The Pool

NTT Short Story

This short story is for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday for 6/19/25.

The morning sun was starting to get hot as I reviewed the map and my notes one final time. Thirty-six years was a long time to go just by memory.

Vera coughed and I heard her moaning in pain through the partly open window behind me. She had weeks, maybe days.

I’d put this off long enough; I only hoped I still had time.

I first saw Vera Wright at a freshman mixer in the Fall of 1945. I knew before we had spoken that I was going to marry her. 

I was holding my beer in the dance hall, and she was standing on the other side, talking to some girls. She was a brunette, average height, with an upturned nose and nice legs. She seemed to smile a lot, but it looked like she listened more than she talked.

She sensed me staring because her head came up, she turned, and met my gaze with a curious openness. The racket of the music and voices faded as we locked eyes for several seconds. I can’t explain it; we said much without saying anything.

Finally, a slow smile emerged and she looked down at the floor. The racket resumed and time, which seemed to have stopped, restarted.

I worked my way across the crowded dance floor and into her circle. She looked up at me. “Hi,” I said. 

“Hi yourself.” She held out her hand. “Vera Wright.”

“Dave Nelson,” I said. She turned her back on the other girls and it was just us. “Are you from Missoula?”

“No, Helena.” She nodded at the Captain’s bars on my dress uniform. “GI bill?”

“Yes,” I said. “Eight Air Force. B-17 pilot.”

A group of drunken freshmen banged into me from behind, making me slop some of my beer on Vera. I apologized, then started to turn to say something. “Don’t,” she said. “They’re just boys.” 

She put her hand on my arm and spoke again. “How about we take a walk around campus instead?”

She looked at me and I was lost. 

That walk lasted all night. 

As we wandered up around campus, to the Clark River, around The Oval, and down to the South Campus, I did practically all the talking. She just listened and nodded in all the right places. 

I surprised myself; I wasn’t usually much of a chatterbox, but I found myself opening to her, telling her things I’d never told anyone. Things from childhood, the passing of my sister, the war, friends I’d lost. I had no qualms; I knew instinctively my secrets were safe with her.

I learned she came from a ranch; her family  owned 3,000 acres and she had eight siblings. She wanted to be a nurse.

We finally ended up sitting on nearby Mount Sentinel, with the city and campus sprawled out below us. And as the sky lightened behind us and the first Meadowlarks greeted the new day, I cupped her face in my hand.

“Vera Wright,” I said firmly. “I’m gonna marry you.”

“I know,” she smiled. “I knew from the minute I caught you staring at me.”

I lifted her face and we shared the first kiss of untold thousands.

Our college years flew by with astonishing swiftness. Other than a few football games, we really didn’t get involved with student life; I was 23 after my time in the service and everybody seemed kiddish. We liked studying at my apartment, or walking my dog Kilroy along the river or up the trail to Mount Sentinel.

We both graduated in May, 1949, and were married the next month. I went to work for Devon Energy as a mining engineer while Vera got a job with a family practice in Missoula. 

We bought a house on 20 acres a few miles from town, surrounded by the stunning Bitterroot Range. It was a huge log cabin with four bedrooms, built in 1902, with a large creek in the back. It was built with varnished lodgepole pines with a massive stone hearth and a fireplace in the master bedroom. We loved it.

It had wide setbacks, with the closest woods about 50 yards away. Twenty miles to our north lay 10,000-foot McDonald Peak and, beyond it, the Flathead Indian Reservation.

Our first night there was October 1, 1949. The aspen and birch were turning colors, and we stood on the rear deck, watching the sun set with a fiery reddish-orange glow over the mountains. A fire crackled inside.

Vera squeezed my hand. “Happy, Captain Nelson?” she asked. 

I squeezed her hand back, but didn’t say anything. 

But that night, on a bearskin rug on our king sized bed, I showed her exactly how happy I was. Several times.

Life was glorious… until our first big curveball.

We’d always planned on having kids. We waited a few years to save up and enjoy Ponderosa…our cabin…but after trying for a year with nothing, we consulted some doctors. 

It came down to me. Dr. Blosser asked me many questions about the war, my injuries, my missions. I took a battery of psychological and physical tests.

One afternoon in June, 1953, he sat on the corner of his desk, wearing his stethoscope and holding a manila folder with the test results inside.

“Dave,” he asked gently. “Did you ever have mumps as a child?”

I looked at Vera and swallowed. “Yes,” I said, turning to him. “When I was eight.”

“Was it a bad case?”

“Yes. I had it for two weeks. My brother was only sick a few days.”

He looked at me sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Mumps can severely damage a male’s reproductive organs.” He nodded at the manila folder. “I’m afraid you’ll never have children.”

Vera cried as I put the last of my supplies into my saddle bag. “Dave,” she sobbed. “It’s not your fault. We can adopt—“

I held her close and stroked her dark hair as she shook. In the June afternoon sun, it shone almost blue. I inhaled deeply and appreciatively.

I held her at arm’s length. “Honey,” I said. “I know. It’s just the roll of the dice. Like how I made it back and so many guys didn’t. So much. The war. Engineering college, all that studying. My new job. Now no kids? I just need a few weeks.”

Tears streaked her face and she looked uncertain. 

“Look, I said, ”I’ll be gone three weeks, a month at the longest. Kilroy will keep you company.” At the sound of his name, the Shepherd-Huskie mix looked up. I felt safe leaving Vera with him.

I put my .30-06 rifle into the sleeve and swung up and onto the saddle. King moved slightly and I took the reins. 

She came close and I leaned over and kissed her.

“Love you, Dave. Be safe.”

“Love you too, honey.” I clicked and King started forward. 

My last view before King trotted for the tree line was of her in a flowery blue summer dress, wiping her eyes, flanked by a dog whose head came up to her waist.

I didn’t have a firm agenda. I planned to head east towards Placid Lake, then northwest to McDonald Peak. That would keep me outside Reservation Territory and still let me get to the summit.

I grew used to King’s steady walk. My senses seemed sharper and I heard the murmur of streams, slight rustlings in the brush, the scream of a far-off eagle.

My first night, I was captivated by the dark skies. I was an astronomy nut as a kid, and I was surprised how fast I again found the constellations, the brighter stars, the faint Messier objects. A bright red star that had no business being in Sagittarius had to be Mars; and a brilliant whitish star in Virgo must be Venus.

I ended that night with the campfire burning down to coals, King tied a tree, and overhead, a glittering celestial vault of childhood friends. As I hunkered down in my sleeping bag and I drifted off, I felt a peace not known since I was a boy.

On day six, close to dusk, I was riding through a copse of Douglas Firs. They were huge, well over 200 feet. The forest floor was dense with needles, and King’s hooves made not a single noise. 

A man on a bay Mustang stepped on to the trail directly in front of me. I was startled; I had not seen or heard any approach. He was dark, with a leather vest over his checkered shirt. He wore a Stetson hat with a feather. He reined in his Mustang and held up a hand.

“Sir,” he said. “I’m Running Deer, tribal police. Did you know you’re on reservation land?” He spoke with a Salish accent.

“No,” I said. “I thought it was to the south.”

He looked at me. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to McDonald Peak.”

He looked me up and down and I got the impression he was making up his mind about something. Finally, he spoke.

“It’s going to be dark soon. Since you’re on reservation land, I’ll have to escort you. How about we make camp here for the night?”

I didn’t have much choice and nodded.

We sat around a campfire that night and talked; mostly, me. Running Deer was quiet, a good listener, and without meaning to, I told him much about myself. He stared into the crackling flames as I spoke.

“It’s not good that a man has no children,” he said when I had finished.

“I know. But there’s nothing I can do.”

He gave me a long look before we both turned in for the night.

Running Deer and I hit it off, and no more was said about being on reservation lands. I let him lead the way, and for several days we traveled through woods, along streams and across meadows. I had only a vague idea of where we were.

That night, we sat around the fire. Running Deer didn’t say much; he appeared to be thinking. Finally, he spoke.

“Look Dave,” he said. “There’s healing water on McDonald. It’s called Ul ta’l q’esp ch’epł and known only to us.”

He stopped and looked at me. I didn’t know how to respond. He continued.

“I’m an elder and know the process. Let’s try it on you. I want you to have children.”

A day later, we were near the summit of McDonald; we could see for miles. I stood naked by a little rocky pool inside a grotto. Running Deer had used the ashes from our fire to paint lines on my face. He made a tea with Sacajawea and pygmy bitterroot that I drank. He spoke over me in his native tongue, then looked at me.

“You ready?” he asked. He looked very solemn. 

I nodded. “Get in,” he said.

The water was warm and came up to my neck. He spoke over the water in Salish. I knew enough from growing up in Missoula to understand most of what he was saying; he was entreating the Great Spirit to stir the waters of healing for me.

Nothing happened for several minutes as Running Deer continued to chant. Then the water beginning to swirl and there was a sweet odor. The pool bubbled and I felt a warmth in my groin that deepened and spread. It lasted for several minutes and it got so hot it was uncomfortable; I was about to speak when the water stilled and the warmth began to fade. I felt spacey, tired.

Running Deer nodded. “Tepreyery a achatmaq’wn khwa.” 

The Great Spirit has smiled on you.

Three weeks later, King galloped across the north pasture as Kilroy barked in excitement. I hugged Vera and swung her around as she cried. We made up a month in two hours on the bearskin rug; it felt different this time. Fuller, somehow. Deeper. 

Vera fell asleep. I spooned next to her and we knew no more until sunrise.

Dr. Blosser scratched his chin as he held the manila folder in front of him. He looked positively flummoxed.

“Vera,” he said. “I have no medical explanation for this. None. But you are expecting.” He held out his hand with a smile and we both shook it.

“I want to see you back here in a month,” he said. “And be sure to take those vitamins.”

One of my favorite quotes is from a guy in the 19th century who lived alone in a cabin in the woods for a year. Thoreau. Something about living the life you dream and being more satisfied than you ever imagined.

That was us. Virginia was born the following April. She was joined by Peter in October, 1955; Andrew in March, 1957; and Julie in September, 1960.

All four seasons found us outside much of our free time. In spring, Vera couldn’t wait for the ground to thaw so she could get in her garden. I spent every moment I could fly fishing in the creek or playing catch with the kids. 

Summers involved riding horses through the mountains, picnicking, and swimming in the creek. I put up a rope swing where it widened and deepened into a pool.

In fall, nothing was better than sitting on the porch under a blanket, watching the leaves change with hot cider. Sometimes we’d listen to the radio…music, or the occasional 49ers football game. The kids loved raking the leaves into a huge pile and jumping into it.

And in winter, we’d either go cross-country skiing, or watch the thermometer outside the kitchen window plummet to 40 below at night as we sat in front of the fireplace reading, playing board games, or just talking.

And before we knew it, twenty-five years slipped away and Vera and I were once again alone in Ponderosa.

One May morning in 1988, Vera came to me with a worried look. Her hair was wet and she was draped with a towel.

“Dave,” she said. “Feel here. Do you feel something?” She put two of my fingers on the side of her breast.

I rubbed and felt a lump the size of a cherry. Oh shit.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. We better make an appointment with Dr. Blosser.”

Things spiraled down with incredible swiftness. Surgery, chemo, radiation. Her hair fell out and she lost 25 lbs. It popped up in other places.

We tried everything but once again, in an incredible deja vu, we found ourselves sitting in front of Dr. Blosser with his manila envelope. I wondered dimly if it was the same one from 36 years ago.

“Vera…Dave,” he said gently. His hair was completely white and he looked weary. He was hanging it up next year. “We’ve done all we can. The only thing I can recommend now is hospice.”

As Vera lay dozing, I sleepily gazed at the last family Christmas picture we had taken together. It was from 1976, the Bicentennial. That made me think of the old commercial with the Native American crying over a litter-strewn park. The Native American brought to mind Running Deer; then McDonald Peak, finally the healing waters. Strange how the mind works.

I sat up, electrified. The healing waters! 

I had to try.

Climbing McDonald Peak at 27 was one thing; quite a different prospect at 63. And I wasn’t even sure where I was going. 

I rode on horseback to the tree line, about 7,000 ft. After that, it became too rocky for my horse and I had to lead him. I couldn’t risk falling and breaking a hip, or worse. 

I wandered for hours; I only remembered seeing the setting sun after my soak, so I knew it was somewhere on the western face.

I searched for three days before I found it. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I built a fire, tied the horse to a boulder outcropping and went to bed with the sun. 

The next morning, I winged it. I took some of my fireplace ash and dabbed some on my cheeks, chin and forehead as I thought Running Deer did it. I made a tea of Sacajawea and pygmy bitterroot; I had no idea of the amounts or ratio. I drank it, grimacing at the bitter taste.

I sat in the warm waters with my one-gallon  container within reach. I raised my hands and tried to repeat, as best I could remember, Running Deer’s pleas to the Great Spirit.

After 15 minutes, nothing. 

I sat and thought, thinking, trying to remember what happened here almost four decades ago. I remembered Running deer was outside of the water when he did his chant.

I got out of the water and tried it again; also no results.

Hmmm. Running Deer was clothed; perhaps I was being disrespectful. I got dressed and tried it again. Nothing.

I spent four hours trying everything I could think of, every possible scenario, and finally gave up. I flopped back into the pool, exhausted, my chest heaving, heart pounding. Sorry, Vera. I tried. I tilted my head back in defeat. 

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I felt the slightest swirl of water around my waist. I held my breath, not daring to believe. No, there it was. 

It continued, getting more discernible by the minute. 

After a few minutes, I sniffed…what was that? Oh… yes, of course… the sweet odor. Smell is the most evocative of all the senses, and 36 years disappeared in an instant.

A bubble appeared. Then another. Then two. Soon they were all around me.

Ten more minutes and the pool was just as it had been that day. I felt warmth all over my body, at all the places that plagued me; my aching back, knees, feet. A place in my side that I had forgotten about where a horse had once kicked me. My ruptured hernia.

I luxuriated in it until suddenly I remembered why I was there. I grabbed the container and submerged it. 

As soon as I lifted it out of the water, it all quieted again, just as suddenly as last time. I put the cap on the container, set it down and climbed out of the pool. I lifted my face to the late afternoon sky.

Thank you, I said silently. Thank you.

A sudden wind moved the alpine grasses.

With aches and pains gone, and cardio like I hadn’t had in 25 years, I practically ran down the mountain holding the container and reins. 

As soon as I descended below the tree line again, and there were woods and trees and a path with needles, I hopped on the horse and galloped him a breakneck speed down the mountain.

I think he sensed the urgency because once we were off the slopes, I didn’t need to spur him on. In fact, I had to hold on for dear life. I was glad for my suddenly-strong quads and biceps. We were home in only a few hours.

I ran up the back deck steps three at a time with my jug, shouting Vera’s name. The home hospice people looked at me in shock; the one young lady’s face turned white. 

I slowed my pace and lowered my voice as I quietly entered her room.

I’d only been gone a few days, but she had taken an appreciable turn for the worse. The end was near. 

I gently brushed the hair back from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear the way she did, like I loved. She struggled to open her eyes.

“Captain Nelson,” she said weakly. “I was beginning to think you stood me up.” She coughed, a horrible, phlegmy cough that almost tore her in two.

“Honey,” I said. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone. But I had to get something.” 

She closed her eyes. “Oh, OK,” she said. “But maybe later? I think I’ll take a little nap now.”

Not today, you won’t. 

I closed and locked the door; the two nurses had been staring in at us.

I pulled down the blanket and sheet. The poor thing was skin and bones, with head-to-toe bed sores and bruises. 

“Sweetheart,” I said. “I’m just going to give you a little bath. The water might feel warm…almost hot. But don’t be frightened.”

She murmured; she was almost gone.

I didn’t know where to start, so I began with her torso. I removed her hospital scrubs from her top and bottom, then gently dribbled water from shoulder to shoulder then down across her chest, over her scars, her upper and lower abdomen. Then her crotch and down each leg, and each arm.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Mmmm… yes,” she said. “It feels so hot.”

Her voice was stronger. 

“I’m going to get your face now. Hold your breath.”

She did and I dribbled it over the crown of her head, her forehead, face, cheeks, neck. 

“Wow, honey,” she said. “It’s really hot. Why do I feel so weird?” 

Her voice was markedly stronger. And younger. 

I stepped back to look. From head to toe, she seemed to emit steam, like a hot road after a late-day sun shower. As I watched, old-age spots disappeared. Her skin changed, it became smooth and supple. Her hair reverted to raven black.

Most astonishing, her scars vanished. Her chest expanded upward like something rising from the sea.  The ridge coalesced into two peaks, and each one rounded and firmed. Two rose-colored areolas appeared.

I waited until the steam abated, then told her to roll over. I repeated it on her back and when the steam cleared, the view changed from looking at a grandmother to looking at 18-year-old Vera lying on her stomach, sunbathing, with no top, at our special place on Mount Sentinel.

I told her to sit up.

“Dave!” she asked questioningly. “Why do I feel so… What happened? What happened?” She ran her hands in disbelief over her forearms, her legs, and finally her breasts. 

She leaped from the bed and did a double take. “Dave,” she screamed. “You! Look!”

She dragged us into the en-suite bathroom and we both stared into the oversized mirror. It was like turning the clock back to 1945. I was chiseled, right out of the Army Air Corps. She was like on our wedding night. We dragged our eyes from the mirror to look at each other. 

“How do you feel?” I asked. “Any aches? Pains?”

“No!” she cried. “None! I feel like we’re back at State!”

We looked at each other; I can’t remember who started first. A chuckle. A giggle. Then a laugh. Followed by another.

And then, like a fire feeding on a gas-soaked mattress, a continuous laugh that grew and quickly spiraled out of control, a living thing, until we were howling and twirling and dancing and grabbing and kissing. 

We calmed down; I told her the Reader’s Digest version. She looked at me in shock, then draped her arms around my neck.

“Wait,” she said coquettishly. “So Captain Nelson…do you mean to say that’s where our children—“

“Yep,” I answered. “All four of them.” She snickered, then looked serious. She stared into my eyes like the night at the dance.

“God,” she said. “I love you. I love you so much.”

We kissed. We kissed some more; deeper, needier, our tongues entwining.

As we kissed, she reached and…not surprisingly…we found the little blue pills were no longer needed.

And as the hospice workers fled down the gravel road, the bearskin rug was put to the most vigorous use it had endured since October, 1949.

© My little corner of the world 2025 | All rights

Images by Meta AI after much irritation 😑