The house of my childhood was thickly haunted, so we spent what time we could outdoors. This is where, I believe, the rite came from, a way to mark our joy at being released from the house’s chill and eerie confinement and set loose into the warming spring. My brother now says the rite was not a rite, that it was only a fluke that happened once, as a bet; my sister, the diplomat and wise one, says she doesn’t remember, but that of course truth is a shifty thing, dependent on the needs of the rememberer.
I need to believe that our family’s weird little rite happened every year. It was always still April, and the ice had thawed and new buds were on the trees, and in the forests that ringed our lake there were still hollows of snow gently melting. We waited until dusk on the appointed day, then came out shivering in our bathing suits and stood beside the winter-covered pool. I remember solemnity over a sense of barely held glee.
My father had us peel back the pool’s heavy black cover on which autumn leaves had melted into a brown slurry, and heave it to the deep end under the diving board. By spring, the water would be viscous and dark with algae and the disintegrated bodies of dead creatures, which we sensed there even if the water was too thick to see them. Later, after the pool was shocked with chlorine, after the release of the slime-eating robot, we’d find the skeletons of frogs in the gutters, tarry clumps of feathers that used to be birds.
The game was simple: The winner would be the child who could stay in the freshly uncovered water of the pool the longest. The prize was a dollar. In the 1980s, a dollar would have bought four cake doughnuts at the bakery on the corner of Main Street and Chestnut, or one enormous jawbreaker from the candy store that we’d lick into rainbows for months.
Sign in to Granta.com.