The Lake, the River & the Other Lake

by Steve Amick

  She suddenly sounded like such an idiot. “What is that—like ‘You’re not the boss of me’? What are you—twelve?”

  She gave him the finger, then turned and began to walk away. Then she stopped and said, “My stepbrother’s flying in from Chicago, okay? He got invited to something out at Noah’s Ark? Noah Yoder, the, like, zillionaire? He wasn’t going to come, but now, ’cause the weather’s clear, he is. It’s the weather. I have no control over—”

  “No. Of course you don’t.” It came out cold and hard and he didn’t care. He was pissed and she should know it.

  She stepped closer again. “So now the weather’s my fault?” She was looking at him now, directly at him, and he couldn’t take it. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stared down at his boots. Hell, he’d spent a couple hours last night just hunting down his hiking boots and now he was stuck in Weneshkeen for the day with nothing to do and hot feet. “You understand?” She reached out and touched his bare arm.

  “Whatever,” he said, though he didn’t want to. He wanted to stand tall, give her the thousand-yard stare. “He’s a pilot, your stepbrother?”

  “Not like you,” she said. “Not that kind of pilot.”

  He wasn’t sure if this was a jab at him. He wasn’t sure if it made any difference. He watched the ponytail whip around as she turned; watched it bob like a fishing jig as she marched off down the riverwalk.

  “YOU AND ME, Ass Boy. We’re up.”

  The name barely registered anymore. Keith had been calling him Ass Boy nonstop since Courtney’s first note and either he was starting to say it in a more friendly way or it was just growing on him.

  Keith was still futzing with the clipboard, reading the vessel name, as Mark stepped out of the pilothouse and saw Courtney’s honey-colored ponytail swinging and the back of a curly-haired man in whites and shades. “Ski boat with a Chicago registry,” Keith said. “The Chickenhawk.”

  He hadn’t seen her for two days—not since she’d walked off in a huff on the riverwalk. They’d probably already spotted him, but Mark retreated into the shadows anyway, pulling Keith back with him, and the two of them peered out around the doorjamb like they were on a stakeout or kids playing capture the flag up in their treehouse.

  The boat looked like something James Bond would use to leapfrog the ramming enemy—it was liberally dosed with red-and-black pinstripes at rakish angles and plenty of flat surfaces upon which to bang all the exotic, slicked-hair, SCUBA-wearing goddesses that attached themselves to such a boat like those bug-eating birds on hippos whose name he still couldn’t recall. They were down there, the deck bobbing low below the pilothouse, and Courtney was giggling and swatting at the guy, who was acting, halfheartedly, like he might just throw her in the Oh-John. Mark decided it was just the stepbrother. At least he hoped it was, or else it meant Courtney now had a much older boyfriend.

  “I remember this clown,” Keith said. “Guy’s always taking teenaged girls out skiing. I think he’s the guy knocked up one of the Brablec girls, the younger one.”

  Mark had no idea who that was, but didn’t doubt it. “Listen, how old is he, you think? She says he’s her stepbrother.”

  Keith squinted out the dusty Plexiglas pane that was held in with bent finishing nails. “He’s about my age, I guess. Late twenties maybe.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What’s the problem, buddy?”

  Keith had never called him buddy or anything remotely close and at first Mark didn’t register that he was being addressed. “I don’t want to just stand there, being all redundant and useless.” It felt as if all the air had escaped his lungs. “I’ll feel foolish. Just you go ahead without me, okay? Please?”

  Keith shook his head. “She already saw you. Isn’t she going to wonder why you’re hiding in here?” Still, he seemed to be considering. “If we knew him, we could just let him pass. Both of us stay here.”

  “Yeah! Do that.”

  “We can’t, really.” Keith didn’t elaborate but Mark knew it was because the guy wasn’t a local and so didn’t get the consideration; the wink and the wave. Keith reorganized his crotch a second, apparently mulling the situation over, then said, “Relax,” and stepped out on the pilothouse deck, squinting up and down the river as if checking to see if they were being watched. “Hey, folks? Listen, we’re not supposed to play favorites or anything, but on account of you’ve got this . . . inside track with one of our best and all . . .” He yanked Mark out into the light and thumped him on the back. “We’re going to let Mark here give you the special treatment.”

  Other than the first four days on the job, when he’d shoved him into the water repeatedly, and a couple finger flicks and pokes here and there, this was the first Keith had ever touched him. And it seemed like he was actually trying to help, not put him on the spot, but Jesus, soloing was out of the question. Mark started to object. “Keith—”

  Keith clamped one hand on his shoulder and spun him around, facing away from the boat and speaking low. “Deep breaths, kid. Focus here. Here’s the deal. Guy’s a show-off. He’s absolutely not going to hand the helm over to you. That’s not a worry. So it’ll just be navigation. Just call out the map. You know it fine.” And he patted Mark’s shoulder, saluted with a grin and went back into the pilothouse.

  Mark had no choice but to board the boat alone. He said hi to Courtney and she gave him a little stone-faced wave, a mere waggling of the fingers—didn’t move to kiss him or grab his ass, her standard greeting. He tried to tell himself it was because he was on the job and she was trying to show some respect and restraint. She was standing right beside her stepbrother at the helm, sort of leaning on his forearm as he gripped the wheel. Keith was probably right: he wasn’t going to have to do anything but call the map. Mark stood on the other side of the stepbrother and tried to focus. With his curly hair and Naugahyde tan, the guy, Mark decided, looked like a certain game show host from the seventies whose name escaped him. Up close, he could see now that her stepbrother really was quite a bit older than him. And older than Courtney. He seemed more like an uncle and the thought reminded him of Courtney’s uncle, the famous artist he’d never heard of who made comments about her chest and wanted her to pose nude for him. What a family she had.

  The guy grinned at him and doffed his stupid Thurston Howell captain’s cap. “Whenever you’re ready, Mark Twain.”

  Mark signaled for him to start it up and they began to pull away from the mooring, creeping along. After a few slow yards, the stepbrother announced, “I hate this fucking river.”

  Courtney swatted the guy’s hairy forearm. “Well, I like it! You get a pretty view of the town.”

  “It’s no fun when we can’t open it up. I notice your nipples get hard when we really open it up.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Seriously, now that’s a pretty view.”

  “Shut up!” It was like squealing now.

  Mark felt like he was interrupting, but he had to call the map. “Your first obstruction,” he said quietly, repeating the words that made him feel, suddenly, like nothing more than a glorified tour guide, one of those poor slobs—the docents?—at the art museum in Detroit that got the spiel canned in their head, “is coming up about fifty feet to your starboard side. A minor obstruction. Depth: about five meters.” His own voice sounded funny to him, and he was afraid they’d pick up on it. He wished he didn’t have to speak to them at all.

  The stepbrother suddenly eased off the throttle and turned to Mark, all teeth. “You know what? Long as you’re aboard, why don’t you just take the wheel?” He was backing away now, hands in the air like a stickup victim.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said. “It’s a township thing, you know? If it was up to me—”

  “No, no! Seriously. I’m serious. You know the waters much better, I’m sure. That’s why you have the job.” He removed the Thurston Howell cap and jammed the damn thing down on Mark’s head. “Perfect,” the guy said, gave him a quick salute, and joined
Courtney in back, sliding his arm around her.

  It was just what he’d feared; just what Keith had assured him would never happen. But Courtney was looking at him funny, her lip starting to curl, and what else could he do? He took the wheel. It was stressful enough, the sheer “here-take-control-of-the-space-shuttle” aspect of it, this great rumbling beast itching to lurch ahead of him, never mind the giggly distraction going on right behind him. Take it easy, he told himself. Focus. He hated that he had to throttle back so much. Not only did it make him look like a wuss, but he could hear almost every stupid thing they said. The guy was loud, the kind of dick that comes into town and really lets you know he’s there. A loud-talking guy with a big braying laugh. A jackass laugh. Maybe it came naturally to the guy, but it sure felt like he was putting it on, belting it out loud and clear to needle him. It would be so much better if he could open it up and drown him out with the roar of the giant twin inboard.

  They were talking about her duties as Miss Sumac Days and all the events she had to get ready for. “You know what I hear about sumac?” the guy was saying to her. “My understanding is you’ve got to pick it when it’s very fresh. Young sumac, that’s the good stuff.” He said it like it was the dirtiest thing in the world. “Delicious. Very juicy and tender and ripe. What I like is sumac pie. Taaaaaayyy-sstee!”

  She was actually giggling at this, acting like the guy wasn’t the major creep he obviously was, saying, “Oh, Brad, cut it out! You stop! There isn’t any such thing and you know it.”

  “Sumac pie? Oh yes there is. Yum, yum.” It had to be for Mark’s benefit because the guy kept sneaking little peeks over at him. In checking bearings fore and aft, Mark caught him looking at him. He was sure of it. Eye flickers and sidelong glances, but the guy was watching him.

  He wanted off the boat; he wanted to throw the stepbrother off the boat. He wanted to ram the boat into a snag, scrape the anally polished railing against the drawbridge pylons; he wanted to demonstrate flawless navigation skills and arrive at the end unscathed. He wanted to cause a scene; he wanted to get through this little trip unnoticed and forgotten. All that, all at once.

  Courtney kept slapping her stepbrother on the chest, kept saying, “Oh, stop. Quit your teasing!” like she was some sort of Southern belle, I-declaring in a voice that echoed back off the high retaining walls. But she was also saying things Mark couldn’t make out so well, whispering and biting her lip cautiously and looking around the boat as if checking to see if anyone was listening.

  This, Mark decided, was the worst summer job of all time.

  51

  A TRANSCRIPT FROM THE RADIO SHOW Loveline:

  DR. DREW: . . . Mark in Michigan, sixteen . . . “Girlfriend wants sex all the time” . . .

  ADAM: Mark?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Hi.

  ADAM: You’re sixteen.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Yeah.

  ADAM: Girlfriend’s got a one-track mind, huh? And this upsets you?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Uh-huh.

  (Pause.)

  ADAM: You gay?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: No.

  ADAM: Hmm . . . Well, I’m tapped out. Drew, you got anything?

  DR. DREW: I’m wondering if this is one of those “I’m sixteen and I’m having sex” calls.

  ADAM: You mean a “someone is letting me climb on top of them” call. He’s just calling to brag?

  DR. DREW: Maybe.

  ADAM: You’re getting that vibe because why—he doesn’t really have a question?

  DR. DREW: That’s part of it . . .

  ADAM: What about that voice, though—he does not sound like he’s having a very good time. Either that or he’s stoned.

  DR. DREW: Nah.

  ADAM: Mark, are you stoned?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: No! I’m just—

  ADAM: ’Cause you sound out of it, buddy.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: I’m upset.

  DR. DREW: Yeah, he’s not stoned. It’s not that hasher voice, it’s—

  ADAM: He’s just not having a good time. Okay. Well, why not? What’s going on?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: I’ve been dating this girl since the summer started and we have sex, no problem, but it seems like that’s all she cares about.

  DR. DREW: Are you sure she’s your girlfriend?

  (Long pause)

  ADAM: Ooh. Dr. Drew, everybody, dropping the Tough Love bomb!

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Like I say, she has sex with me—a lot—it’s just the other stuff—like hanging out and just talking and going out in public. She never wants to go on a date date and the sex is always sort of crazy. So, I guess she’s my girlfriend, only we just don’t do any of that other stuff.

  ADAM: The “other stuff” being the stuff that would mean she was your girlfriend.

  DR. DREW: Mark. You two have a service agreement. But she’s not your girlfriend.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Yeah, but we’re having sex.

  DR. DREW: Right. We get that. You’ve made that clear.

  ADAM: Crystal!

  DR. DREW: But that’s it, right? It’s just sex. You say you don’t talk about anything . . .

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Well, we do some stuff together. Only it’s not normal.

  DR. DREW: What kind of stuff?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: She likes to do stuff we shouldn’t be doing. (Whispering.) Like, okay, one night we broke into this house . . .

  ADAM: Whoa.

  DR. DREW: To steal? Are you guys doing drugs?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: It wasn’t to steal, it was just to . . . go in there and have sex there. For the excitement or whatever. No one even lives there. And no, I don’t do drugs. Really. And I’ve never seen her do drugs . . .

  ADAM: That’s B and E, brother.

  DR. DREW: Makes for a nice date.

  ADAM: Personally, I usually save my criminal trespassing for anniversaries, birthdays. Yeah, I like to keep it special for my lady.

  (They laugh.)

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Yeah, but, guys? The thing is, she’s only interested in, like, doing it after we do something to get in trouble or almost get in trouble. It’s like it gets her in the mood. It’s not always something like breaking in somewhere, but it’s still gotta be like on the beach or on a roof or . . . She went down on me at the movies—stuff like that.

  ADAM: Well, gee, I thought you never did anything in public together. That’s—

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: I just mean like a normal date. We didn’t even watch the movie.

  DR. DREW: What happens if you try to have sex with her, say, in bed, with the door locked, in a house . . .

  ADAM: That you own.

  DR. DREW: Yes. Some place where it’s not “danger sex”—where there’s no prospect of getting busted or interrupted or caught. What happens then?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Nothing happens. We don’t do that. She says it’s boring.

  DR. DREW: She told you that?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Basically.

  ADAM: This chick is sixteen?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: I’m sixteen. She’s seventeen.

  ADAM: Well, hell, she’s an older woman, Mark. How can you hope to relate when she’s in a totally different place in her life like that? Sixteen and seventeen? Come on!

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Yeah, I know, but we’re really only a few months apart.

  ADAM: Nope. It’ll never work! Never! It’s that generation gap there, Mark.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Yeah . . .

  DR. DREW: I think Mark’s got more of an irony gap.

  ADAM: Those older women are crazy, man! Right, Drew?

  DR. DREW: It’s interesting: this is the sort of behavior we maybe fantasize about in a girlfriend, especially in adolescence, but that’s the fantasy here, Mark. This is not an age issue, okay? Or really, it is sort of an age issue: she shouldn’t be like this at this age and she has issues. At seventeen, if she requires this kind of extreme, extreme stimulation, just to not get “bored,” there’s something going on.

  ADAM: Somebody monkeyed with her
?

  DR. DREW: Maybe. Or there’s an addictive gene here. She’s definitely got some energy.

  ADAM: Well, she’s a thrill-seeker, right? It’s danger sex. Which is like a drug, maybe.

  DR. DREW: Oh, very much so.

  ADAM: Which is exciting and sexy in theory. In an adult woman . . .

  DR. DREW: But a seventeen-year-old girl acting out like that, something’s up.

  ADAM: Right . . . Mark? Where’s daddy?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: My daddy?

  ADAM: The girl’s daddy.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: Right this second, I’m not sure. He lives in a bunch of different places, I guess. He’s here sometimes, but—

  ADAM: Say no more. Dad-of-the-Year, it sounds like. Christ.

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: No, really. He’s okay. He’s like a bigshot in Chicago. They’re very well off.

  ADAM: Oh, okay. As long as they’re loaded.

  DR. DREW: And by the way, a “bigshot” doesn’t mean he’s raising her right.

  ADAM: Drew, let me ask you something. Have you ever met anyone you would describe as a “bigshot” who you would also turn around and describe as a “really nice guy”?

  DR. DREW: Never. You’re starting to become sort of a bigshot . . .

  ADAM: Thank you. I rest my case. You wouldn’t call me a “nice guy,” would you?

  DR. DREW: Oh no! Not at all. Mark? Any chance she’s been abused in some way? Obviously, you’re describing some possible abandonment, but does he physically punish her, maybe?

  ADAM: You think the bigshot knocks her around, Drew?

  MARK IN MICHIGAN: It’s not like that. All I’m saying when I say “bigshot” is she doesn’t live in a trailer or anything. They’ve got a big boat and—

  ADAM: Oh that’s good, a boat. So if he ever knocked her around, she’d just fall off the side, into the water. Nice.

  DR. DREW: Much better situation.

  ADAM: Well, it’d break her fall, see? A trailer, that’s a whole different can of worms. You whale your kid through the side of your double-wide, that’s at least a sixteenth-inch of corrugated aluminum siding and then a sheet of three-quarter particleboard she’s got to go through. Maybe an asbestos firewall, too, if it’s an older unit. That could do some damage. Worst of all, now you gotta go to Home Depot.