James Tate

Summoned

               Jan wanted to go out in our little rowboat,
in spite of the fact that it was late at night and
the lake was wreathed in fog. She sat on the prow
with a flashlight while I rowed. It made no sense
what we were doing, but we both knew right away that
it was exactly what we should be doing. “What do
you see out there?” I said to Jan. “Endless wads
of fog moiling and oozing and weeping,” she said.
“Good,” I said, and kept rowing as though we had
a destination. I could barely see Jan. Every now
and then the moon peeped out from behind a cloud
and I could see Jan’s hand holding the flashlight.
It was eerie, but interesting. “Do you see anything?”
I said to Jan, again. “I think we’re on the river
Styx crossing into Hades,” she said. “But no dragons
yet.” “Good,” I said, and rowed harder. We had been
out there a good long time when I said to Jan, “How
are we going to find our way back?” “There’s no way,
not through this stuff. It’s funny that we didn’t
think of that before. I guess neither one of us
wanted to,” she said. “Well, we’re thinking about
it now. We can’t see the lights on shore,” I said.
“Just keep rowing,” she said, “I don’t care.” And
so I concentrated on rowing, and put all other thoughts
out of my mind. The sound of the water plashing
and the occasional glimpse of Jan’s hand were all
I had. And the ghosts, with their vague, unsubstantial
lives.

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