Stillwater

by Mary Jo Hazard

  I’m dying. I’m really dying, or I’m seriously losing my mind.

  “I’m with you, Grace. Swim to the shore. I’m with you.” My father’s left arm was around my chest, holding me tight as he stroked through the water with his right arm—just like he used to when he swam me out to the rock at Belly Beach.

  Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-em chu.

  I sighed and sank back into him.

  “Grace, swim. Move your right arm, reach way out,” my father said. “Now your left, that’s right. Kick your feet; kick them hard.”

  “No,” I gasped, trying to turn around so I could see him. “I’m going to die.”

  “No, baby,” my father said softly. “I won’t let you. I’m here.”

  Here? I thought he was in—

  “Now, Grace, swim.”

  “I can’t, Daddy,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I can’t.”

  “You have to, Grace. You have to.”

  The boat’s horn sounded one more time, the scent of Old Spice drifted away, and I was engulfed in the smells of gasoline and motor oil from the barge.

  “Faster, Grace, swim.”

  “I love you, Daddy,” I said, taking a deep breath and swimming for shore as fast as I could.

  Lou threw her arms around me as soon as I reached the beach—even though I was soaking wet. “Grace, you almost died. The boat was so close to you.”

  I looked back at the water—no sign of my father. I sniffed—no hint of Old Spice, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my father wasn’t in hell—he’d always be with me.

  Maggie grabbed us both and hugged us tight. “Grace, are you okay?”

  The waves from the boat’s wake crashed against the shore, washed over my feet, and retreated back into the river.

  I was more than okay.

  CHAPTER 28

  My clothes were about dry when I got home, but my sneakers were sopping wet, so I changed everything and brushed my hair before Doc and Denny saw me. I guess I looked normal because Doc gave us money to buy hamburgers at the coffee shop for lunch.

  “If your grandfather knew you fell off the rope swing at Two Trees and almost drowned, he wouldn’t have treated us to lunch,” Louanne said, drenching her french fries with ketchup.

  “I’d be grounded for life,” I said, sighing dramatically. “But he doesn’t know, and he’s not going to.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone on the rope,” Maggie said, wiping mustard off her mouth. “I told you it was dangerous, but you had to do it.”

  “That’s the kind of person I am,” I said, smiling at her. “I live my life on the edge.”

  “Or you’re a lunatic with a death wish.”

  “Seriously, Grace,” Louanne said softly. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “I would’ve drowned if it wasn’t for my father,” I said, watching their expressions.

  “What do you mean?” Louanne asked, raising her eyebrows. “Really, what?”

  “I mean, obviously, my father’s dead, but when I fell into the water, I couldn’t move—like I was frozen.” I paused to see what they were going to say. They sat there staring at me with their mouths open, so I went on. “Then suddenly my father was in the water with me. I smelled his Old Spice. I felt his arms around me.”

  “You must’ve been hallucinating,” Maggie said with a condescending smile. “That happens sometimes in near-death experiences. I read about it in Reader’s Digest.”

  “Then what happened?” Louanne said, her voice smooth and soothing like she was talking to a baby.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m a moron,” I said, blushing. “I admit it’s weird, but my father swam me toward the shore and told me what to do. He was really there; I know it.”

  They looked at me like I had two heads.

  “And remember how I had that nightmare? Where I was afraid my dad was in hell? He’s not.”

  “Where is he? The canal?” Maggie asked, looking around the coffee shop. “You are seriously creeping me out.”

  “It’s not creepy at all,” I said, trying to explain. “I feel so much better because I know he loves me and he’s with me all the time. Maybe he’s with me more now than he ever could have been alive. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean,” Louanne said, leaning forward. “My father’s not dead, but he’s living someplace else. Sometimes I feel him with me, telling me he loves me.”

  We finished eating and rode over to the library to give Miss Doris the books, but she wasn’t back from lunch. I glanced at my Timex—the one Doc gave me for my twelfth birthday—the one I had on in the canal. Still ticking, and Miss Doris was an hour late.

  “She should be here any minute,” I said. “Let’s just wait on the steps.”

  “I hope nothing happened to her,” Louanne said. “She’s never late.”

  “There she is,” I said, pointing up the street. “She’s coming.”

  Miss Doris walked down the street and up the library steps. “Girls, thank you for picking up the books,” she said, unlocking the door. “Sorry I’m late.”

  She sat down behind her desk and absentmindedly lit a cigarette. “I haven’t been myself lately, and driving all the way out to the country for the books was out of the question.” Miss Doris glanced sideways at Louanne. “Today when I went home for lunch, my front gate was wide open.”

  “Are you sure you closed it?” Maggie said. “Maybe you accidentally left it open.”

  “Everyone knows that I never leave my gate open,” Miss Doris said indignantly. “It’s the third time in the last two weeks that someone’s unlatched my gate. The third time.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s weird.”

  “When I went home for lunch, Louanne, your uncle was way down the street on his bike riding out of town with that dog of his,” she said, sitting up straight. “He looked like he was in a big hurry.”

  “Well, sometimes, Miss Doris, it gets really hot in Uncle Tony’s bedroom,” Louanne said, looking puzzled. “Then he goes out on his bike to cool off. But he wouldn’t open your gate.”

  “Well somebody did—and Mrs. Teaford is gone.” Miss Doris put her left hand over her heart. “The cat always sits on her pillow on the side porch waiting to have lunch with me.” She sniffed. “I looked in all of her favorite spots in the yard, behind the birdbath near the back wall, combed the entire neighborhood, but she’s disappeared. She’s never left the yard before. Something’s happened to her.” Miss Doris’s voice broke. “I know it.”

  Louanne walked around the desk and hugged the librarian. “Mrs. Teaford probably chased a bird or mouse out of your yard, Miss Doris, and got a little lost. She’ll come back; I know she will.”

  Miss Doris shook her head and cried.

  “Oh, Miss Doris, don’t cry,” I said, feeling sorry for her. “We’ll ride around and look for your cat.”

  “And we can make posters,” Louanne said, her eyes lighting up. “We’ll put your phone number on them so when someone finds Mrs. Teaford, they’ll know who to call. What about a reward?”

  “Thank you,” Miss Doris said, sniffing. “That’s a wonderful idea—I’ll offer a five-dollar reward.” She took off her glasses, dabbed at her eyes with a wrinkled hankie, and pulled a pack of Pall Malls out of her purse.

  “Miss Doris,” I said, worried about the report I had seen on the television set a couple of nights ago. “Did you know smoking causes lung cancer?”

  Before she could say anything, Denny burst through the door and smiled—a big smile that lit up his whole face. “Miss Doris, have you got the new Sports Illustrated magazine? Doc paid me a quarter to come get it.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “Do you think anybody found Mrs. Teaford yet?” I asked Louanne and Maggie. We’d ridden all over the town looking for the cat, and we were back at my house getting something to eat. I rummaged through the pantry for the potato chips while Maggie made bologna sandwiches and Louanne looked in the refri
gerator for drinks.

  “Maybe. Lots of people must’ve seen our posters,” Maggie said, smearing ketchup on three slices of bread. She licked her fingers and put the top back on the bottle. “People like rewards; God knows I could use five dollars.”

  “We should’ve put Mrs. Teaford’s poster next to the wanted posters, not on the bulletin board,” Louanne said. “I blame myself for not doing that.”

  “Blame away, Lou,” I said, sampling some chips. “But the cat’s not wanted for murder; she’s just old and lost.”

  “So, so funny; I forgot to laugh.”

  We brought the food and our notebooks out to the tree house and settled in for the evening. We had all night to go over our arson notes.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” I yelled at Denny and Jimmy. Dr. Whalen had taken Jimmy’s cast off earlier that day, and the boys were playing marbles on the front sidewalk just outside the fence. Denny looked up and nodded.

  “I know we’re getting paid,” Louanne said, “but how come we’re supposed to watch your brothers anyway?” She pointed at the chips and frowned.

  I handed her the bag and shrugged. “Doc’s at his poker game, and my mother’s at the diner with Mr. Howe.”

  “She’s dating him?” Louanne said, staring at me. “Don’t forget that he fits the profile of the arsonist.” She took a handful of chips and set the bag down. “He really could be setting the fires.”

  “I know,” I said, picturing Mr. Howe walking my mother down the aisle in black-and-white stripes. Until now I hadn’t thought of it as dating; I hated thinking about him, period. Honestly, when my father died, things I never even thought about changing changed. My mother went from crying for weeks after his funeral to singing love songs while she was shaving her legs after she started going out with Mr. Howe.

  If my father were still alive, I’d ask him what he thought. I’d show him our list of arson suspects, and he’d consider each one. He’d sit down at the kitchen table and rest his chin in his hand and say something like, “Well, that Gary Cannon’s been a handful since the get-go—gotta keep your eyes on him. Now Mr. Howe’s an interesting character. Like you said, he fits the profile—volunteers for the fire department, likes to save people, maybe has a hero complex. Lots to worry about with that guy. And Uncle Tony, unfortunately you have to consider that poor fella too. First at the fires, Fahrenheit 451, his old fire truck in the garage, and that bedroom door of his. You’ve got your work cut out for you, Grace, that’s for sure. But I’m betting on you. You’ll figure it out.”

  My father would have confidence in me. He’d be better now—he was perfect when he rescued me in the canal. The doctors would’ve found medicine that worked, and he wouldn’t mind taking it. He and my mother would be happy. Mom and Doc wouldn’t worry about Denny and me so much. We’d do lots of fun things together, and I’d never have to lose sleep over my little brother finding out that my father committed suicide.

  The good thing was that my father was with me and watching over me. The bad thing was that he was dead.

  “Grace.” Maggie’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Danny and Jimmy aren’t in front, and their bikes are gone.”

  “Did you see where they went?” I glanced down at the spot where they were playing the last time I looked. “You heard me tell them not to go anywhere,” I said, sighing heavily. “Why doesn’t Denny listen to me?”

  “They’re probably down at the corner store getting more marbles or ice cream,” Maggie said with a shrug. “Jimmy got his ‘Didn’t wet the bed money’ today.”

  “Those idiots,” I groaned, thinking that made perfect sense.

  “Do you want to come with us, Lou?” Maggie asked apologetically. “Or wait here? We’ll be right back.”

  Louanne raised her eyebrows and frowned. She’d taken her pink plastic compact out of her pocket and was looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Your brothers are a pain in the pinfeathers,” she said, rubbing her finger in the powder and dabbing some on her nose and chin. “Wait till I pat this in.” She checked her reflection again, smiled at herself, and snapped the lid shut. “Why did you have brothers, anyway?”

  “Our parents are Catholics, and they can’t use birth control,” Maggie said without missing a beat. “Sometimes the rhythm system doesn’t work.”

  “Maggs,” I said, laughing. “Come on. If they’re not here when my mother gets back, she’ll have a cardiac arrest.”

  My mother worried when Denny and I were late. She worried when we got hurt. She worried when we weren’t hungry. She turned into the worry queen when my father died—she didn’t want to lose us too. Me? Not a worrier, but…

  We rode our bikes over to the corner store and got there just as Bert the bum was walking out of the door.

  “Hi, Bert,” I said, getting off of my bike. “Did you seen Denny and Jimmy?”

  “Nope,” Bert said, taking a swig of something from a bottle in his bag. He sat down on the steps and wiped his mouth off on his sleeve. “They ain’t in the store.”

  “Thanks,” Maggie said. “Let’s check my house.”

  The boys’ bikes weren’t on the sidewalk in front of the Millers’ porch, so we knew they weren’t there. Instead of going in and scaring Mr. and Mrs. Miller and getting “How could you’d” to death, we turned around and pedaled back toward my house. The night had turned muggy, and it looked like a thunderstorm was brewing. You could feel and smell the electricity in the air. The wind picked up, and the leaves in the trees rustled and turned themselves inside out.

  The sky darkened, and the lights in the houses went on as we rode by, but some of the neighbors were out on their front porches rocking and relaxing after their supper. They waved, and we waved back.

  “Denny hates thunderstorms. He’s afraid of lightning,” I said, starting to feel like the worry queen. “I hope he’s home.”

  “Jimmy too,” Maggie said. “They’re probably at your house watching TV.”

  “Their bikes aren’t in your yard either,” Louanne yelled back at us. “And no lights are on in your house.”

  The twinnies walked out of the candy store across the street, licking chocolate ice-cream cones. They were all dressed up in fancy yellow dresses, white socks with lace trim, and black patent leather shoes. They must’ve been celebrating something.

  “They see everything that goes on,” Louanne said, pointing at them. “Maybe they know where the boys are.”

  “I tried that dress on,” Maggie said. “It looks nicer on them than it did on me.”

  “Which one?” Louanne made a sweeping motion with her right hand that included them both.

  “Hey, Twinnies. Have you seen Denny and Jimmy?” I said, riding over.

  “Yep,” one answered, quickly pointing up Hudson Avenue with her cone. The top scoop fell off and rolled down the front of her dress. “Grace, look what you made me do! This is my new—”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, wondering how it could possibly have been my fault.

  The clean twin handed over her crumpled napkin and watched her sister brush the ice cream off her dress.

  “Ugh,” the chocolate-stained twin said. “What are the three of you looking at?”

  “Hey, Miss Mean Almighty,” Louanne said, putting her hand on her hip. “Where did you see the boys?”

  “Your weirdo brothers were riding into the old marina.”

  “We told them not to go there,” the clean twinnie added, “but they ignored us.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glancing at the storm clouds rolling in. “At least we know where they are. And sorry about your dress.”

  The twins flounced off without saying goodbye.

  “Real mature, Twinnies,” Louanne called after them. “Real mature.”

  The branches on the tall elm trees lining the street were creaking and groaning. The leaves rattled—casting eerie shadows on the pavement. Vinnie the butcher walked out of his shop holding a large brown paper sack with some celery stalks poking out of the top
. He set it down on the sidewalk and reached one hand into his pocket. “Hey, where’re you girls off to? Won’t be long until the heavens open up.” He locked the door and reached down for his bag.

  “The marina,” I said.

  “The old marina?” he asked, shaking his head. “You kids crazy? This is gonna be quite the storm.”

  “We’ll be back before it starts,” I said, riding away before he said anything else.

  Whitman’s Marina had been abandoned for years. The boathouse and bar were boarded up and dilapidated but standing for the most part. There was a big parking lot in front of the sandy beach, and some of the wooden docks were still safe enough to stand on and fish.

  Mr. Whitman had died of a heart attack late one night tending bar during the weekly fifty-cent dart game, and no one ever bought his property. People said the spirit of Old Man Whitman roamed the grounds at night, keeping prospective buyers away. Doc said nobody in town had the money or the inclination to fix the dump up.

  My father used to take Denny and me on walks up there when Whitman’s was open. He’d wink and hand me a loaf of Freihofer’s bread.

  He’d pick Denny up and put him in my old gray stroller and kiss my mother on the cheek. “We’re off to feed the duckies, Sarah,” he’d say with a laugh. “The lucky duckies.”

  My mother would put her hands on her hips and eyeball him. She’d say, “Really, Dennis? Is that all you’re going to do?”

  “Sarah, can’t I even take the kids on a walk without you accusing me of something?”

  “A walk is fine; just make sure that’s all it is. And don’t take your eyes off them even for a second.”

  My father’s face would turn red, and he’d push the stroller up the street as fast as he could, humming under his breath. I’d half run and walk behind him, struggling to keep up before he’d remember me and slow down. I liked it when my father was happy and silly, but my mother always ruined it.

  Sometimes Doc brought us to feed the ducks, and he taught me his duck-feeding technique. He showed me how to break off small pieces of the bread and gently toss it far away so that the ducks, especially the babies, wouldn’t be scared. After a while you didn’t have to throw it out so far, and the birds would come in closer and closer. Once a big mallard with a bright green head waddled up and ate right out of my hand. Doc patted my shoulder and said, “See, Grace? Good things come to he who waits—or in this case, she who waits.”