Dmitri looked bewildered, and Jesse’s fingers shook, but soon the diamonds became little triangles, and then even smaller hats, and when the boys pinched the edges of their pieces of paper and pulled them apart, two small blue boats emerged in their hands.
“Put a penny in the bottom to weigh it down,” their father said, and passed each of his sons a coin. “Helps the wishes come true.”
* * *
—
Last weekend, Jesse had met his father’s new girlfriend. She was shorter than his mother, as thin and muscular as a dancer. Her name was Holly, and she had wild blond hair and wore no makeup. She answered the door in a long white gauzy dress, black leggings, and beat-up running shoes without socks. On the drive over, his father told the boys that she ran a harbourfront art gallery, with a studio in the back where she slept and an easel for her own work.
Jesse could tell she was pretty, but like his father, she seemed off. For instance, her studio had no bathroom or kitchen. She kept a bucket in the closet with a roll of toilet paper beside it, and in the same closet she stored cereal, peanut butter, soup cans, a hot plate, and a camping stove. When they had first arrived, their father presented her with, as he put it, a “windfall”: three half-used rolls of toilet paper, a tube of toothpaste, a large bag of beef jerky, and a bottle of multivitamins. Then, of course, out came the cans of beer.
She was an artist, sold her greeting cards and calendars to tourists. His father said the word artist with some reverence. Jesse thought the greeting cards were dumb. Watercolour paintings of flowers and fishing boats, so boring. Why not take a picture? Still, his father seemed lighter in her presence, and Jesse felt a tinge of guilt for he realized that he, too, was having a good time. Holly told him and Dmitri to look up, and when they did, they saw that the ceiling was covered in hundreds of origami birds. She put on some kind of tribal music and danced with her arms over her head. Jesse saw that she did not shave her underarms. It was thrilling to see the wild tufts of dark hair, as thick as his father’s, sprouting from those bone-thin white arms.
“Let me draw your boy,” she said. She stood behind a butcher-block table and sketched Jesse, then handed him a piece of paper with a charcoal portrait of his face. He could see his father beaming at this gesture, this bond between them. It was flattering to be drawn, and Jesse blushed.
When he got home, he hid the drawing under his bed where his mother would never think of looking. But she must have seen the piece of heavy construction paper while she was vacuuming. She presented him with it the next day: a charcoal rendition of his big eyes and sunken cheeks, his look of alarm, his bangs parted evenly down the centre of his forehead.
“He shouldn’t make you spend time with his girlfriends,” she said. Her tone was sharp, like when Dmitri was first born and she would get so frustrated that she would stop the car, reach over Jesse’s body, unbuckle his seat belt, push open the car door, push him out.
After his mother went into her bedroom for the night, Jesse climbed into Dmitri’s bed and fell asleep with his hand on his brother’s back. He watched his brother’s little sleeping body breathe in and out beside him. He had torn the drawing into pieces to show his mother that it meant nothing.
* * *
—
It was Jesse’s idea to run back onto the lake and steal a look at his father’s wish. His father had left his cigarettes in the car and was stomping away from the boys, calling over his shoulder at them to stay on the trail.
Jesse wondered what he wanted his father’s paper boat to say: I want to come back. I miss Jesse. I miss my family. Once his father was out of sight, he grabbed Dmitri by the hand, told him to be quiet, and the two of them sprinted to the edge of the lake, then inched out carefully, testing each step to make sure the ice could support their weight. The lake was covered in a fine layer of snow, and they held each other’s hands tight. Jesse figured he had about five minutes before his father returned.
He thought that a frozen lake would look something like a mirror, and that when he looked down, he would see his reflection. But the ice beneath his feet was covered in snow, and there was nothing to see within it.
Dmitri saw the bear tracks first and pointed at the imprint. They were only a few feet out on the lake and the tracks were hard to make out, could even be a big dog’s. The bear had come out about ten feet onto the lake, then circled back. Jesse told Dmitri not to worry, for already his brother’s face was breaking into a cry, and if his father returned and found his youngest son upset, Jesse knew he would be punished; it didn’t matter why or what had happened. His father got angry. He got so angry Jesse thought he was going to kill them, smash every glass in the house and bust out every window with his fist and kick over the chairs and pound the table with a hammer until it crashed into a million pieces on the floor. He’d be looking at the coffee pot and the next minute it was being whipped across the room, not for any reason, even when everything else was right—bills paid, waffles on the table, the radio on. The night their mother kicked him out, he got so angry he ripped out a handful of her hair.
Jesse’s hands began to shake from the memory, and he tried to figure out how long it had been since his father had left to get his cigarettes. Two, three minutes? Not long. But for how long had he looked at the bear tracks? Jesse pinched Dmitri’s arm and told him to shut up—“Shut up, you wimp!”—and pushed his brother ahead of him. “Get going,” he said. “Dad will be back soon. Hurry up, let’s go.” A few puddles had formed in the snow ahead of them but Jesse continued, his hand gripping the back of his brother’s coat for stability. Neither boy was dressed right. The wind ran through Jesse’s jacket and he felt the ice through the soles of his rubber boots. He wished he had on another pair of socks. He wished that he were home with his mother, that he was anywhere but here, on this frozen lake, miles from his house, with a damned bear and his crying brother and the long day ahead of him in the cold with his father. He was ashamed that he hadn’t been able to think of something better to write on his paper boat—he should have wished for his family to be together again, for his father to be sweet like he was before Dmitri was born. Instead he’d been so nervous to finish his boat before his father got impatient that he scribbled I want a dog even though there was no point in wishing for something like that. He would either get a dog or he wouldn’t, and luck had nothing to do with it.
“What did you wish for, Dmitri?” he asked but his brother didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Jesse knew that Dmitri wanted only for his father to come home. Dmitri, the favourite. Dmitri, the good. Dmitri, with the wavy hair of his mother. Dmitri, with the innocent face full of freckles.
The boys walked along the ice until they saw the blue paper boats ahead of them, sodden, half-submerged in an inch of snow. One had begun to unravel and lay on its side. The thaw would not carry them to the reservoir. They would be buried in the snow, destroyed, forgotten. Jesse felt a horrible ache in his chest.
Dmitri stood shivering, his head down and tears in his eyes, while Jesse knelt and unfolded the sturdiest-looking boat, removed the penny and set it on the ice. His father wrote in uneven capital letters, much of it already wet and illegible. It was surprisingly long—almost a full page. He must have written it before he picked them up.
I WANT TO HAVE A REAL, SINCERE TALK WITH EVELINA AND TELL HER I’M GETTING REMARRIED.
The ice shifted underneath his feet, and Jesse snapped his head up, grabbed Dmitri so he wouldn’t fall. Their father should not have left them out here, not even for five minutes. “Don’t make me angry,” Jesse muttered. It was something his father said and he found himself saying the same words—Don’t make me angry, you don’t want to make me angry. He felt the burn of rage spreading through his chest and into his throat and behind his eyes. It was time, Jesse thought, to teach his father a lesson.
CHAPTER THREE
Denny
Denny Gusev heard the knock
at the door and ignored it. It was late afternoon, but he hadn’t gotten out of bed, hadn’t bathed, hadn’t had a cup of coffee. His wife had been gone all day. She’d taken Scout to Squire Point as she did every morning, probably stopped at the store afterwards, they were out of milk, couldn’t hurt to pick up a few things. Maybe she had an appointment today—he couldn’t remember.
He got up wearily, pulled on his bathrobe, and headed for the front door. He’d been lost in some sort of daydream about an ex-girlfriend, how he used to ride a bicycle. He checked the wall clock as he passed the kitchen: almost four. UPS guy maybe; too early for Mormons. A summons? Oh, to be an early riser and go-getter like his wife; to be ready for the world by 6 A.M. He would never be that person. Guilt began the moment he woke and saw Vera’s half of the bed already made. Guilt as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes in the bathroom mirror, knowing he was rising only because Vera was up, knowing if it were up to him—his lazy, slovenly self—he would sleep until noon. Guilt when he walked into the kitchen to see her coffee cup and breakfast dishes washed and drying on the bamboo rack, Scout’s leash missing from the hook by the back door, traces of kibble in his bowl, his water dish refilled. Guilt at his hand resting so comfortably on his belly as he perused the misty morning from the kitchen window, the ocean obscured. Guilt that some bird was pecking around on the snow-covered deck and the feeder was empty. Guilt that he needed to start his day, shovel his way out to the studio, finally finish the engagement ring he’d promised a client weeks ago. Guilt at anything, at everything, oh, and now the guilt that the knocking at the door was getting louder, the person impatient, knowing somehow that this lazy man had scrambled back into the bedroom to find some clothes. Guilt at his clothes left in a heap, the fabric cold and sort of slimy feeling from being on the floor, one foot slipped into one pant leg, the knocking so much louder, my god, man, it’s only a UPS package for heaven’s sake; guilt that the shirt he pulled over his head had a smear of grease from last night’s buttery popcorn, painfully visible over the sad expanse of his stomach. He opened the door and saw a policeman—and sitting beside this policeman was his own dog.
* * *
—
He led the policeman into his dark living room, cleared the pile of Time magazines off the couch, and invited him to sit down. The policeman untied the makeshift leash and Scout bounded into the kitchen and began loudly lapping water. An empty bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table from the night before, and Denny and the policeman looked at it, then up at each other. He felt suddenly ashamed of the opulence of the living room—the modern halogen ceiling lights, the grey velvet couch, the built-in bookshelves with blown-glass vases and expensive books about art and design. Vera liked nice things, showy things. Everything had to be grey, white, or black. Who do you think is going to stop by—Architectural Digest? It was meant as a joke, but he had hurt her feelings.
The policeman told him about the call Vera had made from the Squire Point pay phone. She had found a little boy in the woods, and had told the dispatcher that they were waiting in her car at the second parking lot. But when the policeman arrived, she and the little boy were nowhere to be found. Her car was idling, the doors wide open. The dog, running loose in the woods. Maybe, the policeman said, they had for some reason left the parking lot and gotten lost on the trails? Maybe the dog had run off and they had followed?
“I’m sorry,” Denny said. He rose to his feet. “I don’t understand. Why would she leave the car on—the doors open—”
“What time did she leave to walk the dog?”
“I don’t know. Later than usual. After lunch? She goes to Squire every day,” Denny said. “I slept in and when I woke, she was gone, Scout’s leash was gone. She usually goes before work—”
“To the woods by herself?”
“It’s not a dangerous place, as far as I know,” said Denny, and his voice was frantic, high-pitched. He sat and buried his head in his hands. He looked at the latest issue of Time beside him on the couch, with its big cover story about Halley’s comet about to pass by. “I used to go with her—I should have gone with her—she loves going for these long walks.” He paused, collected himself. “I, well,” he patted his belly, “am not so diligent.” A joke at a time like this? What was he doing?
The policeman tilted his head. “You weren’t worried when she didn’t come home?”
“I thought maybe she ran some errands—or had an appointment I’d forgotten about. We don’t really check up on each other, if you know what I mean.”
We don’t really check up on each other. Why? Why hadn’t he called out to her as she left and asked when she would be home? Was it possible that he hadn’t wanted her to return? Hadn’t wanted to face the moment when she came through the door and saw that, yet again, he’d done nothing with his day? That this year would be the same as the last?
Sometimes when he heard Vera’s car, he’d scramble out the back door and into the studio, pretend he’d been in there for hours. He sensed she never fell for it. And, well, he could tell by the way she’d slammed the front door when she left for Squire Point that she was still mad at him. He had wanted to stay up and watch the fireworks last night, that was all—it was New Year’s Eve! He wanted to have a few drinks at the house, then walk to the harbour, celebrate with the crowd. He didn’t want to be stuck in the house. Was that such a crime? Apparently it was. His drinking! His socializing! His lateness coming to bed! Vera with her goddamned routines—in bed by nine, up at six. Never a deviation. Her rigidity was maddening, especially on a night like New Year’s Eve. Why couldn’t they go watch the fireworks like normal people? Or—if she didn’t want to go, why couldn’t he go alone? No. She wanted him to stay home, eat dinner with her, talk with her in the living room, go to bed with her at nine.
But by nine they were shouting at each other. She stomped outside, furiously smoked a cigarette, stormed back into the house and into the bedroom, pushed her earplugs into her ears and turned off the light, leaving him with his bourbon in the living room. He drank and listened to the revelry outside. Craned his neck out the window to get a look at the fireworks. Counted down in a whisper, checking his watch. Then, with a boldness that astonished him, he left. He snuck out like a teenager, watched the fireworks over the harbour, then slunk back home. Another year. He wept, soundlessly, mouth open, in the studio before finally trudging into the house. He had trouble not catastrophizing. Every time they fought, he feared the marriage was over.
“An appointment seems unlikely,” said the policeman. “Everything is closed.”
“Do you think she was kidnapped?” Denny asked.
“No, no, I think she’s lost, but—”
“Then shouldn’t you be searching for her? It will be dark soon. What if my wife is out there? And we are, we are—”
“There’s a search and rescue team being assembled as we speak, Mr. Gusev—what I am trying to determine now is if there’s anywhere else she could be.”
“No,” said Denny.
“How old is your wife?” the policeman asked.
“Thirty,” said Denny.
“Younger than—”
“Yes.”
“Do you have children?” the policeman asked, and Denny watched him scan the living room for pictures, the floor, what he could make out of the bedroom.
“We’re planning to, despite—despite—listen, is my wife missing? Is that what you’re telling me now?”
“I’m trying to determine that. There are other possibilities.”
“Other possibilities?”
The policeman took out a small notepad and began writing something down. “Is there anyone who can confirm that you were here all day?”
“No, I don’t think so, I mean I was asleep.” He felt the guilt, again, spreading over him like sweat.
Until this moment, his life had been relatively easy: his father’s apprentice since he was t
welve; supporting himself as a custom jeweller by the time he was twenty. He was a lucky person, an exceptional person. Even his arthritis diagnosis had seemed beside the point at first—a little pain in his hands, in his knees, now and again. Big deal. He was an artist. He loved the process of ring-making—the magic of it. The moment the plaster cast exploded in the water and revealed the ring inside.
“Asleep all day?” said Lewis.
“I mean, more like napping. My car—my car’s been in the driveway—maybe one of the neighbours?”
“Okay, we’ll ask. Is there anyone Vera might be with right now? Anyone you can call?”
Denny picked up the bottle of bourbon, then set it down. “No. What is happening?”
“Gusev—is that a Polish name?”
“Russian,” said Denny. “It means goose. Funny, yes?”
“Does your wife ever go to Squire Point with a friend, a companion?” The dog had trundled back into the room and put his muzzle on the policeman’s knee.
“Scout,” said Denny. “Scout, come here.” He patted his leg and Scout slunk over and sat on Denny’s feet. “I don’t know what to say right now. No.”
Denny felt a knot of pain forming in his chest, and, unable to fight it, let a few tears drop from his chin onto his pants. “I love my wife,” he said to the floor. “Please, I don’t know what is happening.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Goose?”
“Gusev.”
“Gusev, I’m sorry.”
“I’m a goldsmith.”
“A goldsmith, Mr. Gusev?”
“Jewellery—I’m a custom jeweller. I have a studio at the back—where I do my work—I—listen, I’ll level with you. I should have been in my studio all day. I’m on this deadline. Lately I can’t make myself go out there until the evening—I don’t know why—I enjoy my work—”
How a Woman Becomes a Lake Page 2
