Prologue; 1957 - Something Happens In The Water

I believe what I have seen.”

-Jimmy Whitman, Witness Statement | Texas Star Weekly Paper | Bethesda, TX 1958

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Sunny Side Lake 1957

They say desperation’s the only thing that ever brought folks to Bethesda. That, and Sunny Side Lake, the crown jewel of the tiniest big town in Texas. Back in the '50s, this tiny town boasted a whopping 300 hundred souls, all making an honest living in the oil fields, on the rigs off the Gulf Coast, or by hunting—always hunting. That's how Bethesda earned its rightful spot on the map. The story changes every decade, like a tadpole down at the lake growing legs and hopping off. Like with any small town, the locals love to add their own flair. No matter which version you hear, it all started with Andrew Goldstein. Fresh outta high school, Andrew barely scraped by with grades most kids would be ashamed to show. But Andrew? He didn’t give two hoots about grades. You don’t sweat the small stuff when your life has already been laid out for you.

Life after school in Bethesda was simple as pie. Get a job at one of the local diners or businesses until you land a gig in oil. Travel for work. Write home. You eventually meet a nice girl that makes you want to settle down, as if small town life somehow turned into the fast lane and now you want to lay down roots. You buy some land. Start a family. Get a dog to guard the acres while you’re away. Live off hunting and your hard-earned money. Teach your boy he can do the same. Put him in school and watch him follow in your footsteps. That was the big dream in Bethesda. The dream Andrew Goldstein had, that is, until the accident. The Goldstein’s would later tell folks Andrew had gone out to celebrate the end of school with his buddies from town. Andrew had rounded up a couple of friends to shoot birds and hares down by Sunny Side Lake. What started as a small gathering turned into a rowdy bunch of about twelve local teens swimming, drinking, smoking, and doing cannonballs off trees into the crystal waters. If a picture would have been taken, it would have looked like a scene straight out of a summer movie, the lake shining in the background.

Jimmy Whitman was the one who spotted the buck, sitting across the lake, hidden in the tall grass. Now, Andrew would have been the first to say Jimmy was a showoff, but Jimmy thought of himself as a crack shot. Hell, old man Whitman had all his boys shooting beer cans off logs since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. A buck like this would make the boys see him for the man he was becoming. Jimmy grabbed his rifle, set his bare belly on the ground, and took aim. A deer that size meant food for days and maybe even tamales if he could talk the Gonzales family into trading some of the meat.

“Win-win,” Jimmy thought to himself.

Eager to show off his marksmanship and one-up the festivities, he quietly adjusted his aim. His elbows dug into the grass, crushing the leaves underneath. Beads of lake water trickled down from his hair to his brow. He calmed his breathing, just like old man Whitman had drilled into him. Lying there on the opposite side of the lake, his finger wrapped around the trigger.

He whispered, “They’re gonna flip! You’re mine, boy!”

With the squeeze of the trigger, Jimmy felt the rifle kick back hard against his right arm. He winced at the deafening bang that sent birds scattering into the sky like a dark, twisting cloud. If you asked Jimmy Whitman, he’d tell you it felt like time slowed down. Watching across the lake, he saw the big buck bolt. That’s when he heard the screams.

The shrieks came like a flood.

Andrew Goldstein had been shot.

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