There was a story Francis told about two best friends gone swimming, round about Beiderman’s Point, back of Petty’s Island, along the crooked Delaware. “Fred Spowhouse,” he’d say, his breath smelling like oysters and hay. “Alfred Edwards.” The two friends found drowned and buckled together—Spowhouse clutched up tight inside Edwards’ feckless arms.
It would practically kill Francis, every time he told the tale—the way the one died trying to put the rescue on the other. Francis would say it was the worst thing possible, the worst story told, but Francis didn’t know the half of it. Worst thing possible was what happened to Francis six months later, and how it happened to Francis all alone.
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