by Will Weaver
“You took them in?” my mother said, her voice rising.
“That’s right,” the big man said easily. “A nice big place like this, just sitting empty—hell, there was room for two families.”
My mother narrowed her eyes in her I’m-counting-to-ten mode.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said to the people in our cabin. “I don’t care if the sheriff is your uncle, your brother, or the Pope. I suggest you start packing.”
… “Daddy do we have to leave again?” one of the children whimpered.
“Shhh!” Ruth said.
… “Tell you what,” my father said.... “There’s no rush here—as long as we all understand what needs to be done.”
… We walked down the steps … and back up the driveway. It was like we were zombies. Sarah blurted. “They just can’t take our cabin. People can’t do that!”
… “Let’s give them some time,” my father said.
Miles jerks awake—grabs for his gun.
“All good,” his father says quickly as the van rolls along. He pats Miles on the arm.
They pass the campground where they stayed the night after the squatters drove them off, then in another half hour they arrive in Walker. The Dairy Queen is still closed for the winter. He tracks it with his eyes as they pass.
“Too bad!” Sarah says to Miles. “You were hoping that girl would be working.”
“What girl?” Miles asks.
“The one who flirted with you when we stopped for ice cream,” Sarah says. She’s slumped in her seat but at least is paying attention to where they are.
“Girl?” Miles scratches his head in fake puzzlement. Art and Nat look at him with concern.
“The one with big brown eyes who was, like, way out of your league,” Sarah adds.
“Oh, that one,” Miles says.
Then it’s south through the pine forest and lake country on Highway 371, and after forty minutes Artie signals and turns into a motel parking lot. It’s a local, indie type of motel with a 1950s front and a few older “cabinettes” behind. Each numbered door has a dusty truck or car parked up close; at least half have flat tires, and some have curtains over the windows or newspaper taped to the glass.
“Where are we?” Sarah asks quickly; she has been dozing again.
“The Bradford Inn,” Nat says. “I called ahead just to make sure we have a place to stay tonight. You know, in case …”
“I’ll be right back,” Artie says with a nod to Miles to stay with the van.
As they wait, they look at the shabby motel.
“The Bradford Inn,” Miles says in a fake radio announcer’s voice, “your best choice for a fun-filled family vacation.”
“Right,” Sarah says.
Artie comes out of the office. “We’re set,” he says. “At the Bradford Inn, cash is king.”
“So we have a room reserved?” Sarah asks.
“Actually, a little cabinette,” Artie says, nodding to the rear.
“They look smaller than Mr. Kurz’s place,” Sarah says.
“But they do have running water,” Nat says. “Right?”
Artie nods as he accelerates down the highway. “But don’t get your hopes up for staying at the Bradford. Tonight we’ll be back in our own place.”
Miles shoots a sidelong glance at his mother, who looks scared.
In another twenty minutes they turn off the highway and start to wind along Gull Lake, which is mostly hidden through the trees. Every driveway has a gate or a chain across it, along with at least one NO TRESPASSING! or POSTED—KEEP OUT sign. Miles’s stomach tightens—and so does his grip on the shotgun—as they near the narrow, curving driveway to Birch Bay.
Artie glances in the rearview mirror, then slows to a stop on the road by the old mailbox they know so well.
A chain lies limp across the driveway. In thin snow, a single dark motorcycle track crosses the downed chain.
“Damn,” Artie breathes.
“They’re still here,” Miles says.
Sarah swallows. “Now what?” she asks.
“Let’s just turn around and go,” Nat says.
“But Danny’s not around—at least not at the moment,” Miles says.
“How do you know?” Nat asks.
“The chain is down, and there’s his track,” Miles replies; he glances behind, down the narrow road.
“Which means he’s coming back,” Nat says.
“Exactly,” Art and Miles say at the same time.
“The chain!” Art says to Miles—who throws him a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m there,” Miles says.
It takes them only minutes to get ready, to set their trap. Danny has had the chain strung between two oak trees, one on either side of the road, but two small trees—one pine, one aspen—are perfect: They are small enough to give, to bend, plus they are closer to the driveway entrance. Danny will be slowing but still rolling along nicely. With that the chain will suddenly be pulled tight and motorcycle high.
“I don’t know about this,” Nat says. “You don’t want to kill him.”
“It’s not going to kill him,” Miles says.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Sarah says.
“Guess you’re outvoted,” Miles says to his mother.
“So what do I do?” Nat asks.
“And me?” Sarah adds.
“You two are backups,” Artie says. “If Miles and I screw up and he sees us, your job is to get us out of here.”
“Shoot a couple of rounds in the air, then come driving up fast,” Miles says.
“We can do that,” Sarah says, glancing at her mom.
Nat swallows. “I just don’t want you getting hurt!” she breathes. She’s white-faced.
“Not to worry,” Miles says.
“We’ll have the side door of the van open,” Sarah adds. “In case you have to dive in.”
“Now you’re talking,” Miles says.
“Okay, tell me where to park,” Nat says, sliding behind the wheel.
“Up ahead just around the corner. Be turned around so you’re ready to roll,” Miles says.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be ready,” Sarah says as she lifts her shotgun.
They wait less than an hour for the rumble of a Harley. Artie signals to Miles, who ducks lower behind a tree trunk. He and his father crouch out of sight and have the chain ready to jerk Danny’s bike.
Miles’s heartbeat is thrash-punk fast by the time Danny comes into view on his long-forked bike. He gears down once, then again as he nears the driveway entrance. Swiveling his head, he looks suspiciously at the van parked up the road at the same time as he turns into the driveway.
Artie and Miles yank the chain upward and give each end a quick loop around a small tree. The chain spans the driveway chest high. Danny is looking to the side and never sees the chain, which clangs on his bike handlebars, then catches him in the chest and strips him off the Harley like an invisible hand swatting a fly.
Thoomp! goes Danny on his back onto the frozen ground; his bike rolls on crazily into some brush, where it tips over, roars briefly, then dies.
Miles and Artie hurry forward. Miles holds his shotgun on Danny just in case, but the biker lies on the ground gasping for air.
“Are you alive?” Artie asks as he crouches over him.
Danny makes noises and lifts his arms one at a time to make sure they work. “Not sure.” He groans.
“Too bad,” Artie says.
Danny blinks and blinks as if he can’t place his attackers.
“The Newells?” Art says. “We live here, remember?”
Miles puts the muzzle of his shotgun in Danny’s face; the biker’s eyes go crossed as the steel eye closes in on his forehead.
“Don’t shoot me!” Danny groans. “I’m injured. I think I broke some ribs.”
“It might be better to put you out of your misery,” Artie says. He looks at Miles, who shrugs as if that would be simpler.
“Please,” Danny s
ays. “We’ll pack up! We was thinking about leaving soon anyway.”
At that moment the van with Nat and Sarah comes up fast and skids to a stop.
“The rest of the Newell family,” Art says as Sarah and Nat hurriedly get out.
Sarah stands over Danny. “You remember me, don’t you?” she asks.
He looks at her blankly.
“Well, I remember you!” She kicks his leg.
“Oww!” Danny says.
“Sarah, what’s wrong with you!” Nat calls, and pulls her backward.
“My sister, Sarah,” Miles says to Danny with a shrug. “You don’t mess with her these days.”
“I need to sit up.” Danny groans.
They drag him upright and over to a tree; legs outstretched, he slumps back against the trunk. His narrow, snake-like eyes fall on Miles’s shotgun.
“That ain’t the gun I gave you,” he says.
“I needed something with more stopping power,” Miles says.
Danny’s gaze flickers back and forth between the Newells. “You was just a bunch of city folks the last time I saw you. Now you’re all gunned up. What do you think you’re gonna do, shoot me?” he says to Miles. A hint of scorn creeps back into his voice.
“We don’t necessarily need guns,” Artie says. He produces his shiny trimming axe, turns to face a tree, and throws it end over end. Thunk!—the axehead buries itself in the wood.
Danny’s eyes widen.
“So here’s the deal,” Artie says as he retrieves his axe. “We’re going to go down to the cabin and have a talk. Your job is to tell everyone that you’re all leaving—today.”
“We got nowhere to go!” Danny says. He is not so injured that he doesn’t try for sympathy.
“Yes, you do,” Artie says, stepping forward.
Danny looks suspiciously at him.
“Do you know the Bradford Inn up on Highway 371?”
“Yeah,” Danny says sullenly.
“That’s where you’re going. There’s a cabinette waiting for you,” Artie says. “It’s reserved in our name, but you can have it.”
“I ain’t got money to rent no cabin,” Danny says.
“We’ve already paid for two weeks. That’ll give you time to figure out your next move.”
Danny narrows his eyes. “Why would you do that?”
“Because we’re not you,” Sarah answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SARAH
THEIR TAKEOVER OF BIRCH BAY is not complete until big Danny and his wife, Sheila (the woman who gave Emily to Sarah), and their two kids have loaded their stuff into the rear of the van.
“Well, I guess we all survived the winter,” Sheila ventures as she pushes in one last duffel bag.
“As if that makes things all right?” Nat says to Sheila; Nat is slowly getting her edge back.
“What happened to that family who you took in?” Artie asks. “They had little kids.”
“I don’t know,” Sheila says with a dark glance to Danny. “One morning we got up and they were gone.”
Danny shrugs, then winces and holds his ribs.
“And Emily the goat—how’d she work out?” Sheila asks Sarah.
Sarah swallows. “Fine.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Artie says quickly to Danny and Sheila. He steers Danny to the passenger seat, where he settles in with a groan.
“Be careful, Dad!” Sarah calls to Artie.
“Don’t worry,” Sheila says, “he’s not going to cause any more trouble—are you, Danny?”
Danny lowers his chin like a beaten man.
“And anyway, we got your Harley,” Miles says.
“We’ll come back for the bike when he’s in riding shape,” Sheila says as she buckles Danny’s seat belt.
Danny winces. “Be careful!”
“Buck up,” Sheila says. “You had a worse wreck down in Sturgis that time.”
And with that the van pulls away.
“We’re way too nice to those people,” Sarah says.
Back inside the cabin, they survey the damage. There are ashtrays full of cigarette butts everywhere, but the loon art is still on the wall, and the piece of driftwood she found when she was five—the one that looks like an exploding star—is still on the fireplace mantel. The place is messy and stinky but not wrecked. Not like Mr. Kurz’s place when they first arrived.
“Well, I guess it’s cabin-cleaning time,” Nat says.
“Again,” Sarah says with fake sarcasm.
“Hey, the electricity is even on!” Miles says. He flicks a light switch on and off; the wagon wheel light fixture flashes brightly.
“I wonder who paid the power bill,” Nat says.
“Probably Danny’s wife,” Art says.
“My cell phone charger is in the van!” Sarah says.
“Another hour without it won’t hurt you,” Miles says.
“Shut up, Miles,” Sarah replies.
“Children!” Nat says. “I hope we’re not falling back into our same old patterns.”
“You mean like everybody taking a long shower every day, and using up lots of electricity?” Miles says as Nat heads toward the bathroom.
“Hot water and soap are not a bad thing,” she calls back.
“Yeah, Miles!” Sarah says.
But he has turned to look at himself in the mirror. It’s an antique, with slightly smoky glass and a frame of birchbark; he leans closer and squints at himself.
“What?” Sarah asks.
“I … could use a haircut.” It’s as if he was going to say more but doesn’t.
“Well, I could use a total makeover,” Sarah says. She pulls off her wool sweater, then sniffs it.
“You’ve already had one,” Miles says, glancing at her in the mirror, then again at himself from another angle.
“Gee, thanks, bro,” she says.
But Miles doesn’t reply. He keeps staring at his face in the mirror.
The next week goes fast and slow. It takes two days of washing the walls with vinegar and water to get rid of the cigarette smell. Another full day on the window glass and log furniture; some of the cushions have so many cigarette burns and wine stains that they have to be thrown away.
Artie does the bathroom, Nat the kitchen.
“Pigs,” Nat says, her voice muffled by a bandana over her mouth; she is on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor; the soapy water in the pail is dark brown.
“We’re getting there,” Sarah calls. For the first time in her life she doesn’t mind cleaning; her towel squeaks across the clean window glass. Beyond are leafless trees and the dull gray ice of Gull Lake—but dead-looking ice is a good thing: Spring is coming.
By Wednesday (it feels strange to look at a calendar again) the lake ice honeycombs and starts to melt; by Friday big sheets of it break apart and grind against one another from a warm southern breeze. It’s her favorite sound, one she remembers as a kid—that tinkling, crushing, grinding sound when the ice begins to move.
On Saturday Sarah waits anxiously for Ray and his dad to come and retrieve their van. Artie and Nat have bought a used vehicle in Brainerd, a generic minivan not unlike the O’Keefes’—the kind she would not have been caught dead in back in the suburbs—so now they at least have wheels. They offered to drive the O’Keefes’ van back north, but Ray saw a Craigslist ride to Brainerd.
And anyway, I want to see Birch Bay, he texted.
Sarah and her father drive to Brainerd and wait at a gas station, where they are planning to meet Ray and his dad.
Ten more miles!!!! Ray texts. Sarah’s stomach does its own little ice-out dance, but she tries to stay cool.
Artie glances up at the gas station signs. “Ten bucks a gallon. I hope it stays that way,” he remarks.
“Why?” Sarah asks. She squints down the highway. There are only a few cars, and soon one of them has to be Ray’s.
“People will drive less, and our country can stop getting into wars over oil.”
“Uh-huh,”
Sarah says distractedly.
N I have a present for U2, Ray texts.
“Maybe the volcanoes will finally make us go green,” her father says, but she hardly hears him because an older car pulls in, with Ray’s smiling face in the side window.
“That’s them,” Artie says.
“Where?” Sarah says as if she hasn’t noticed.
Herb and Artie shake hands. Sarah and Ray give each other a brief, totally casual hug, then stand around looking at their fathers. Ray is holding his ever-present sketch pad.
“Thanks again for coming down,” Artie says. “Let’s head over to Birch Bay and get you your van back!”
“We got along just fine without it,” Herb says.
In the rear seat, Sarah and Ray hold hands. “Drawing stuff on the way down?” Sarah giggles.
“Nope. But I’ve been drawing a lot lately. My best stuff,” he says; his eyes shine.
“Show me,” Sarah says.
“Not here,” Ray mouths.
They make small talk on the ten-minute ride, and soon the cabin is in sight.
Ray looks out the window. “Just like I imagined it,” he said. “Kind of old-school.”
“Belonged to my father,” Artie says.
Inside the cabin, a birch log fire crackles, and there’s the smell of fresh cookies.
“Miles! How are you doing?” Herb asks immediately, and comes over to shake his hand.
“I’m sorry—do I know you?”
Herb pauses, then laughs.
Miles doesn’t. Sarah glances at him. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when Miles is joking, which is the worrisome part.
“My neuro-shrink says I’m ninety percent there,” Miles says. He shrugs as if he doesn’t quite agree.
“With you, ninety percent is plenty,” Nat says.
“I’d say so, too,” Artie says.
As the adults talk, Sarah nods her head to Ray, and they slide away down the hall, toward the kids’ bedrooms.
“So let’s see,” she says, her gaze on his sketch pad.
He swallows as if he’s suddenly shy. “I hope you’ll be all right with this,” he says, and opens the wide pages.
She sucks in her breath. “It’s me. In the sauna!”
Ray is silent. She turns to him; his face is both excited and apprehensive—as if she might be angry with him.
Her eyes go back to the page. “It’s really good,” she says. “But was my back that sweaty?”
