The Spirit of Resistance

by Michael J. Scott

  “If you want,” I offered, “I can go check. Think I still know where his favorite spot is.”

  After a moment, Mr. Knapp said, “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all, sir. It’ll be good to get outta the house. Hell, I might even join him.”

  “Yeah, you just let me know if you find him.”

  “Will do.”

  I hung up and grabbed my coat. Poking my head in the living room I announced, “Going out. I’ll be back later.”

  Martin nodded and said nothing. I shook my head and left.

  Twenty-Five

  The Irondequoit Bay was a large body of water descending northward from the Irondequoit Creek and spilling out into the waters of Lake Ontario. It was a half mile across in most places, and about four miles long, providing plenty of surface area for boaters in the summer and ice fishing in the winter. A swing bridge on the north joined the towns of Webster and Irondequoit for half the year, allowing easy access to Seabreeze Amusement Park, which, of course, was closed at this time. Lake Road wound down from the east past gorgeous lakefront homes worth far more than I could ever afford, until it dropped down north of Bay Road and spilled onto a narrow isthmus that divides the waters of the lake and the bay.

  I drove onto this narrow stretch of sand, home to a few restaurants, some summer cottages and a marina, and began scanning the bay for telltale signs of Jerry’s ice tent. It was hard to pick out. The snow-covered icepack was speckled with five-foot and six-foot enclosures looking like canvass porta-potties all the way to the creek’s mouth four miles away. Jerry’s tent was bright orange, and he preferred the north end.

  Just across the bridge, Lake Road became Culver. I parked in a narrow lot on the south side of the road and stared through the windshield at the line of tents scattered across the frozen bay. Snow covered most of the surface, reflecting a brilliant sun back to the deep azure vault above. Swans meandered through a narrow breach in the icepack in the center of the channel, vying with the ice-fishers for food and utterly oblivious to the cold, their long necks poking through the water before snaking back up and trembling vigorously. A brace of ducks joined them, politely keeping their distance from the elegant, larger and much more aggressive birds. The swans were endangered, probably because of their attitudes. Even the geese avoided them. Turning from them, I could see the span of the 104 Bay Bridge about a mile and a half away. I hoped Jerry was on this side of the span. It would make finding him so much easier.

  I zippered my coat and climbed out of the car. Several hundred yards to the left, I could see a lonely orange tent standing aloof from the others. It was my best bet, but given the melt in the center, I’d have to take the long way around to avoid falling through. As cold as it was today, the combination of a relatively mild winter so far and the constant motion of the water kept the Bay from freezing solid all across, making the journey somewhat treacherous. I hope he appreciated the risk I was taking.

  Trudging across the ice, I kept my head down and my hands thrust deep in my pockets. I should’ve remembered my gloves. The wind bit hard across my back. Blown in from the lake behind me and thrust into this narrow valley, it picked up speed and forced me forward, like some brutal security guard shoving a prisoner toward his cell. When I was parallel to the ice tent I turned and started to cut across the center. A sudden shove from my blustery escort took my legs out from under me, sending me sprawling to the surface. I hit the ice hard, feeling like someone had just taken a baseball bat and wailed upon my hip. Concrete would’ve been softer. I swore and pushed myself into a sitting position, my fingers red and stiff without my pockets to warm them. The wind pushed mercilessly behind, impatient to see me on my way. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and limped the rest of the way to Jerry’s tent.

  I came around the side, escaping the wind. “Hey Jerry, is that you?”

  There was no immediate answer, then from inside came a muffled, “Go away, Peter.”

  Well, at least I had the right tent.

  “Mind if I come inside?”

  “Yes.”

  I shuffled my feet. “You’re not like, naked in there, are ya?”

  No answer.

  “Come on, Jerry, it’s freezing out here.”

  I heard some movement within, then the zipper lifted off the ground and sailed through its toothy line, opening a narrow flap. I pushed inside, closing the tent behind me.

  Jerry sat on a small stool before a pair of round holes carved through the ice. A propane heater blazed invitingly in the corner, and I stepped over to it, warming my digits by the mandarin glow. A cooler stood on the other side. I sat on it and cupped my hands, still shivering.

  “Where’s your gloves?”

  “Left ‘em home.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Got any beer?” I said.

  He nodded at me. “You’re sitting on it.”

  I rose and opened the cooler. A six-pack of Saranac Pale Ale sat on one side. The rest of the cooler was packed with salmon. I snagged a bottle and closed the lid.

  “That’s quite a catch. You keeping ‘em?”

  He bobbed his head, still staring at the lines that disappeared into each hole. “Yep. Figured I’d make me some steaks. Need enough to practice with.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “What d’you want, Peter?”

  “Your Dad called. Said your Mom’s getting worried.”

  He snorted. “What for?”

  “They didn’t know where to find you.”

  “So what? You come looking for me now?”

  “Something like that. They also said you offered to cook for them. Didn’t know you were so inspired. I guess it has them worried.”

  He swore. “You know, you try something different for once, and everybody thinks you’re going crazy.” He looked away at nothing. “You know, I always wanted to learn how to cook.”

  “Did you?”

  “Mom was always like, ‘Get outta my kitchen.’ And Dad? He just wanted me to learn the business.” He sniffed. “Nobody even asked me what I wanted to do.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Learn to cook? Why didn’t you?”

  “I dunno. Too busy playing video games, I guess. Seems kinda stupid, now. I shoulda made a bucket list.”

  “What?”

  “You know, a bucket list. Things to do before you die?”

  “Yeah, I know what a bucket list is. Why would you...” I stopped myself. I was being obtuse.

  He shuffled his feet. “Thing is, I don’t wanna die.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Toss me a beer.”

  I pulled another bottle from the cooler and passed it to him. He opened it and took a long sip, then said, “You know who you are. You wanted to be a writer, and you just went for it. You didn’t sit around waiting for someone to tell you who to be. I’ve spent so much of my life just sitting around waiting for something to happen. Marty comes along with this whole ‘Let’s kill the President’ thing, and I just jump at it. I ain’t saying we shouldn’t do something for the country. I mean, look at it. Don’t take a genius to know something’s wrong. This country ain’t like what it was supposed to be—not like what we were taught it was when we was kids. Now it’s all PC bullcrap and gay marriage, know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “I ain’t saying we shouldn’t do something. It’s just... I feel like it’s too late. Like, I was supposed to live, and I didn’t.” He started laughing, but it sounded like a sob. “Can I tell you something? Like something real personal?”

  I shrugged.

  “I ain’t never... I mean... Misty and I dated awhile, but we never... and she was like the only one, and we just never... you know?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re still a virgin?”

  He blushed and looked away.

  “Well don’t take this wr
ong, buddy, but I don’t think I can help with that.”

  “Oh shut up! Knew I shouldn’t have said nothing.”

  I apologized. “I don’t mean to make fun. Honest to God.”

  He shook his head. “Sure would’ve liked to have, you know, had that experience. I don’t just mean the sex thing. Not just that. I’m talking about like the whole marriage and kids thing. To know what it’s like to be with someone, have a child of my own. Don’t suppose I was ready to settle down. Now I never will be.”

  “You keep talking like it’s all final, said and done. It’s not too late. We don’t have to go through with this.”

  “I know. But it’s like, if I don’t, then, what am I protecting? I ain’t never been more alive than in these past couple of weeks. I can’t just turn my back on that.”

  One of his rods bobbed in the water. He swore and grabbed the rod, spilling his beer. I scooted out of the way, grabbing the net while he pulled. “Sonova—we got a big one, Pete!”

  The pole bent sharply forward, like it was going to snap in two. I stayed to the side, watching him wrestle with the fish. After a while, I could see something shifting in the waters below the tent.

  “Get the net,” he grunted. I already had it, but said nothing. A few more twists on the reel and the ugly face of a large salmon poked through the water, its lidless eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the alien world it had just entered. I braced the net at the edge of the hole, and as soon as the fish cleared the water, shoved it underneath. The salmon flopped uselessly into the net, its gills desperate for oxygen.

  “Lookit that!” Jerry exclaimed. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

  “Those are going to be some steaks, Jerry.”

  He smiled brightly in return.

  ***

  I stayed with Jerry through the rest of the afternoon, though we didn’t pick up the dangling threads of our conversation again. Around four o’clock I offered to help him cook up the salmon steaks, in exchange for dinner, of course, and together we packed up the tent. After lugging everything back to his truck and retrieving my car, we drove to his house for dinner. Jerry’s mom and dad were delighted to have their son back, but it took some convincing to get Momma Knapp out of her kitchen long enough for me to show Jerry how to cook up the steaks.

  The Knapps didn’t have a proper smoker, so we baked them with a little Worcestershire sauce and lemon juice with butter and salt and pepper. Mrs. Knapp made a point of pulling down the thyme and leaving it out on the counter for us while exclaiming, “I’m not saying a word. Just, well, you know.”

  We served it up with steamed asparagus and mashed potatoes, and Mr. Knapp insisted on unscrewing a bottle of Lake Niagara White. After dinner and dessert of leftover chocolate cake, I bade them goodnight and headed home. I was feeling pretty good all the way to our street.

  Then I saw the fire trucks.

  Twenty-Six

  Serried yellow fire trucks stood across the street from our house. Crimson and white lights flashed in staccato patterns across the frozen ground, while lengthy hoses snaked from the hydrant along the side of the street. A police officer held up his hand, motioning me to a stop before the assemblage of vehicles. Just beyond him, I could see a broad column of blackened smoke billowing into the air.

  “Sir,” he said when I unrolled my window, “you’re gonna have to turn around and go back.”

  I shook my head, eyes wide. “That’s my house,” I muttered.

  “Your house? You live here?”

  “Yeah. With my brother.” I tore off my seatbelt and flung open the door. “Marty!”

  A few heads turned in my direction. I yelled again and tried to move in that direction, but the cop restrained me. “Calm down, sir. I need to know your name.”

  “Marty!”

  “Sir, tell me your name.”

  I sagged against the car. “P-peter,” I mumbled. “Peter Baird.”

  “Uh huh. And you own this house?”

  “My brother and I. Martin.”

  “All right. Hang on.” He spoke quickly into his shoulder mic. I barely heard him or the reply. I stared ahead at the raging inferno that had been my home for as long as I could remember.

  Where was Martin?

  “All right. Come on. I located your brother. He’s fine. Paramedics are checking him over.”

  I shuddered in relief and rose shakily to my feet.

  “Might wanna turn off your car.”

  I reached through the open window and grabbed my keys from the ignition, then followed the cop as he escorted me through the maze of trucks toward my brother. As we neared the house, I could feel the heat blasting through the cold. A window in the upstairs shattered. I whirled at the sound, staring as flames danced out through what had once been my bedroom.

  What happened?

  The cop nudged me along. “Your brother’s this way.” He pointed me toward a red paramedics’ truck parked on the curb. Sitting on the back bumper, a familiar figure watched me from behind an oxygen mask. He waved weakly in my direction.

  Martin.

  Relief flooded through me. And then something else. Doubt. It blossomed into suspicion, and with every step grew into an ugly certainty. I moved quicker, almost running toward him. I stopped a few feet from him, my fist curled tightly, ready to fly. “What the hell did you do?!”

  He lowered the oxygen mask just long enough to grin at me beneath bloodshot eyes. “Hi Peter. Good to see you’re all right. I’m fine, too. Thanks for asking.”

  I wasn’t buying it.

  “You want me to think this was an accident?”

  “Keep yer voice down.”

  It was then that I noticed his bandaged hand. I pointed at it. “What happened to your hand?”

  “It’s fine. It’ll heal.”

  I sank down beside him. “What did you do, Marty?”

  He eyed me from the side. “Don’t worry yourself, none. I got most of our stuff out. Guns are in the barn, buried in the crawl space. They’ll never find ‘em.” He reached behind him and brought out a familiar black notebook. “Got your computer here. It was one of the first things I grabbed. Managed to get some clothes, too.”

  I stared numbly at the possessions he showed me. “You burned our house down?”

  He smiled wanly. “Wasn’t hard. It’ll even look like an accident. I put a candle in the window near one of Mom’s curtains. Caught fire a lot quicker than I thought it would. ‘Bout all I could do to get our stuff out in time. Damn smoky, that’s for sure.”

  “Mom’s curtains.” I felt like someone had just punched my gut. I wanted to scream at him, demand that he take it back, but all that came out was, “Why?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why?’ I told you why. Gotta burn the ship. You didn’t think I meant a boat, didja? Besides, you told me to do what I thought was best.”

  I turned and stared as the remains of our lives vanished into ash. It was unbelievable, despite the searing evidence to the contrary. “This is what you thought was best,” I muttered.

  “Damn straight. Now we’re committed. No going back.” He clapped my shoulder, letting his hand rest there a long time. “It’s just a thing, Peter. And we don’t need it no more.”

  “It was our home.”

  “Everybody has to leave home someday.”

  ***

  The firefighters worked the blaze all night. Toward dawn, they finally got it under control. Two of them suffered smoke inhalation and had to be taken to the hospital. I wondered what Martin thought about that, but decided against telling him to explain to the families why their Daddies couldn’t come home that night. He’d probably say they were volunteers and knew the risks or something stupid like that anyway, so what was the point?

  As the morning rays first brightened the horizon, I rose from my seat, sipping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee one of the rescue workers had given me, and wandered over to the walkway that used to lead to our front porch. In front of me, the smoldering ruins lay. A blackened carcass
, the ancient bones of the house lay split and charred beyond repair. A sole window frame stood upright in the fragments of a wall, its glass shattered, the shards melted on the ground. Thick, acrid wood smoke stung my nostrils and turned the coffee a bitter chicory flavor.

  There was nothing left.

  I felt a presence beside me, and knew Martin stood there. I wondered what he thought of his handiwork, and if he felt the same.

  “I can’t believe it’s gone.”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Hell of a thing.”

  I threw my cup into the rubble. “It was their legacy. All we had left of them was in that house. It was all I ever knew of Mom.”

  “They been gone a long time, Peter.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Well, then it’s time you let them go. We’re their legacy now.” He tugged at me, but I remained rooted to my spot.

  “What was she like?”

  He crossed in front of me, his brow knitted. I could barely see him through the tears.

  “Mom. What she like?”

  He swallowed and said nothing for a moment. Then, “She was a good person. Blue eyes. They crinkled when she smiled. She smelled like chamomile tea. I remember when Dad brought you home. He carried you wrapped in this blanket and knelt down so I could see. And he said, ‘This is your little brother. His name is Peter, and I want you to take good care of him, okay?’ That’s the only time I seen my Daddy cry. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me my Momma wasn’t coming home. That she died giving birth to you.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “And I looked at you, and it was your fault. I hated you! God, I told him to take you back.” His voice got quiet, barely a whisper. “Then he hit me. He said, ‘This is your brother. You do whatever it takes to protect him. You keep him safe, ‘cause he’s the only piece of your Momma we got left.’”

  I grabbed him then, pulling him into a tight embrace, too frightened to let go. He cried into my shoulder.