The Survivors

by Alex Schulman

Genres: Siblings; Literary Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Years ago, they fled the lake house.

Now, the brothers have returned.

Three brothers return to the family cottage by the lake where, more than two decades earlier, a catastrophe changed the course of their lives. Now, they are here to scatter their mother's ashes - young men, estranged but bound together by the history that defines them. Their lives have been spent competing for their father's favour and their mother's love, in a household more like a minefield than a home. What really happened that summer day when everything was blown to pieces?

The Survivors is a suspenseful, haunting novel about three brothers and their reckoning with the events of one disputed, disastrous summer.

Release date: October 5, 2021

Publisher: Doubleday

Print pages: 240

Sample

| 1 |

11:59 p.m.

A police car slowly plows through the blue foliage, down the narrow tractor path that leads to the property. There is the cottage, lonely on the point of land, in the June night that will never be entirely dark. It’s a simple red wooden house, its proportions odd, a little taller than it should be. The white trim is flaking, and the siding on the south-­facing wall has faded in the sun. The roofing tiles have grown together, the roof like the skin of a prehistoric creature. The air is still and it’s a little chilly now; fog is collecting near the bottoms of the windowpanes. A single bright yellow light glows from one of the upstairs windows.

Down the slope is the lake, still and gleaming, edged with birches right down to the shore. And the sauna where the boys sat with their father on summer nights, staggering into the water afterward on the sharp rocks, walking in a line, balancing with their arms extended as if they had been crucified. “The water’s nice!” their father shouted once he had thrown himself in, and his cry sang out across the lake, and the silence that followed existed nowhere but here, a place so far from everything else, a silence that sometimes frightened Benjamin but sometimes made him feel that everything was listening.

Farther along the shore is a boathouse; its lumber is decaying and the whole structure has started to lean toward the water. And above that is the barn, beams drilled with millions of termite holes and traces of seventy-­year-­old animal dung on the cement floor. Between the barn and the house is the small lawn where the boys used to play soccer. The ground slopes there; whoever plays with his back to the lake has an uphill battle.

This is the stage, this is how it looks, a few small buildings on a patch of grass with the forest behind it and the water in front. An inaccessible place, as lonely now as it was in years past. If you were to stand at the far end of the point and gaze out, you wouldn’t see a hint of human life anywhere. Every rare once in a while they could hear a car passing on the gravel road across the lake, the distant sound of an engine in low gear; on dry summer days they could see the cloud of dust that rose from the forest soon after. But they never saw anyone; they were alone in this place they never left and where no one ever visited. Once they saw a hunter. The boys were playing in the forest and suddenly, there he was. A green-­clad man with white hair, twenty yards away, slipping silently through the fir trees. As he passed, he looked blankly at the boys and brought his index finger to his lips and then he kept walking in among the trees until he was gone. There was never any explanation—­he was like a mysterious meteor that passed close by but crossed the sky without making contact. The boys never talked about it afterward, and Benjamin sometimes wondered if it really happened.

It’s two hours past dusk. The police car comes tentatively down the tractor path. The driver’s anxious gaze is fixed just ahead of the hood, trying to see what sorts of things he’s running down as he descends the hill, and even when he leans across the wheel and looks up he can’t see the treetops. The evergreens that tower over the house are incredible. They were enormous even when the boys were small, but now they stretch a hundred to even a hundred and fifty feet into the air. The children’s father was always proud of the fertile ground here, as if it were his doing. He stuck radish sprouts in the earth in early June and after just a few weeks he dragged the children to the garden to show them the rows of red dots rising out of the soil. But the fertile ground around the cottage can’t be trusted; here and there the earth is completely dead. The apple tree Dad gave to Mom on her birthday still stands where he planted it once upon a time, but it never grows and it gives no fruit. In certain spots the soil is free of rocks, black and heavy. In others, the bedrock is just beneath the grass. Dad, when he was putting up a fence for the chickens, when he dragged the poker through the earth: sometimes it followed gentle and dull through the rain-­heavy grass, sometimes it sang out just below the ground and he gave a shout, his hands vibrating with the resistance of the rock.

The police officer climbs out of the car. His practiced movements as he quickly turns down the volume, muffling the strange chattering of the device on his shoulder. He’s a big man. The dinged, matte-­black tools hanging at his waist make him look grounded somehow—­their weight pulls him down to the crust of the earth.

Blue lights across the tall trees.

There’s something about those lights, the mountains going blue across the lake and the blue lights of the police car—­like an oil painting.

The policeman strides toward the house and stops. He’s suddenly unsure of himself and takes a moment to observe the scene. The three men are sitting side by side on the stone steps that lead up to the front door of the cottage. They’re crying, holding each other. They’re wearing suits and ties. Next to them, on the grass, is an urn. He makes eye contact with one of the men, who stands. The other two remain seated, still in each other’s arms. They’re wet and badly beaten up, and he understands why an ambulance has been summoned.

“My name is Benjamin. I’m the one who called.”

The officer searches his pockets for a notepad. He doesn’t yet know that this story can’t be written up on a blank page or two, that he’s stepping in at the end of a tale that’s spanned decades, a tale of three brothers who were torn away from this place long ago and now have been forced to return, that everything here is interconnected, that nothing stands alone nor can be explained on its own. The weight of what’s taking place right now is enormous, but, of course, most of it has already happened. What’s playing out here on these stone steps, the tears of three brothers, their swollen faces and all the blood, is only the last ripple on the water, the one farthest out, the one with the most distance from the point of impact.

| 2 |

The Swim Race

Each evening Benjamin stood at the water’s edge with his net and his bucket, just up the shore from the little embankment where his mother and father sat. They followed the evening sun, shifting table and chairs by a few feet whenever they landed in the shade, moving slowly as the evening went on. Under the table sat Molly, the dog, watching in surprise as her roof disappeared, then following the outfit on its journey along the shore. Now his parents were at the final stop, watching the sun sink slowly behind the treetops across the lake. They always sat next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, because both of them wanted to gaze out at the water. White plastic chairs drilled down into the tall grass, a small, tilted wooden table where the smudged beer glasses glinted in the evening sun. A cutting board with the butt of a winter salami, mortadella, and radishes. A cooler bag in the grass between them to keep the vodka cold. Each time Dad took a shot he said a quick “Hey” and raised the glass toward nothing and drank. Dad cut the salami so the table shook, beer sloshing, and Mom was immediately annoyed—­she made a face as she held her glass in the air until he was done. His father never noticed any of this, but Benjamin did. He made note of every shift of theirs; he always kept a distance that allowed them peace and quiet even as he could still follow their conversation, keep an eye on the atmosphere and their moods. He heard their friendly murmurs, utensils against porcelain, the sound of one of them lighting a cigarette, a stream of sounds that suggested that everything was fine between them.

Benjamin walked along the shore with his net. Gazing down at the dark water, now and again he happened to glance directly at the reflection of the sun, and his eyes hurt as if they had burst. He balanced on the large rocks, inspecting the bottom for tadpoles, those strange creatures, tiny and black, sluggish swimming commas. He scooped some up in the net and took them captive in his red bucket. This was a tradition. He collected tadpoles near his parents as a façade, and when the sun went down and his parents stood to head back to the house again, he returned the tadpoles to the water and wandered up with Mom and Dad. Then he started all over again the next night. One time he forgot the tadpoles in the bucket. When he discovered them the next afternoon, they were all dead, obliterated in the sun’s heat. Terror-­stricken that Dad would find out, he dumped the contents into the lake, and although he knew that Dad was up in the cottage resting, it was as if his eyes were burning holes into the back of Benjamin’s neck.

“Mom!”

Benjamin looked up at the house and saw his little brother coming down the hill. You could spot his impatience from here. This was no place for the restless. Especially not this year—­upon their arrival a week earlier, their parents had decided that they wouldn’t watch TV all summer. The children were apprised of this in solemn tones, and Pierre especially didn’t take it well when Dad pulled out the plug of the TV and ceremoniously placed the end on top of the appliance, like after a public execution where the body is left hanging as a warning, so that everyone was reminded of what happened to technology that was a threat to the family’s decision to spend summers out-­of-­doors.

Pierre had his comic books, which he slowly read out loud to himself, mumbling on his belly in the grass in the evenings. But eventually he would get bored and make his way down to his parents, and Benjamin knew that Mom and Dad’s reactions could vary; sometimes you were allowed to crawl onto Mom’s lap and she would scratch your back gently. Other times, their parents grew annoyed and the moment was lost.

“I don’t have anything to do,” Pierre said.

“Don’t you want to catch tadpoles with Benjamin?” Mom asked.

“No,” he replied. He stood behind Mom’s chair and squinted at the setting sun.