We pulled up to a park with a long pier that jutted out into the river.
“This spot will probably be full of picnickers later,” Dad said. “Hopefully, we’ll catch a few before the crowd.”
The St. Croix River stretched out in front of us. It was about the width of the Mississippi in Minneapolis. Probably, they met up somewhere and became the same river. The water was completely silent, even the lapping at the pier where we sat couldn’t be heard over the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
It was just Dad and me. Just like old times before Michael was there always filling the space between us with chatter. We didn’t even have to think about him.
We slowly got our poles ready and hooks baited.
Dad opened the carton of powdered-sugar donuts. “What Michael doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” he said, winking at me.
Not even ten minutes on the pier and we already referenced Michael. I sighed and picked up a donut. The bitter coffee was actually okay as long as you drank between bites of the donut. I brushed the powdered sugar from my fingertips.
I cast my line into the deep water, reeling it back slowly as the river carried it downstream. Fishing on a river was more active than fishing on a lake. Dad and I had to pay attention so our lines didn’t tangle. Soon we had a rhythm down. We didn’t have to say anything. It just was.
The silence was full around us.
Several joggers passed. The breeze picked up, driving clouds across the sky. I wondered if Sage was naming them back in Stevens Square.
“Think we’ll get any rain?” I asked, surprised at my need for some noise.
Dad looked up at the sky. “It’ll hold off.” He picked up another donut.
When the box was half empty, Dad reeled in his line and paused. “You having a nice summer?”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
Dad held his fishing pole still, staring out at the river. I watched as my bobber floated along in the deep water.
Finally, Dad cast his line again and cleared his throat. “What do you think of Michael? Really think of him?” His voice was measured, like he was testing.
So there it was. Michael. Again. “He’s okay.” I cast my line back out.
Dad smiled. “You think so?”
I hesitated. “He’s different. Different from you.”
Dad brought in his line and slowly replaced the worm with one that still had life in it. “He’s different?” Dad cast again, his bobber moving slowly with the current.
I tried to formulate what I wanted to say. Something about the Uni-cycle, the highlighted hair, the painting clothes, the reminders to bring water and avoid potholes.
Just then, there was a tug on Dad’s line. He pulled in a bluegill. It flopped in the air as Dad pulled it from the water. It was too small. Dad’s big hands held it still while I removed the hook.
“Independence Day,” Dad said. “Swim free, little guy.” He reached down and let the fish squirm away into the murky shallows.
We sat there for a long time then, just the two of us. I weighed whether or not I wanted to bring Michael up again. I decided it was lucky he was out of the picture for the present.
The sky cleared. I put on my sunglasses.
Eventually, Dad brought out the Mountain Dew and the subs. It wasn’t noon yet, but we had been up since before dawn. We ate on the pier next to our fishing poles. The soda was sweet and thick.
When we finished our lunch, Dad suggested we take a break. We carried our poles, cooler, and tackle box to the shade of a maple. Dad lay back and was out like a light. I couldn’t understand how he could do that so easily, especially just after downing a Mountain Dew.
I thought about his question, What do you think about Michael? His voice was so controlled when he asked, that I knew he must really care about it. I wondered what he thought about Michael. I was afraid I already knew, but I needed to know for sure.
I lay beside Dad, watching the river, listening to the breeze in the leaves above me.
The shrieks of kids on the nearby playground woke me up. Dad was sitting up. When he saw me awake, he looked down at his watch.
“Well,” he said. “I think the fish won today. I guess that means I don’t have to bother cleaning anything. We should probably head home.”
We packed up the gear. As we drove down the highway, I took a deep breath, then asked the question. “Dad, what do you think about Michael?”
“Well,” Dad scratched behind his ear, which had turned pink. “I like him.” He continued to stare straight ahead at the highway, but a smile crept onto his face and his cheeks turned a little pink. “I like him a lot.”
“Yeah?”
Dad looked at me for just a moment before turning back to the highway. “A whole lot.”
I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh.
I could tell Dad was looking at me, but I was looking straight ahead at the highway.
“Dad,” I said after a while. “I think Michael is annoying. Sometimes.”
Dad actually laughed out loud. “Fair enough, Jer.” Dad patted me on the back. “Fair enough.”
When we got home, a large cutting board was on the dining room table. A filet knife sat on top, ready to use. Apparently, Michael had great faith in us.
Michael hurried in. Thankfully he was in shorts again after his freedom-from-pants bike ride.
“So,” he said, gesturing towards the cooler. “Make a good haul?”
I shook my head, but Dad just smiled big. “Well, we caught so many we sold them all to Brit’s Pub. They said they’d fry ’em up for us.”
Michael rolled his eyes, but laughed. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting. Wash up and we can go. I’m starving. Nothing builds an appetite like riding a bike in underwear.”
After stuffing ourselves with fish and chips at Brit’s Pub, we went back to the apartment for our bikes. I cringed as the Uni-cycle rattled up the stairs behind me. When we all got out to the alley, I tried to prepare myself for another ride with the unicorn behind me with that huge, creepy grin.
I looked away.
“Watch out for potholes,” Michael called as we rode down the alley. The sidewalks were full of people walking towards the river. Michael got catcalled just as much as the last time. This time, the streets were full enough that I didn’t feel quite so tied to him. Still, my cheeks were hot as I pedaled.
By the time we got to the Mississippi, the waterfront was already crowded. Children ran between picnic blankets. Finally, Michael pointed to an empty space in a patch of long grass.
“Looks as good as any,” Dad said. Apparently, the spot was abandoned for a reason: the grass turned out to be old weeds, pokey and stiff. Dad stomped his heavy boots to force them down. Michael unrolled a rainbow picnic blanket.
We all sat down, Dad between Michael and me, connecting us and thankfully separating us too. As the fireworks ignited, the river reflected the explosions of light. I kept looking at Dad and Michael, the light reflecting in their eyes. Michael leaned against Dad’s side. Dad liked him a lot. A whole lot.
Chapter
11
Sunday morning, on the way home from Open Arms, I paused at the rocky beds in front of our building. That morning Pastor Veronica had preached about blooming where God plants us. I stared at the lonely bushes and dry rocks, waiting patiently. We needed to start it soon; it was already so late in the season. But that meant working with Michael.
“We could start clearing rocks this afternoon,” Michael said, pausing with Dad at the front door before going inside.
The sun was already beating down. Dad had said that this was forecast to be one of the hottest weeks of the summer.
We should start, but I shook my head.
“It’s too hot today,” I said. I was beginning to wonder whether this garden business was worth the trouble. “It’s not goo
d for plants to be transplanted during really hot times.”
Dad slapped me on the back. “That’s the truth,” he said. “It’s not good for people, either.”
When we entered our apartment, it was hot. Dad walked around closing the blinds halfway to reduce the amount of sunlight streaming in.
“Where did this heat come from?” Dad asked after lunch as he dropped onto the sofa. “Even the couch is hot. Let’s get out of here. The lake. You wanna go to the lake?”
I smiled, excited to do something.
Dad heaved himself off the couch and pulled his shirt back on. “Alright, troops, let’s go.” He walked towards the door and grabbed his keys.
“Don’t we need our swimming suits?” I asked.
“Heck,” he said. “My clothes could use a little freshening up.”
I laughed.
“Michael,” Dad said. “Let’s get out of here.”
I could feel my shoulders tighten.
“Allen, could you at least wait until I finish washing the dishes?” Michael said. “Give me fifteen minutes and then we can head out.”
“Michael,” Dad said, “Leave ‘em. Dishes don’t melt as easily as humans.”
Michael dried his hands and put them on his hips. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Sir,” Dad said. “I am going to have to ask you to exit the kitchen. I repeat. Exit the kitchen.”
Michael laughed. “Fine,” he said, pulling off his dishwashing gloves. “Give me a minute to change.”
“What for?” Dad asked.
Michael raised his eyebrows. “Do you know how much I spent on these shorts? There is no way I would get them sandy.”
He went to the bedroom. There was now enough time for me to get into my swimsuit, but I looked at Dad’s annoyed, settled, expression and decided I would go in my cut-off jeans, like him.
Michael came out several minutes later in bright red shorts that barely reached the middle of his thigh and fit him close. He had three towels with him. He handed one to me and one to Dad.
“We at least need towels,” he said. “And let me grab some water.”
Dad sighed. “You take good care of us.”
As Michael walked into the kitchen for the water, Dad spun his towel and used it to snap Michael’s butt. They both laughed.
Finally, we got out the door.
We rode the bus to Lake Bde Maka Ska. I took the seat next to Dad, forcing Michael to take the spot behind us. Riding in the air-conditioned bus made the trip already worth it. When we got off the bus at the lake, heat blasted us.
It looked like Lake Bde Maka Ska was the place to be. The beach was crowded, mostly with adults lying in the sun. The water was full of little kids.
Dad pulled off his sneakers and threw his keys and wallet inside. We ripped off our shirts. I was super white.
“I should have brought sunscreen,” Michael said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Race you,” Dad said as soon as my shoes were off. He tore off down the beach. I followed him. Dad and I splashed into the water. It was wonderfully cold. Dad whooped like a little kid.
We plowed on until it was deep enough that Dad threw himself forward and plunged under the water. I did the same. The cool washed over me, dissolving the layer of sweat.
I came up before he did. He could hold his breath forever. Finally, he came up spouting water out of his mouth.
Michael waded through the water towards us. He was painfully slow, trying to adjust to the water little by little. Dad ran at him and tackled him into the waves. Michael came up screaming. The lifeguard yelled something about “no horseplay.”
Dad led Michael out to the deep water where I was. We floated, letting the water hold us. Dad took the opportunity to dunk Michael several more times when the lifeguard wasn’t looking. Although Michael protested and put up a fight, he always came up smiling.
When we were thoroughly cooled down, we went back to our towels and shoes. As we sat in the sun, letting the water evaporate from our bodies, I looked at Michael. His hair was stringy from the water, sticking out at odd angles. It made him look just a little bit less plastic.
I almost felt that I was getting used to him for a minute. Then he handed me a water bottle and told me to stay hydrated.
“And you should probably cover your shoulders so you don’t burn,” he added.
Chapter
12
I looked up from reading another chapter of The Grapes of Wrath on the stoop. A block away, Mr. Keeler hobbled slowly down the sidewalk towards our building. He seemed fragile, tottering along, putting each foot deliberately in front of the other. His arm was low, carrying a single plastic bag.
I stood up and walked over to him. “You want any help?”
He eyed me. “Help? You gonna take my bag and run? You think I couldn’t chase you?”
“I’m not trying to take anything,” I said, even though we both already knew it was true. I walked with him until we reached the front steps.
He stood, catching his breath.
“You haven’t done much,” he said, nodding at the garden.
“We’re still planning,” I said. I was still avoiding the project, not wanting to have to face working with Michael.
“Alright then,” Mr. Keeler said, holding the bag out to me. I took it. It was lighter than I expected from the way he held it, a box of cereal and a few cans. I followed his slow steps up the stairs. He lived on the second floor.
When we got to his apartment, I handed him the bag. He closed the door without so much as a thank you.
For some reason, I told Michael about it during our lunch of steamed organic “vegetable medley.”
Michael shook his head. “I knew this day would come. God is trying to get even with me. She always does. I thought I had gotten out of this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know how I feel about Mr. Keeler,” said Michael. “And now I have to buy him groceries. It’s not the first time, but I swore I’d never do it again. He obviously can’t get further than the corner store. Cereal. And I bet that canned soup is overloaded with sodium. We’ll pick up a few things for him this afternoon.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t understand why Michael would do this for Mr. Keeler, the man who drove him crazy.
Pretty soon, Michael and I were walking down the street towards Real Foods. He bribed me with the promise of a soda if I came along, but I would have come anyways. I was curious.
Michael led the way up and down the aisles at Real Foods acting as tour guide. He swept his hand over the shelves of food. “Of course, everything here is organic, so we don’t have to watch for that. Soup. Low sodium soup seems a good thing when you’re old. And probably prunes. Aisle six, on the left, midway, bottom shelf.”
We passed several employees in teal aprons. Michael greeted each of them by name.
After filling a basket with all kinds of options, Michael led me to the refrigerator case full of soda. We stood before the glass bottles.
Instead of things like Fanta or Pepsi, the bottles had names and flavors I hadn’t heard of. Juniper Berry, Clove & Grapefruit, Dandelion & Burdock. Michael confidently plucked a kombucha from the mix. Not wanting to seem indecisive, I grabbed a rhubarb soda.
A woman named Nissy rang us up at the register. As she filled the canvas bags that Michael had brought with him, she eyed me.
“You must be that Jeremiah kid,” Nissy said.
“Yeah,” I said. “How did you know?”
Nissy laughed. “You kidding me? Michael is always talking about you, trying to figure out how to be your friend.”
I looked over at Michael who was now the color of the roasted red pepper tomato soup.
Nissy leaned in toward me, whispering extra loud so Michael could hear it. “Do us all
a favor and just be his friend. He’s a good guy.”
Michael snatched the receipt from her. “Thank you, Nissy.”
I followed him out of the store. He was breathing fast, refusing to make eye contact.
Apparently, Michael talked about me at work. I guess he was trying hard.
“Well.” Michael spoke like he was trying to put the conversation with Nissy behind us. “Well. Now you’ve seen Real Foods.”
“Yeah.” I took a sip of my soda. It was light and bitter. I liked it.
When we got back to the apartment building, we walked past the barren rocks, up the front steps. Michael led the way to Mr. Keeler’s apartment.
Michael sighed. “Mr. Keeler’s health is up and down. Some months, he just can’t handle these stairs.”
At Mr. Keeler’s door, Michael knocked three times, quick and sharp.
The raspy voice of Mr. Keeler answered. “What?”
“Grocery delivery,” Michael called back. Michael tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He poked his head in the door. “Hello, Mr. Keeler.”
I followed Michael into the apartment. It was sparse inside. The furniture was old. Mr. Keeler sat on a faded plaid sofa. He wore no shirt. The skin on his chest sagged, going up and down with his breathing.
Michael immediately moved to the cupboards and began unpacking.
Mr. Keeler huffed as he watched Michael. “I hope it’s not any more of that organic shit.”
“Mr. Keeler,” Michael said in a stern voice. “Language.”
Michael nodded significantly towards me. I realized he was trying to be parental, not letting other people swear in front of me.
Mr. Keeler huffed. “What? Don’t swear in front of the kid?” He reached out a long arm, pointing at me. “Kids are tough. I wasn’t much more than a kid when I was fighting at Stonewall. Do you think I cared when someone yelled a few cuss words?”
Michael pursed his lips. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
Mr. Keeler leaned back in his chair. “We were fighters then. Not like any of these rainbow pansies you see prancing around now.” He shot Michael a look.
Second Dad Summer Page 6
