by Steve Amick
Not that she really wanted to hang with the local kids down at Scudder Park, slouching around on their bikes and doing nothing all summer, watching the boys build ramps for their skateboards and smoke pot. Totally dumb. She actually liked some quiet and calm and reading a good book in what breeze could still make its way to her from the obstructed lake. She’d become a great reader, thanks to summers in Weneshkeen, and she sometimes told herself that that was what she would do to compensate for not being able to learn a lot of social skills just yet. She’d develop her mind while all the other kids were developing the other, then maybe she’d get into a really good college and be all set in that department and then start learning how to in-
teract more. Then she could have this huge group of friends and the serious boyfriend and all that good stuff, only they’d be super-smart Harvard-y types, not the lowlifes and slackers Alyssa and Chloe met working at the Target back home.
Okay, so it was a pretty lame plan and never going to happen, but what else was she supposed to do? Cry about it? It wasn’t that bad a deal. There were people downstate, Fudgies, who’d pay an arm and a leg to have just one week up here and she got to stay the whole summer. Granted, she lived in a house her grandfather or great-grandfather built that looked like it needed a hound dog out front. And her dad worked on septic tanks and drove a truck that announced this fact. And she worked in a bad tourist trap with creepy old people and had to deal with the bitchy rich tourists and their bratty kids who wanted to sample every piece of fudge before even maybe buying anything. And the local kids acted like she didn’t exist. And her dad just had lake access property, not lake frontage, which was a big diff if the neighbors built something that blocked the view you’d had for only a billion years. But still, it wasn’t like she got sent to Cambodia every summer.
In the garage directly behind her, her dad was either running a compressor or sharpening some of his septic equipment. Judging by the occasional metallic shriek, it sounded like he was putting an edge on one of the bigger auger bits. In between, it was just the wobbly hum of the grinder, spinning free. It wasn’t too distracting—by now she was starting to get used to it. Back home, she had a friend whose dad practiced the bagpipes, so she supposed it could be worse.
But then there was a new sound, in between the grindy shrieks. Someone was clearing their throat, loudly, as if in a bad high school play. She looked up to see Mr. Starkey, the neighbor, coming across the yard in a slowed sort of shuffle that seemed to be a deliberate announcement of his approach. He wore khakis and a Ralph Lauren rugby shirt and gave her an oversized wave like a birthday clown, as if to warn her that he was intruding or something. In one hand, he had a large roll of some sort of papers. A map or blueprints maybe. He helloed like someone in a Western, calling into the house and not wanting to get shot as an Indian. When he got a little closer, he apologized for interrupting her reading and asked how her winter had gone. She said fine and he said good.
“You’re Kurt’s daughter, right?”
“Kimberly,” she said, not sure he remembered. Or if he did, he probably knew her as Kimmy.
“Right. You’re Mark’s age, I think, right?”
She said she was sixteen and he nodded. “Yeah, we called your dad last fall when we were up, right after we finished the game room. We built this addition? Thought you might want to come over and play Ping-Pong with Mark. But he said you were back home with your mother?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Down in Ferndale. She has me all winter.”
“Of course, now it’s not really so— It’s not really Ping-Pong weather and—” He looked distracted, standing over her, glancing around the yard, into the house, then finally down at her again. “Well, you’re certainly getting . . .” He made a gesture lengthwise with the rolled-up papers, following the line of the lounge chair, head-to-toe. “. . . well, long.” She could tell he’d been all set to say tall, but how can you tell tall when the person’s not standing? It was pretty dumb. He probably said that to all teenagers, that they were getting tall. Not Wow, you’ve really grown quite the rack since we last met, haven’t you? But long? That didn’t really cut it.
But he laughed a little, shaking his head, embarrassed maybe, and so she smiled, too. At least the guy was aware he’d said something dumb. He looked away again, beyond her, into the house, asked if her dad was around. She told him to look in the garage, that he was working on his equipment (information that seemed obvious because she’d assumed, with a small sense of dread and discomfort, that he was there to ask her dad to knock off the noise), and he smiled again and told her he’d let her get back to her book.
She held it up again but still couldn’t concentrate, listening as Mr. Starkey went around into the open garage door, helloing again, and she heard her dad shut off the grinder or compressor or whatever that thing was and they started to talk. She kept the book open; a prop.
It was some of the same neighborly junk again. He asked her dad how he’d been, commented on the weather and how she was growing into “quite the young lady,” which made her cringe. Then she heard Mr. Starkey do that throat-clearing thing again and the whole tone seemed to change. “Listen, Kurt, I’m wondering if you know anything about the trees.”
“The trees? In general? I guess I know a birch from a beech, but—”
“The trees that were cut down. The line of trees that used to run along the edge of my property.”
“The poplars? Well, yeah, I thinned those out.”
“You did.”
“Yeah. See, I didn’t have a view of the lake anymore. I used to have a little one, before you built your addition, but then there wasn’t even that little view. So I thinned out that area so there’s at least that little bit still. So we can see down to the lake.”
“Yeah. Well. That’s kind of a problem, Kurt. They weren’t your trees to cut down.”
“’Course they were.”
“Actually, they weren’t.”
“Well, they might’ve been sort of on the line, but they were much more on my side of the line.”
“They weren’t really that near the line, Kurt.”
“Listen.” Kimberly dreaded that tone: her dad was about to get pissy. “There’s stakes out there from the last time I remortgaged. Take another look.”
“I’ve seen the stakes. That was a bank survey, yes?”
“That’s my property,” was all her dad said.
Mr. Starkey ignored this and kept going. “You’re familiar with a stake survey, I imagine, working with septic systems?” There was a rattle of heavy paper, the scrolls he’d carried being unrolled. “You understand, I’m sure, that a stake survey is far more accurate than a lot survey, or a bank survey, which essentially only accounts for the approximate position of the house? Not the actual border of the property? They might leave some stakes in the ground, but it’s not official and it can be pretty far off. So a bank survey’s not a stake survey. There’s a difference.”
“I know the difference. It’s just . . . Stake survey’s never been necessary for most people around here. People maybe aren’t as picky as they are downstate. We all just get along.”
The paper rattled again. “Still, you can see on this that the line is actually a good two and a half feet on your side of the trees. The stumps, I should say now. Yes?”
Kimberly waited for her dad’s answer. It wasn’t quick in coming. In fact, she thought, it wasn’t really an answer. After a long moment, he said, “I’ve always mowed all through there. For years. A good couple yards past where those trees were. You never said nothing. You ever hear of ‘eminent domain’?”
“You can mow my entire lot end-to-end for all the difference it makes. See, Kurt, first of all, ‘eminent domain’ applies to the government. Say they want to build a railroad through here. You’re thinking of ‘adverse possession,’ which carries all the substantive properties of Bigfoot, elves and extraterrestrial life-forms. It’s something people toss around a lot, but it’s pretty much wishfu
l thinking, finding a court that’ll recognize it. It requires a high and varied burden of proof. For one thing, my property would have to have been in a state of abandonment for a very, very long time—since almost back before you could even operate a lawnmower. I’m kidding—a little—but it’s a very rare ruling. It would be like getting a jail term for pot possession down in Ann Arbor. You follow?”
Kimberly heard her dad say he wouldn’t know anything about that, that he never touched the stuff, which she knew wasn’t true. She recognized the tone in his voice though—it was the one he used often with her mom when they discussed her, shrugging things off like he didn’t know or didn’t care, trying to not be agreeable; not offering a lot in the way of helping the conversation along.
Mr. Starkey said, “You could come over and wash our windows even, but that wouldn’t make you the owner of my house, right?”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing that, neighbor. Washing your windows.”
Mr. Starkey chuckled and it didn’t sound to her like an evil chuckle, like a villain plotting their demise. It sounded, she thought, like someone trying to keep it light; diplomatic. He said, “That’s fine, Kurt. Let’s just work out a solution, okay?”
She listened for her dad to say Of course! No problem! to shake the guy’s hand and apologize. Any second he would do just that. Her stomach started to tighten as the moment stretched. Finally, her dad said, “Well, it’s not a big deal.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s manageable. There are few things in life that can’t be undone.” There was the papery sound of Mr. Starkey rolling up the scroll, the survey maps or whatever. “You’ll need to have the trees replaced, of course.”
“What? No, I meant, it’s not a big deal. I mean, look: do you honestly care? They were just poplars. Weed trees really.”
Both men’s voices were growing louder. “They were at least thirty, maybe forty feet high, Kurt. Taller than the house. We’re talking significant alteration of the composition of the yard, the whole house . . . So yes, they’ll need to be replaced with something of comparable height.”
“Get serious!” Something metal clanged down on the workbench, her dad making a point with his wrenches or pipes or something. Yikes . . . She tried to sink lower in the chaise. “You know what it costs to transplant anything over six feet?”
“You might have considered that before you fired up the chainsaw, Kurt. But at least you got some firewood out of it. You can keep that. That’ll defray a little of your cost.”
“I’m not going to replace any fucking poplar trees. It’s not going to happen.”
She couldn’t hear anything for the longest time. She wondered for a second if one had done something to the other, if they’d knocked each other out. All she heard was a distant jet-ski or maybe it was a woodchipper.
Finally, she heard Mr. Starkey say, “Sure it is, Kurt.” He sounded louder, like he was halfway out the garage door.
“How?” Her dad was taunting now, calling out at the man from his workbench. “How’s it going to happen?”
“Let me ask you something, Kurt.” Now Mr. Starkey’s voice seemed to change. He no longer sounded like a neighbor—more like a teacher. His voice got calmer, his words more deliberate. “When your septic tank’s full or there’s something wrong with the line, you handle it all yourself, right? You installed it, you maintain it . . .”
“There’s nothing wrong with my system.” Her dad sounded defensive. “You can look into that all you want. That’s totally up to code.”
“Sure, I know—”
“Or maybe you’re saying now my leach field’s over the line or something? ’Cause you don’t know shit about—”
“No, no. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. I’m sure it’s fine. I understand you’re very good at what you do, Kurt. Everyone says. But I imagine, other than the wholesale cost of materials, maybe a couple extra crew hands occasionally, it essentially costs you nothing to clean out your own septic tank, replace pipes, or any of that, right?”
“What’s your point, Starkey? You wanting me to do some septic work for you in exchange for the trees? ’Cause I’m not saying that I even—”
“No, I want you to replace the trees. My point is, say some guy owned a seafood store—or hell, a lobster boat—and he wanted to throw a big lobster dinner. A big bash for all his friends. That would be pretty easy for him, wouldn’t it, Kurt? I mean, compared to the cost for you or me?”
“So?”
“So you do understand I’m an attorney, right? I have my own practice, my own offices downstate, my own assistants and legal aides to handle a blizzard of paperwork. I can practice anywhere in the state of Michigan. You got all that right? So you understand, it’s as if I own my own law store. It costs me practically nothing to take care of this. Nothing. What would it cost you? Never mind the cost of the trees. Think about attorney fees. What would it cost you?”
“So you’re threatening me, is that it?”
“I don’t need to threaten you, Kurt. I’m in the right here. And eventually, you’re going to have to do the right thing. I’m just trying to explain to you that if I have to make you do the right thing, if you don’t see that I’m right and fix this on your own, unlike you, it will cost me nothing.” His volume grew: he was right around the corner now, much closer, backing up, it sounded like, out of the garage. “Whereas, for you, it’s going to be the equivalent of me having a big problem with my septic tank.” Kimberly tried to look engaged in her book. “Which, by the way, I don’t.”
That was it. The conversation ended abruptly, with the hum of her dad flicking his grinder back on, and then the neighbor came around the side of the house again, stepping quickly across the patio, drawing near as he passed. He moved awkwardly, like someone relearning the use of his limbs. “Sorry,” he mumbled to her this time. “Interrupting your reading and all. Sorry.”
6
THERE WERE A LOT OF FACTORS, but the main impetus for Scott Starkey making some phone calls and getting his son the position on the river this summer was the disheartening conference he and Marcie had had with Mark’s counselor at school last winter. There was nothing wrong with his behavior or grades. Academically, the kid was sharp, an A– student with great scores on the PSAT. In fact, Scott and Marcie were the ones who wanted the conference. They wanted to get a read on Mark’s overall potential as a college candidate while there was still time to adjust some things, before the applications started to go out. And what they heard was not great.
Their son, Ms. Guidi claimed, was not a joiner. He participated in no extracurricular activities, no sports. He was pretty athletic, straight As in gym, but just did nothing outside the classroom. “I can’t even lump him in with any one group, out in the halls,” she said. “He’s not a jock, he’s not a computer nerd, he’s not a theater freak . . .”
At first, it sounded like she was saying his son was a geeky outcast. “But he has friends, right? You’re saying he doesn’t even have friends?”
She smiled gently. “He doesn’t seem to be unliked by anyone, no.”
Scott’s lawyerly impulse was to dismiss any and all advice or speculation made by this woman who used “unliked” rather than “disliked,” but he had to admit to himself, and later to Marcie, in the car, that there was something to this; something he’d seen in his son and perhaps not wanted to see. Something missing or perhaps, hopefully, simply not yet developed. Because there were other signs that he didn’t connect normally or empathize or fit in with others. Not two weeks before, a boy had fallen through the ice on Lake Saint Clair on a snowmobile and drowned, and when the local news showed his photo and said his name, all Mark said was, “Hey, that’s a friend of mine. Weird,” and then changed the channel to The Simpsons. And the thing that still bugged Marcie was that incident back in junior high, when they busted him for vandalizing a playground. He was younger and boys will be boys, but the disturbing thing, they thought, was that he had acted alone. There was no evidenc
e that he was covering up for his friends, unwilling to snitch. He just did it by himself.
