the woods, out of sight.
When we stepped out of the classroom building, you charged ahead. You ran to a group of older boys at the bottom of the steps. I did as directed—turned right, headed across the field, and waited.
What brought you here today?
Are you going to say you are sorry? Please don’t do that. Ask for forgiveness? Is that even mine to give? Although I can’t think of anyone else on earth who could do that.
How many years has it been?
You see, for me, time doesn’t really have the same meaning any more. Time is defined by change, but things don’t really change for me. For me it is always and forever that afternoon. Oh, for sure, the seasons change. Fall is my favorite, always has been. Summer brings people. You might think I would enjoy the company, but I don’t. All those swimmers, all that splashing. And, you know what, they all go home alive. In winter, the mist that falls on the rocks freezes, and there is this beautiful, tissue-thin ice in the still parts of the river. And then, spring. Always bittersweet. There is something almost cruel—mocking—in buds returning to the trees, flowers sprouting and blooming, all that rebirth.
But not for me.
You’ve made it down. Well done. Took you longer than I expected. I guess it’s been even more years than I realized, or perhaps time has been harder on you than I imagined.
“The gift of time.” What a stupid, ignorant expression.
You know that. I know you do.
I made sure of it.
I see you’ve put aside your shoes and socks, rolled your trousers. Those soft leaves, just on the verge of becoming part of the forest dirt, feel so good beneath your toes, don’t they? Maybe they are warm from a bit of sun let in through the thinning canopy above. Or maybe still a little wet from this morning’s rain.
Cautious and careful as ever, you’ve set your watch and cufflinks a safe distance from the water. Your sleeves now rolled half-way up your arms.
Come in, the water’s warm.
It’s going to hurt. I wish that wasn’t true.
But after the pain, excruciating pain, there will be release.
There is no tunnel of light. No old man talking to you. Just silence, stunning silence.
That’s when I will come to you.
This is how it could have always been.
You’ve come back. I always knew you would.
About the author:
Garrett Bliss lives in Rhode Island where he frequents the library visited by Edgar Allan Poe during his Providence years.
Published fairytales include “The Peddler” (Gramarye), “The Lost Fairytale” (Promised Protagonists). His New England Gothic stories set in the fictional Penacook Valley include: “Beneath This Tree” (Poet’s Choice), “The Stone Bridge” (Salt + Mirrors + Cats), “Shadows on a Christmas Morning” (M Presents: The Dread of Winter), “What Alice Saw” (Gray Coven: Shadow Work), “The Rough Draft” (Dark Harbor), “They Ride By Night” (House of Long Shadows, October 2025).
His CNF, “Accumulations,” Tahoma Literary Review, was a Notable Essay in Best American Essays 2020.
