Out on the sun porch, Louis sat across from her and worked on opening the wine. Sally turned on a small lamp next to the couch. She watched in silence as he filled the glasses, thinking how little she knew about this man. Alex had always treated him as his best friend. What could possibly have happened?
Sally had met him that first summer when Alex had come to Charlevoix. He had flown in on his plane late one afternoon, unannounced, just like today. Mary Alice Gregory, the wealthy summer professional divorcee, had quickly swept him away to the Florida Keys. They had been married a few months later. Alex had provided occasional updates that they were still married, but rarely together, as Mary Alice hopped around the world keeping close to her many nomadic and wealthy friends.
Louis handed her a glass, the moist condensation from the cold wine already cool and wet in her hands. He took a long drink with his eyes closed, swallowed and then took another. He seemed to let the wine work its way down through his body, waiting for its familiar numbing effect.
Sally placed her glass on the table without drinking. “Tell me what’s going on… now!”
Louis breathed deeply and then sighed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sally, this has all been blown way out of whack, honey.”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“Sally, please just settle down a might, here. You need to know this is all gonna be okay, but you need to get Alex to settle down some, too. He’s got his lawyer bitch…” He stopped when he saw Sally grimace.
“From what I know,” Sally said, “Alex is pulling together all the help he can get to save your company and both of you from going to jail. How could you do this to him?”
“I’m telling you, this is all going to work itself out,” he answered. “The Feds are going way overboard on this. They’re just trying to scare us. This guy in New York is a big asshole, trying to make a name for himself to run for office next year.”
“I don’t know how all this works Louis, but when the Securities and Exchange Commission and the State of New York come after you, they usually have a pretty good case,” Sally said, picking up her glass and sipping the wine.
Louis sat back in his chair. “All I wanted to ask you is this. You need to talk to Alex and get him to settle down. He’s got his attorney digging in to all this shit…” Again, he paused. “He’s having her firm go back through all this history that’s not going to help our cause in the least. He and I need to work together on this, but he won’t even talk to me. Can you please just get him to sit down and talk to me,” he pleaded.
Sally looked into his eyes and again saw the panic. “If you’ve done anything to hurt my husband, I will personally help to see you rot in Hell. Can I make it any more clear than that?” She felt the heat of anger welling up inside her.
“Please, just talk to him,” Louis pleaded. “I’m going back to New York soon. Just tell him I want to sit down and talk this through. He and I can make this right, together.”
“Louis, you need to leave.”
He stood up and put his glass down on the table. “Okay, I’m headed over to spend the night with Mary Alice at her folk’s place.”
“Be sure to give her my best,” she answered in a tone that showed no attempt to hide her distaste for his wife.
Chapter Four
The Ottawa Indians have lived in this part of the North Country for a thousand years, or more. The Odawa (Ottawa), the Ojibway (Chippewa), and Bodowadami (Pottawatomi) refer to themselves as the “Anishanabek”, or “the Original People”. The oral history of the ancestors of the Little Traverse Bay Band of Odawa Indians, or the Ottawa, teaches that their people lived far to the east along the Ottawa River, a tributary to the St. Lawrence River and Atlantic Ocean. They migrated slowly westward, settling in northern Lake Huron on Ottawa Island, now known as Manitoulin Island. Here the tribe split into the three major groups that they are known as today.
Wars with the Iroquois and other tribes eventually caused some to move on to the Straits of Mackinac and on down the Lake Michigan shoreline to what is now Emmet and Charlevoix counties. Other groups moved to the Detroit and Toledo areas, later being resettled on Walpole Island in Ontario and even down in Oklahoma.
The Ottawa were well known as intertribal traders and barterers, carrying cornmeal, sunflower oil, furs and skins to faraway tribes. They were a migratory people, moving with the seasons. In the winters, they would move to areas in southern Michigan where the climate was more tolerable. In the spring, they would come back north, collecting maple syrup, fishing and hunting, planting crops and tending gardens to feed their families.
As the White settlements continued to encroach on their land, some continued west, finding their way to Oklahoma and Kansas, remaining there on reservations to this day. In the North, many of the Ottawa stayed and saw their lives change with the development of the area. As their land was taken away over the years, they moved from rural areas to the towns looking for wage labor to support their families. Through it all they tried hard to maintain the traditions and beliefs of their people.
In spite of treaties and agreements and promises of cooperation and goodwill, a clear divide remained between the White and Native American cultures through the years. Today, the “Original People” continue to struggle to find their place in this land that was once their domain. Poverty and alcoholism remain a threat to their place in society.
In more recent years, the arrival of preferred hunting and fishing regulations and the casinos and special gaming license privileges for the Tribes brought new promise as well as new challenges to the Anishanabek.
In those earlier years when the Truegood family came into our lives, and even later as my life began to reach its final ebbs and flows, not all of us who lived in this supposedly welcoming community were as accepting of the “Original People”.
… summer of 1952
Sammy Truegood tried to catch his breath. He had run from the hospital all the way through town, on out to the familiar rocky shore of North Point. His family’s home was just over the dunes, nestled in the heavy pines. He walked now along the shore of the point jutting out into Lake Michigan to the west and Little Traverse Bay off to the east. Right at the point, cutting into the shoreline, years of storms and erosion and ice flows had carved a small round inlet, only a few hundred yards across, protected by the heavy winds and waves from the big lake. In the spring, his people came to catch the spawning fish that came back to the inlet. In the fall, they shot ducks that gathered along the shores of the calm waters.
He turned in along the shore of the inlet, walking in the shallows, not concerned with the cold water drenching his shoes and feet. A flock of geese rested calming on the water in the center of the inlet, occasionally dipping their heads down to feed on the bottom of the bay.
Thinking back on the scene in the hospital, he felt numb inside thinking the Harris family believed he would have done anything to hurt Jennifer. His mind was panicking with all the possible consequences of his assumed crimes.
He thought back to his childhood when his uncle, who was 26 at the time, had been arrested and sent away to a penitentiary. He was found drinking in the park in Charlevoix on the waterfront. Earlier that day a bank had been robbed down in East Jordan and they described one of the robbers to closely resemble his uncle. When questioned that night in the park, the sheriff found $200 in his pocket he had actually won the night before in a poker game. The bank teller identified him in a line-up and he was sent away.
Pushing through a line of low scrub brush, Sammy walked out along the rocky edge of the bay. At the end, the path narrowed to a sharp point and then disappeared into the waves of Lake Michigan, larger rocks breaking the surface out into the deeper water. The sky was growing lighter back behind him down towards Petoskey as the morning sun pushed up from behind the dark line of hills. He sat down just back from the high water of the waves and rested his back against a rotted piece of driftwood that had been washed up. He looked out nort
h over the water to the point across the bay that led up to Cross Village and eventually to Mackinaw. Attempting to block out thoughts of Jennifer Harris, he tried to envision his ancestors navigating across this water in small canoes, carrying trade goods, or returning from battles. He and his late father had come to sit at this place on many occasions. He would listen to stories of his people and his family’s past. The legends of his people had always seemed so magical and it made him proud of his legacy.
Thoughts of Jennifer Harris kept pushing back. He had come across her and Elaine down at the long beach across from Fisherman’s Island. It was getting on to late evening and the three of them had stripped down to bathing suits and gone swimming out to the small island. They skipped stones in the calm water behind the island and walked through the narrow path to explore the old abandoned cabin that lay in a wreck back in the woods.
A few more summer kids had joined them as the sun was starting to set. A bonfire was made, and bottles of beer and whiskey started to get passed. Three of the boys were friends of Jennifer and Elaine from previous summers. One named Andy seemed to feel particularly connected with Jennifer Harris and started to give Sammy a hard time about being there. He eventually left after overhearing not so subtle comments about his Indian heritage and too much firewater. On his way back from the beach along the trail through the woods, the three boys confronted him, including Andy Welton. One had bumped him off the trail as he tried to pass and then the three of them turned to laugh at him. The one who had run into him, taunted him and said, “Hey Chief, aren’t you late for smoking the peace pipe back at the teepee.”
Sammy had quickly measured his chances in trying to retaliate against all three of them. He realized the odds were far from good and he had turned and continued down the path, trying to keep his anger from tempting him to run back and take all of them on.
He tried to think of how he could defend himself if the family or the sheriff came after him. From Jennifer’s condition in the hospital, he wasn’t very confident in her ability to vouch for him.
A red-tailed hawk swooped down low from behind him and then plummeted into the water, talons extended. Flapping with powerful wings, the bird lifted up with a large lake-run brown trout in its grasp. Sammy watched it angle up and away, back to its nest somewhere in the heavy pine forest along the dunes. His father had told him many stories about the birds and the animals. He remembered an old tale of a hawk that led a group of his people across the ice flows from Mackinaw when they had been caught in a heavy blizzard. The people followed the hawk and its call through the storm. When they reached the tree line on the shore, the bird flew up and perched on the limb of a tall white pine above them. The people gathered together to give thanks for the bird. The hawk looked down upon them with its head cocked to one side, its shiny brown eye blinking in the light of the sun breaking through the clouds from the passing storm. It screeched loudly and then flew up and away back across the channel to the island.
What message did the hawk bring today, he thought?
Often finding release and solitude during long swims in the cold lakes of the area, Sammy rose and pulled off his shirt and pants and walked out into the waves wearing only a faded pair of plaid swim shorts. Among the Precepts of his people was the commandment to immerse his body into the lake or river at least ten days in succession in the early months of the year, that his body would be strong and swift. The water was still icy cold in the early weeks of summer and the chill cut through his muscles to the bone, leaving an aching sensation as his body struggled to adjust. When he was waist deep, he dove out and under the next wave coming at him and his entire body felt the cold shock of Lake Michigan. He kicked and stroked powerfully to stay under the water and slowly he began to feel more comfortable. Finally, he came up for a breath, choking for air, breathing deeply into his lungs. The water depth was just over his head and he had to stroke with his arms and legs to stay afloat.
As usual, the cool fresh water worked, if only for a few moments, to wash away the day’s burdens. He let his mind linger only on the water and the air and the beautiful stretch of beach before him.
Emily Compton McKendry led her husband, Jonathan, by the hand up the sidewalk from the drawbridge over the channel into Round Lake. Jonathan dragged reluctantly behind. Emily had her physician’s jacket on. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back behind her ears and tied with a narrow black ribbon. Jonathan was dressed in his daily work clothes of jeans and a faded wool shirt. Traces of early gray showed in his dark hair along the sides of his forehead, his face glowing with a permanent reddish windburn along his cheeks from his many years outside in the harsh climate. An early morning chill layered in over the town from Lake Michigan.
Out over the bluff, Emily could see the big Great Lakes passenger ship, the Manitou, setting up course to make its way into the Charlevoix harbor. Passengers from Chicago, St. Joseph and Muskegon were traveling north on the elegant ship for their summer visits. Emily marveled again at how magnificent the old passenger liners were and how miraculous they could navigate through the narrow channel into Round Lake. Jonathan, always more than engaged in great ships, stopped to watch the Manitou clear the channel breakwalls.
Emily grabbed his arm to get him moving again. “Jonathan, this will just take a few minutes. I really want you to see this house.”
“Emily, we have a house…a perfectly good house,” he objected.
“I’ve told you before, I have loved this place since I was a little girl coming up here in the summers. When I saw the For Sale sign go up last week, I just had to see it.”
They reached the top of the hill and turned down along the lake on Michigan Avenue. The first house on the left sat back in the trees, a traditional two-story Cape Cod with yellow wood siding and black shutters. The vast distance of the horizon over Lake Michigan could be seen off behind. The For Sale sign had been placed by the sidewalk.
“I know Margaret, the agent,” Emily said. “There’s a key under the mat.” They walked up the front steps and Emily found the key and let them in. She turned on the hall lights and they made their way back towards the rear of the house. Immediately, they could see the striking blues and greens of Lake Michigan through the broad expanse of windows along the back of the living room. To the right, an opening led out to a sun room that was also wrapped in windows looking out over the lake. They stood together looking out at the back lawn leading down to the edge of the high sand dunes that cascaded down to the lake.
Emily reached over for Jonathan’s hand. “I really love this house, Jonathan.”
He stood in silence for a while, enjoying the view with her. He knew his wife could buy whatever she wanted. Her family’s money was substantial and yet she rarely lived to excess and was actually quite frugal. He also knew if she wanted this house, there was very little he would be able to do to change her mind.
Having come from a family that was always trying to just get by on the money his father made from the small marina and boatyard they ran down on Round Lake, and the modest amount of extra money his mother was able to bring in from working over at the Belvedere Hotel, Jonathan was still overwhelmed and uncomfortable around the incredible wealth of the Compton family. Emily’s father, Stewart Compton, had retired recently from a long and successful career in the automobile business down in Detroit.
In their years together, Jonathan had found that, despite her family’s background, Emily was not the slightest bit interested in extravagant displays of wealth. They lived quite simply in a modest home off Park Street. They had one car she had driven since college, although he had to admit it was actually quite nice; a sleek sport convertible Emily had picked him up in on their first night out together back in Ann Arbor when he was recovering from his wounds at the Veteran’s Hospital. He was still driving an old truck from his father’s boatyard and they still had the little Chris Craft runabout her father had bought from the McKendry Boatworks back before the War.
The EmmaLee II was his wi
fe’s most prized possession. She kept it lovingly protected in a small private boathouse down on Round Lake near where his family’s old boatyard used to sit. Jonathan had worked to restore the boat before the Compton’s purchased it and he and Emily had enjoyed many great hours together on the boat, including the first night they had ever made love anchored down in Horton Bay.
More recently, he had built a larger cruiser for them down at his boatyard. It was 30 feet in length and had two sleeping cabins and a small galley. They had made several trips up and down the big lake to ports like Mackinaw and Leland, often with the Hansen’s. Emily’s father’s yacht, the EmmaLee, had returned after the war. Commissioned by the Navy at the outset of World War II, it had been used out east to patrol the coast for German submarines. The Compton family kept it up in Charlevoix again each summer. Jonathan had become good friends not only with his father-in-law, Stewart Compton, but also the captain and crew of the EmmaLee. He had been cleared to skipper the boat when he was accompanied by the captain and he enjoyed many wonderful hours on the great ship with Emily and her family.
His wife nudged him in the side. “So, what do you think?”
He focused again on the house and the incredible view. “I suppose that there’s not much chance of me talking you out of this place?”
“Jonathan, I just want to know what you think.”
“I think we should try out that incredibly comfortable-looking couch out there on the porch,” and he took her by the hand.
She laughed and said, “We don’t have time for any funny business. I need to get down to the clinic.”
He pulled her down on the couch next to him with his arm around her. The morning light reflected softly against the kaleidoscope of colors in the gardens outside the windows. A cool breeze blew in through a screen door. Holding her close, he kissed her and then leaned back, looking deeply into her eyes. “I don’t know about the rest of this house, but I see great potential in this porch.”
The Summer Town Page 4
