by Lisa Wingate
The kid nodded, mumbling,“My aunt Megan’s coming.” Looping his arms on the table, he slid lower and let his forehead rest on his fists. “I guess.” The last words wallowed between his face and the Formica. Pop Dorsey gave a sympathetic look and shook his head, frowning.
“I’m not letting you go until somebody shows up for you.” It crossed my mind to wonder whether Dustin had faked the phone call. Maybe he thought if he held out long enough, I’d just give up and let him walk out of here. He could waltz on home and act like it had been a normal day at the lake. Hey, Mom, what’s for dinner?
“I know,” he muttered.
I watched him a minute longer. Didn’t look like he cared whether anyone came for him or not. “I’ve got your name and address.” I took a step closer, figuring the easiest thing would be to take him on home and talk to the mom or dad. “Let’s just head on over there and be done with it, son.” The address he’d given me was in a gated community on Larkspur Cove that had been there since not long after the lake was opened to the public. Back in the day, Larkspur Estates was the place to be. The lots were old and large, and the houses sat up high, with a view of the whole county and long walkways down to private boathouses. When we were kids, we used to row over to the cove in our johnboat and drift along the shore looking at the rich girls and wishing they’d look back.
“Nobody’s home.” The kid lifted his head, then let it bounce off his fists like a tetherball, over, and over, and over. That had to hurt.
“We’ll just wait here, then.”
His shoulders inflated, then sank, and he shook his head, his face still buried in his arms. “I cannn-tell my mom-mat-hurfm-sahhh-bout-mrrff-class’n stuff ’m.” The tabletop probably heard him just fine, but all I could make out was a word or two. On my worst day as a potential juvenile delinquent, I wouldn’t have sat there talking to an adult with my face in the table like a kindergartner at nap-time. My mama taught me better than that. The problem was that these days too many kids hadn’t been taught a thing – not even the simple stuff, like how to sit up, look somebody in the eye, and take your trouble like a man. You’re big enough to climb the rope; you’re big enough to take the fall, my daddy always said. Experimentation and hard knocks were the only two schools he had any faith in.You hit the dirt a few times, you’ll learn.
Dustin looked like he didn’t have a clue about hard knocks. He had arms about as big around as number-two pencils, and his skin had been sunburned raw-meat red where it stuck out of his T-shirt. He had about as much business climbing the Scissortail as I did dancing the Nutcracker ballet. Playing Nintendo probably didn’t teach you how far down a body goes when it hits the water with the kind of velocity you get from jumping off a tower like the Scissortail.
“Kid, you want to tell me something, you look me in the eye like a man. Otherwise, just sit there and be quiet.” I flipped the page over in my notebook and started working on the day’s log. No sense taking all the paperwork home. Then again, I probably wouldn’t go home until I had to – too quiet there. I’d hang around the lake, see if I could catch Len running unmarked lines or popping some dove out of season.
It was always a game – finding the guys who thought that if you didn’t get caught for something, it wasn’t wrong. Up until now, I just hadn’t had the heart to go after old Len too much. He’d be easy to catch. You didn’t have to cross paths with Len more than once to know he was a brick or two short of a load. If he had a hunting license, he probably couldn’t read the book that came with it. You had to feel a little sorry for the guys who were poaching so they could eat, though. Catching Len wouldn’t really be any fun… .
Maybe I’d settle for sliding Pop Dorsey’s screen door off the hinges, then hauling it home, putting some braces on the corners, and fixing a new latch.The thing was out there flapping in the breeze again, bouncing back and forth between the doorframe and the wall, making a steady rhythm that’d drive me buggy after a while. Sheila and Dorsey didn’t even seem to notice.
The kid kept lifting his head up and letting it bounce against his hand, making the table rattle between two legs that were missing the metal caps, and about a half inch shorter than the other two. Noisy half inch.
Sheila glanced up from cleaning the warmer in the café area and noticed me checking the lake. “Mart, you see anything unusual over there by the Big Boulders – any strange tracks or anything? Burt and Nester will want to know when they show up to play dominoes. They’re still arguing about what was over there earlier.”
“Didn’t get a chance to look. Busy bringing in this bunch of man-eaters.” I thumbed toward the kid. His leg was jitterbugging against the seat now, making the vinyl squeak along with the table rattling. If somebody didn’t come pick up Dustin soon, I’d have to go after some duct tape.
A sheriff ’s department call came in before the kid drove me all the way crazy. During a traffic stop, a deputy had nailed two guys transporting live alligators in a stock trailer. All four guys had different stories about where the gators came from, and the whole thing sounded like one of those redneck-brilliant ideas that seem good after a few days in the woods and one too many six-packs.
I asked how big the gators were, and the deputy said, “Heck if I know. Big. I’m not getting in there and measuring ’em. Big enough. These fellas are lucky they’ve still got all their hands and feet. They sober up a little, they’ll probably realize that.” As usual, the deputy only wanted to turn the whole thing over, which was typical of the sheriff ’s deputies in this particular county. Looked like my day was about to get a lot more interesting.
I hung up and thought, Now what am I gonna do with this kid? He’d sat himself up and perked an ear my way, listening in on the call about the gators. For about a half a second, he seemed interested, then as soon as I turned toward him, he slouched in his seat, remembering the two of us weren’t friends.
“Son, I’m leaving you here with Pop Dorsey and Sheila until your aunt shows up for you.You don’t move out of this bench until then. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he muttered, looking down at the table again. Now that his friends were gone, he’d lost some of the teenage attitude. Most of them do. You take their buddies away, they’re just scared little kids in bodies they still need to grow into.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”
He fluttered bloodshot brown eyes my way and fidgeted his hands around.
“I’m telling you the same thing I told the rest of your buddies. I don’t know what the bunch of you had in mind for later, but you’re lucky I caught you before y’all dipped into the beer and did something real stupid.”
He nodded but didn’t answer. Hard to say if he was scared or not. Really, the kid looked like he didn’t care if I threw him under the truck and ran over him on my way out.
“You can go on home when your aunt gets here.” No choice about that. By the time I made it to the other end of the county, went through the paperwork to press charges, and figured out what to do with the contraband gators, it’d be the middle of the night. “Your mom or dad home in the mornings?”
“My mom. They’re divorced.”
“You let her know I’ll be by at seven fifteen a.m. to talk to her. You make sure she’s there.” I couldn’t wait to see what kind of mom went with this kid.
“Okay.” He slumped over the table, folding his arms and sliding slowly forward again. I felt a pinch of pity for the kid, but pity wouldn’t do him any good. What he needed was a lesson – the kind that keeps you from doing something stupid, twice.
The rainbows of life come after the storms.
– Anonymous
(via Pop Dorsey, proprietor,
Waterbird Bait and Grocery)
Chapter 5
Andrea Henderson
By the time I made it home to Larkspur Estates, limping along on the spare tire that Rowdy Ray had installed in a torrential downpour, I was damp, dirty, and emotionally numb. Rowdy Ray had been kind enough to send a
text to Megan, letting her know I was all right, but as I entered the neighborhood, my mind spun ahead. My thoughts raced beyond the park and the tennis courts, past the private boat ramp, to the back of Sunrise Loop, where Highline Way jutted over the water on a finger of land surrounded by lake homes aging gracefully beneath cedars, live oaks, and crepe myrtles established long enough to have thick, knobby trunks.
In my childhood, a trip to the lake house had always meant freedom from an overly demanding private school in Dallas, a packed schedule of church activities, social engagements, piano lessons, ballet recitals, mother-daughter luncheons at the Lady’s Club, book reviews, and other activities Megan and I dreaded. The lake house had always been a place to get away from those things, to shuck off the straitjacket.
When Dustin was little, we’d enjoyed family vacations here, but after Karl and I moved to Houston, the lake house was relinquished to the capable hands of a rental agency until Megan’s twins came along and my parents regained their vacation home. Dustin and I were fortunate that it was there when we needed it. The lake house was a quiet place, a good place to heal, except for the pressure of being constantly under my parents’ scrutiny.
As I neared the driveway, anticipating their comments on today’s fiasco, I felt the air going out of me. Next door, two little blond-haired girls – the neighbor’s grandchildren, I presumed – had set up a lemonade stand, the way Megan and I might have in the past.Their sign read, Ansley and Sydney’s Lemonade Copany, sans M. They waved hopefully at me as I approached, then frowned and backed off when they saw where I was turning in. Shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Blue had bought the place last year, my mother had started a dispute regarding property lines and hedges. The Blues now steered clear of us, like all the rest of the neighbors. Sydney and Ansley watched like voyeurs at an alien landing as I parked behind my father’s vehicle, gathered my things, and made my way into the house.
Inside, my parents and Megan were lined up on one side of the kitchen table. They registered surprise at my muddy, waterlogged state and dirty clothes. After apologizing, then trying to make the flat tire sound like a minor hiccup in the day – no sense giving them more ammunition than they already had – I ducked into the utility room to tug on some sweats and pull myself together before returning to the dining area.
The discussion there followed our usual family dynamic – Dad stoic, Mom fretful (dressed for some sort of ladies’ event, judging by the carefully pressed aqua blazer and pants that nicely offset her blue eyes and auburn hair), and Megan, a younger, kinder, gentler image of Mom, trying to mollify, determined that no one should remain unhappy for long. Meanwhile, Dustin sat on a barstool in the corner, his head and shoulders resting against the wall, a glazed-over sheen giving his brown eyes the glassy coolness of denial.
As the discussion of the day’s events oozed forth like meat through a sausage grinder, Dustin focused mostly on the window, then finally mumbled an apology for screwing up everyone’s evening. “It was just, like, a mistake. They came by and asked if I wanted to go out on the boat. I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to have it – the boat, I mean.” His eyes flicked toward me, then held fast, as if he’d remembered that an averted gaze made a story less credible. He’d probably learned that from listening to his father and me.
I can tell you’re lying, Karl. You aren’t even looking at me. Why don’t you look me in the eye and try to tell me this only happened one time – that you haven’t been seeing her for months, maybe even years? Tell me you had nothing at all to do with her divorce. Why don’t you tell me that? See if you can make me believe it?
For heaven’s sake, Karl.You knew she and Charles were having trouble. How could you do this? Have you been letting her buy things for her apartment on the college’s dime? Is that how she’s affording that place … all the nice furniture?
Dustin should never have overheard that conversation. He shouldn’t have witnessed his father trying to lie his way out, begging me not to go public with the truth, warning me that life as we knew it would be over. There was already an ongoing financial inquiry at the college… .
Lately, Dustin seemed to be trying to perfect his father’s art of false honesty. The change was heartbreaking, coming from a fourteen-year-old who’d always been the perfect kid, his days filled with places he was supposed to be – soccer practice, guitar lessons, youth group on Wednesdays, worship band rehearsals, a few volunteer projects through the school or the church. “I tried to call you on your cell before I left, but it wouldn’t go through,” he said.
Mother rolled her chin my way, frowning at me from beneath lowered brows, an expression that laid the blame for Dustin’s mishap squarely on me. “I told you this … this traveling sort of job wasn’t the right thing. For heaven’s sake, Andrea, what is Dustin supposed to do when issues arise, and you’re who knows where, going to some … some appointment? Half of these lake houses are empty during the week. Dustin doesn’t even have anyone to call if there is an emergency.” Mother failed to mention that the lack of neighborly support was her fault. Filing homeowner’s association complaints about trash cans by the curb, bushes not trimmed at least six inches below windows, noisy lake parties, and boats coming up the cove too fast does not a good neighbor make.
I wanted to counter Mother’s question with, Tell me what else I should do, then? I have to work. I have to make a living. Instead, I stuck to the subject at hand. Dustin. “Dustin knew he wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, and certainly not out in a boat with kids I’ve never even met.” I turned my attention back to Dustin, wishing everyone would leave, so I could get to the bottom of this.
“It’s no big deal,” Dustin offered. “I thought it’d be okay.” He glazed over again, as if he knew how the conversation was going to proceed. Next, we would move to a discussion of my reasons for taking the counseling job instead of going to work at my brother-in-law’s bank. Somehow in our family, we couldn’t seem to do anything but repeat familiar patterns, go over the same talking points until they were like overused chewing gum – tasteless and bland.
As usual, the family meeting ended after we’d rehashed all the normal issues.
From the foyer, Dad surveyed the cars in the drive and pointed out that he’d have to take my vehicle and leave his for me.“You can’t be driving around the hills with no spare. I’ll have all the tires looked at while I’ve got it.” He offered his keys, and I gave him mine. No point being stubbornly independent. I had to be at work tomorrow, and I didn’t have a clue where to get a tire fixed.
As Mom and Dad disappeared down the drive, Megan stood with me in the entryway. She apologized for having brought the folks in on Dustin’s mishap. “It just scared me to death when Dustin called. I knew it’d take me forever to get here from Dallas.” She leaned close to me, keeping the conversation between us. In the kitchen, Dustin was sliding wearily off his barstool, investigating the sunburn on his shoulder, sucking air through his teeth when he touched it. “I thought Mom and Dad could get here sooner than I could. If I’d known they were still on the way back from Round Rock, I never would have called them. I tried to head them off after I made it here, but, of course, they came on. I didn’t mean to cause another big, hairy family meeting.”
“I know,” I said, but Meg looked worried, as if she was afraid I didn’t believe her. A past history of intense sibling competitiveness never goes away completely. “Thanks for picking him up, Meg. I’m sorry for the hassle. I really don’t understand what Dustin was thinking.” After nearly an hour of family conversation, I was still confused. “Did you find out what, exactly, he was in trouble for?”
Meg’s slim shoulders lifted, then dropped. “Well, from what Dustin said, one of the kids took the family boat for a spin without permission, and they got nabbed for climbing the Scissortail. When I made it to the Waterbird, the clerk was busy with a tour bus and Dustin was sitting over in one of the booths. He just told them he was leaving and walked out with me. He said the whole thing had been blown
out of proportion by some game warden guy on a power trip.”
She punctuated the sentence with a helpless look. Meg had no experience with teenagers. Her twins, still too little to converse, were no doubt safely home in Cleburne with Meg’s motherin-law, who not only adored Meg but also provided grandkid daycare two days a week while Meg worked at Oswaldo’s bank. Just like everything else about my little sister, her in-law relationships were perfect.
I gave her a hug and thanked her, trying to absolve the guilt I felt for harboring secret resentments. Misery loves company, and my little sister wasn’t very good company. She never had been. She was too good at everything. She was the blue-eyed, petite golden child, and I, by contrast, was the one with my father’s kinky brown hair, brown eyes, and square chin. Growing up, Meg turned heads with her bright smile and auburn locks. She led cheers at the football games, wore the cute little pleated-skirt uniform, and turned all the boys’ heads. Boys aren’t too interested in gangly, flat-chested, clarinet players, no matter how good the band sounds in the stands.
I walked her out and then stood on the path among Mother’s collection of bird-friendly plants and seed feeders. One of the best things about our summers at the lake had always been the birds. Mother adored them. She knew all about them, and being something of an amateur photographer, she loved to photograph them. The interior of the lake house was decorated in bird-related paraphernalia – Mother’s photographs; empty bird’s nests she’d spirited from trees; delicate, colorful feathers carefully pressed into shadowbox frames; tiny eggs no bigger than the tip of a finger, rescued from the grass, painstakingly dried and shellacked for preservation.
The birds were proof in some way that Mother did have a tender side. Beyond that, her study of them gave us something to talk about. Mother could identify each and every type of the enormous variety of fowl that migrated through Moses Lake. Most of our good moments together were spent taking long walks through the woods with binoculars and field manuals. Mother preferred me to Megan for this endeavor. I was quieter, she said.
