Dead in the Water (3 page)

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3

Off in the distance,
the phone was ringing. Lying there with eyes closed, the dream kept repeating itself. I was still on the sunny, hot, sandy beach; no noise except the deadly lull of the small waves whispering their way up the beach—and the ringing phone. Disgusting tasting stomach acid lurched into my mouth. I was queasy and dizzy. Normally, I don’t answer phones, but I was eager to get away from the drowning swimmers’ dream. Using every bit of energy I had, I sat on the side of the bed, head in hands, stood up and stumbled toward the phone.

Before I even had a chance to say hello, a harried voice on the other end asked for Lena.

“She’s not home. She left about two hours ago for swim practice,” I said, willing myself to listen.

“Trish, Bill, here. Bill Rutherford, Nor Cal Swimming. Lena promised to work on our website later today. I need her now. The whole system crashed. I had just uploaded the results from yesterday’s open water swim and it froze. No one can get into our site. Swimmers are calling for results. This machine is a piece of shit. I’ve tried her cell phone, but she’s not answering.”

I smiled at that. Lena’s not crazy about talking on phones either.

“Okay. Listen, I’ll text her and tell her to call you.”

“This is the wrong day, wrong day for this. My assistant, Chris, left me a message over the weekend, saying he had to go ‘work on himself’ for a while. So what does he do? He quits, says he is leaving for some beach on the Pacific Northwest. Who does things like that anymore? Look, I need you to pick up some swim caps, and medals for next weekend’s swim. You up for that?”

“Of course,” I said with a clarity and chipperness I didn’t feel. “I’ve got some free time and gas in the car.”

I hung up and the hamster sprinting around on his wheel in my head came to an abrupt stop. Then, he turned around and started galloping in the other direction. Got to shower, get directions online. I jogged back to the bedroom and pulled out a clean pair of cargo pants and a long sleeve yellow tee shirt. One set of racing thoughts smothered the other, as I forced myself to set up a plan for the morning.

With my baseball cap pulled down as far as it could go and dark sunglasses perched on the brim, I picked up my car keys from the kitchen counter. I should eat. But my stomach reeled at the thought of food. Maybe later. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of water and a handful of saltine crackers as I headed for the door.

The swim caps and medals were ready at the sports store. With a quick signature, I was back on the road. Wispy fog rolling down the hills above Sausalito was beginning to burn off. The sun was out and with the next curve of the road, I could see the houseboats in Richardson Bay off the Sausalito waterfront. The top of the two towers of the Golden Gate Bridge popped into view while I was still in the Waldo Tunnel.

On the Bridge, I slowed down to the obligatory 45 miles an hour. I glanced to my right at the Pacific Ocean, disappearing into a hazy horizon. There was a container ship moving toward the mouth of San Francisco Bay, propelled by the incoming waters.

To my left were the white crisp lines of the San Francisco skyline. Three piers and four concrete warehouses of Fort Mason jutted out into the Bay. Behind them were red-tiled roof buildings. One of those housed the office for the Nor Cal Swimming Association. That’s where I was headed.

I pulled into Fort Mason’s large outdoor parking lot, grabbed the box of caps, found the right building and climbed three flights of no-frills stairs to the swimming office. The hallway was sparse, the stairwell whitewashed.

Inside, director Bill Rutherford was on one phone, while two others were ringing. He glanced at me and the box of caps and motioned for me to come in. “Thank you,” he mouthed. Bill was a compact muscular man about 5’8”, in his forties, who vibrated with energy. His prematurely thinning grey hair combed straight back, rimless glasses, designer jeans, and crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows gave him more of a hip accountant look than that of a sports director.

He switched to his headset and continued talking, hands moving constantly. I looked around the one room office. Tall narrow uncluttered windows faced the Bay. Like the stairs, the office walls were whitewashed. Photos of swim meets, swimmers, and awards ceremonies hung on the concrete walls. I put the box of caps and medals on an empty chair near the door.

Finally, Bill stopped talking. Immediately, the phone rang again.

“It’s been like this all morning. We had a problem yesterday at the open water swim. People are calling to find out what happened. The press is even calling.”

“I know. I was there,” I said. “How is the swimmer? Do you know what happened?”

Bill sat down on the edge of this desk. “He died this morning.”

“That’s terrible. A heart attack?” I asked.

“I can’t really talk about it at this point,” he said. “In thirty years, we’ve never had a death at an open water swim.”

I was struck by the fickleness of life. What would Waddell’s family do? How would their lives be different? During that first month after Brad walked out, I wondered how many pills it would take to put me asleep permanently. Watching this swimmer fade before my eyes yesterday, I realized what a terrible mistake I almost made. That could have been me. If that was the case, Lena would be alone. It would have destroyed her.

I started for the door.

“Would you like to expand the work you’re doing for me… maybe help out in the office, until I can settle the ‘Chris’ question?” Bill asked. “You’d still have to run errands and deliver supplies, but the rest of the time, you’d be here answering the phones.”

“Sure, I’ve worked in offices for years.”

For the next three minutes, I became a talking resume, focusing not only on my office abilities from my last job, but the incredible way (or so I thought) I tiptoed between the sparring healthcare executives, union leaders and frontline workers.

“It probably won’t be full time. But, it would be a big help. Tomorrow morning? Could you start then?”

I nodded.

“One more thing. I need another delivery done today. It’s about an hour away.”

Since there was nothing else on my very blank calendar, I agreed to make the run.

“Some swim items were left at the event yesterday. They need to get back to the family.”

“Do you usually do a door-to-door delivery service for lost and found? I think it would be the swimmer’s responsibility to watch over their own things.”

“Normally, that’s what happens. But the office needs to get them back to the Waddell family.” He paused.

“The Waddell family, as in Dick Waddell, the swimmer who died?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

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4

The hour’s drive out
to Martinez, birthplace of joltin’ Joe DeMaggio, the famous New York Yankee ballplayer, home of naturalist John Muir and of the recently departed swimmer Richard Waddell was surprisingly relaxing—radio on, weather warming up, a bottle of water and saltines within my reach. Waddell lived in a quiet suburb—small one-story homes with flat roofs and well kept front lawns. The neighborhood was sandwiched between two shopping centers with trees used as a vision and sound buffer. Nice, simple, not overly fancy or memorable. Since most people were at work, the neighborhood streets were empty.

As I parked, I wondered what I had gotten myself in for. What do I say to these people that just lost an important part of their family?

I had put Dick Waddell’s swim bag in the car trunk, but it had fallen over and everything was scattered. What a mess. Half-used sample packets of sunscreen and shampoo had oozed out and were mixing together in the trunk. As I scraped up the sticky lotions, I noticed a small baggie with two white capsules in it and three gel packs. The gel packs I’d seen before. Lena used them all the time before a swim to keep her energy up. But never the capsules. I picked the baggie up and held it at eye level, rubbing the capsules between my thumb and forefinger through the light plastic bag.

Maybe this had something to do with Waddell’s death.

I could help the family. I could give the baggie to Dr. T and ask him to test the capsules. It might answer some questions. Questions they haven’t even asked yet. Maybe, it could even save other swimmers. I didn’t want to see anyone else die.

I looked at the baggie again. I could hear Lena’s voice echoing in my head, “Stay out of it.” She was right. Dick Waddell, his death, these capsules had nothing to do with me. It was none of my business.

“I have to put you back,” I said to the baggie as I stuffed it and the rest of the gear into the swim bag.

I followed the walkway that curved around to a front door located on the side of the house. I rang the bell and counted ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi’—if I got to ‘three Mississippi,’ I was going to leave the swim gear on the front step. But, no such luck. A man wearing khaki trousers with creases so sharp they’d cut paper, a snappy blue blazer and rich brown leather boat shoes, opened the door.

“Hi, I’m Trisha Carson…from the Nor Cal Swimming Association. These were left yesterday, at the open water swim. They belong to Richard Waddell.”

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or what else to say.

“Come in,” said the man. He introduced himself as Spencer Matthews, Waddell’s brother-in-law. Deeply tanned with brown wavy hair, Spencer was surprisingly short, probably under 5’4”. I was taller than he was.

“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Waddell,” I said.

Spencer led me into the living room. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “The family is still at the hospital. I just got back here myself. Terrible tragedy. Excuse me, but I’m on the phone with his employer.”

I looked around the half-empty living room. There was a nondescript brown and blue couch, one straight back chair, a large HDTV on the wall and a small bookcase. Waddel was a minimalist or someone who didn’t spend much time at home.

Spencer walked back into the room.

“Dick worked as a financial analyst. This came as a shock to his staff as well as his supervisor. Hard to believe he’s gone. Dick was in the best of shape. Pamela, his sister, and I—of course—were so glad when he moved here. About a year ago, a Texas transplant. He used to crew for me. Sailboat races…not too comfortable on the foredeck but he was pretty decent in the cockpit.”

Spencer stopped and looked at me.

“An all-around water person, it sounds like. I’m so sorry,” I said again, not sure what else to say.

“Did you know him?” Spencer asked.

“No, no, I didn’t. But I happened to be at the swim yesterday. I can tell you that the paramedics, the ambulance, were right there as soon he was brought to shore. You couldn’t have asked for a quicker response.”

I’m not sure Spencer was listening. He was pulling things out of Waddell’s swimbag: an extra swimsuit, towel and the plastic baggie.

“What’s this,” he asked, pointing to the gel packet and capsules.

“Probably energy supplements. Swimmers, runners, lots of athletes use them all the time. It helps with endurance and performance, completely legal.” I felt I needed to add that, remembering the conversation I just had with myself a few minutes ago.

Spencer smiled. “No doubt. Richard wouldn’t think of doing anything out of the ordinary to stretch his performance. He was a by-the-book kind of guy…straight laced, very religious…spiritual mostly. Not quite my style.”

Too much information. It was time to get out of there.

By 9:00 a.m. the next day, I was back at the swim office in Fort Mason. This morning, I was the one answering phones while Bill looked on. He gave me about fifteen minutes of orientation, mostly on how to work the phone headset. Then he left with an off-hand comment about never being in the office, that I’d be by myself most of the time and did I understand?

I opened my mouth to answer. He was gone. I could hear his footsteps hurrying down the three flights of stairs. I understood all too well. I was on my own.

“Nor Cal Swimming,” I said over and over to each caller. More than one person asked about Dick Waddell. I tried to sound sympathetic without giving anything away. Not an easy thing to do. Even Mike Menton, the swimmer who placed first in Waddell’s age group, left a message asking for an address so he could send flowers. It didn’t sound like he knew that Waddell was dead.

About an hour later, the phones quieted down. This gave me a chance to really look around. The office was just one big room with two desks, mine at one end, Bill’s at the other with bookcases in between.

I took the phone messages for Bill and put them on his cluttered desk. It was covered with papers, folders, crumbled up napkins and empty coffee cups.

A folder labeled Richard Waddell was off to the side on the one semi-clear spot. I picked it up and leafed through the papers. There was a preliminary report for Nor Cal’s insurance company, a list of names and phone numbers, probably the event director and key swimmers who had been on the scene, the name of the ambulance company that took Waddell to the hospital and the name of a doctor, probably from Lake Joseph’s emergency room. Interesting, but also sad. Someone’s life came down to impersonal forms, lists, and in this case, lawyers—Dick Waddell’s humanness had begun to fade away. I glanced back at the names and phone numbers. Was the Good Samaritan in the striped polo shirt on the list? He had been the first to notice the distressed swimmer and the first to disappear. A coincidence? Maybe. But maybe not.

The office extended to a small storage room across the hall with a huge copy machine, reams of different colored paper, boxes of old trophies, ribbons, and medals that had never been picked up. Floor to ceiling industrial styled bookcases were crammed full. There was even some extra equipment for pool meets and open water swims and a box full of tools—wrenches to tighten and loosen lane lines, buckets filled with dried cement that could be used as anchors for buoys, different lengths of synthetic rope, a series of red, yellow, green starting flags, a bullhorn and some large banners.

Before Bill left, he had handed me a swim magazine opened to a page that listed open water swimming statistics in a snappy graphic format under the heading,
Did You Know?

According to an international open water expert, in 2011, approximately 60,000 people competed in open water swims in the United States and another 2.3 million people competed in triathlons, which have a swimming leg. There were more than 4,000 open water swims around the world, from Japan to Mexico, Australia to Hungary, and Cuba to Singapore.

Next to those numbers, Bill had scribbled,
“Northern California Masters offers more open water swims than any other area in the United States. People look to us for leadership on how to do things.”

I was impressed. At times, I thought the open water swimming consisted of only Lena and me spending weekends on the road. But I was wrong. This was a growing sport with international connections.

The computer on my desk was a relic, but I needed to check into the office’s email. I couldn’t answer much in the way of questions, but at least I could read them and get a sense of what went on.

The subject line of many said
Dick Waddell
. Most wanted to know what happened. One email was clearly different. I couldn’t tell who it was from. The return address was “Do Not Reply” with a school system name in the Sacramento area. There was no message, just a subject line.

Subject: Waddell death. ??????

Did the sender know that Dick had died? Or was it a question wondering if he was dead. Maybe it was a query about how he died. If the office was getting these inquiries, certainly the Waddell family was. It must be painful for them to handle this right now. If I had gone through with my ‘too many pills’ scenario, Lena would have switched off her computer and phone immediately, headed for her bedroom and stayed there. I didn’t want the Waddell family to struggle with requests for information, no matter how well-meaning. Forget Lena’s warning to leave things alone, I felt compelled to help this family in any way I could.

I hit Reply and the Do Not Reply message came up. Then it reverted back to the Inbox. I clicked on the message again to open it. When I hit Reply, the same thing happened. On the third try, my computer restarted.

“Welcome to day one of the new job,” I sighed.

Later, when Bill called into the office, I told him about the email. “Who knows? Maybe they hit the send button before they had time to write anything,” he said “We get strange emails all the time.”

“But nobody knows that Dick Waddell has died. What if his death isn’t so cut and dried?”

“The family probably called his swim coach and a few of his close friends. Look, your job is to mind the office and answer the phones,” said Bill. “Don’t get involved with this. I know you mean well, but when there’s a death, lawyers are often close behind.”

“Well, now that you mention it, Waddell’s coach, Cody Stephenson did call and so did an attorney for the Waddell family.” I gave him her name and number. When I heard Bill muttering to himself, I quickly said goodbye and hung up.

Dick Waddell intrigued me. I looked up his information on our database. It didn’t tell me more than the basics: date of birth, home address, phone number and how he placed in past swims.

Then I did a web search. Waddell was an accomplished swimmer and there were articles and records for him that dated back to his college days. He’d even gone to the Olympic trials, but missed making the team by a fraction of a second. An international swimming magazine did a profile of him a few years back when he was still in Texas. The photo showed a man doing a powerful butterfly stroke, biceps flexed as he moved through the water. Then there was a picture of him after an open water swim in Chicago. He was wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat, a pair of tight-fitting jeans that hung precariously low on his hips and cowboy boots. That was it. The word ‘Lucky’ was tattooed on his back.

The most recent piece about him mentioned that after a brief break from swimming, he had moved to Northern California to be closer to family. There was no mention of a wife or kids.

On the surface, this seemed plausible, but something was missing. Did he come to the Bay area to be close to his sister and the nattily-dressed brother-in-law? I guess, if there is no one else. Who could I talk to without bothering the Waddell family? I thought of the call from Mike Menton. They were competitors. From what I’d seen during my sister’s swimming career, competitors were often good friends. I could give out the address he wanted and maybe, just maybe, have a little conversation.

Looking down at my notepad, I dialed his phone and waited.

“Hello,” said a girl’s high voice.

“Is Mike there?” I asked.

“No, this is his daughter, Daisy. Can I take a message?”

“Hi, Daisy. My name is Trisha Carson from the Nor Cal Swimming office. I think I saw you at the open water swim at Lake Joseph this past weekend.”

There was a long pause.

“My dad’s not here right now.”

“He called for an address. Can I give it to you?”

For a minute, it sounded like she had put her hand over the phone and was speaking to someone nearby.

“I’ll tell him you called,” she said. Then the line went dead.

“What in the world?” I thought to myself. Most kids past the age of eight know how to take a message. I wondered if this was the teenager in the bikini with the nerdy boyfriend I had seen at the swim. Or maybe it was another daughter? Whoever it was needed some serious lessons in telephone etiquette.

I walked back over to Bill’s desk, picked up the Waddell file and headed for the storage room. I copied the four sheets of paper with the names and phone numbers, then put it back on his desk. I placed my copies in a file folder and stuck it in my backpack.