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Dick's always been more of a swimmer than anything.
He's taken to water since he was still too young to go out by himself. Instead, his Aunt Lottie grasped him by his hands and together they would wade in. The cold, murky lake water lapped at his chest, slipped through his fingertips. He vaguely remembers the first shock of freedom when, at age five, her hands released and he slipped forward into a dark and weightless place. All winter he would anticipate summer and first hot afternoon of the season. Once dressed, he and his cousin Jack would barrel barefoot out the doorway, running in that joyous, endless way—never tiring, completely deaf to the cries of sisters trailing behind.
Jack was slightly smaller, but quick-footed, and they would arrive at the watering hole neck and neck. Neither slowed down to enter the water, instead barreling on forward unfazed. Jack would sprint across the rocky shore and fling himself backwards into the shallows, swallowed up in a loud, rambunctious smack! Their parents always warned them against such haste and off their young backs it always rolled. But there was good reason to worry: two summers ago Jack had tripped on the dock, hit a post, and earned himself a nasty scar, one still viciously pink beneath his sandy brown hair.
Dick would dash down the dock to take a running dive off the end. He loved the sensation of the dark, water-warped planks rough and welcoming on his feet—which were still teenage awkward and disproportionate to his body—just before the bracing, immediate, and absolute freedom of water. It was a feeling well worth the wait. Mind lifted of whatever weight, a dark but promising expanse to touch and lose himself in. And, when he came to the surface, a new appreciation for a good, deep breath of air, and Jack's laugh ringing out across the water like a clarion call.
He's always been more of a swimmer than a runner.
Lew was clever, quick to joke, armed with wit as fast as a pristine engine—but he never moved faster than a walk along the pier. Like he was savoring the feeling of each plank. Counting them. Dick couldn't convince him to jump off it. He liked to bask in the sun instead, closing his eyes as he lay on his back. Quiet for a change, grinning mouth slack. Dick had hoisted himself partially out of the water and kissed with a wet mouth his unsuspecting temple. Compared to jumping off the pier, his warm, dry skin was just as exhilarating and loaded with sensation. Worth waiting for.
Dick crosses the yard at that same, break-neck speed, approaching the cow pasture fence. He's not tireless with joy, though, today—just purpose. He climbs over the wooden fence and the rough-hewn edges burn on his palms. He can hold his own in a foot race, but the water is where he feels the fastest. The rhythm of his feet hitting the ground seems awkward, stilted almost, and no matter how hard he pushes, it feels like impossibly slow progress. He skirts along the barbed wire of the pasture's outer limits until he finds the oak branch bridging it. He jumps and hoists himself up, nearly losing his grip in his rush. Climbs through the tangle of branches, jumps back down on the opposite side, feet already digging into the dirt.
He doesn't want to think he won't make it—negative thoughts are often a self-fulfilling prophecy—but the ground is uneven and crowded by tall grass and thickets of trees along the ripe fields. The air is August thick, humid, and every lungful is less restorative; every step heavier than the last. Nix might be already gone, is the other thought.
Nix once fell into the water. Came up with a gasp, sopping wet, lips red and a half-wild expression, shocked out of his peace on that dry dock. Dick had pushed him through the water into its shadow beneath, ignoring the cobwebs that caught on their wet hair, his toes jamming painfully against the rocks, and tasted that shock. Nix clapped his hand at the back of Dick's neck and clutched him closer.
Close now, enough to see the dark rooftops of the farm looming large where they peer through the trees.
He surges up the hill and stops. He relieves that same brief, blended flash of surprise, fear, and excitement.
Aunt Lottie's hands, all-powerful and warm, release him to the cold, brisk kiss of the water; Nixon breaks a rough, impatient kiss, surfacing to take a breath and never open his eyes, just rub little circles with his thumb behind Dick's ear.
He's a swimmer; he knows in the end he has to come up for air and break out of that cool, murky place of freedom. When he sees the empty driveway and telltale wisps of dust, he knows Nixon is gone and wishes he could have swum a little faster, held his breath a little longer.