Lake Overturn

by Vestal McIntyre

  Enrique felt a twinge of guilt, but he had to use Gene’s discovery. It made the project complete. The same gas released by the dry ice could have killed all those people, and this fact tied everything into one neat, terrifying box. Gene would never find out. He himself had admitted he didn’t care about the science fair.

  “In conclusion, lake overturn is a serious threat to lakeside communities. We should not rest until scientists have solved its riddles and figured out a way to prevent it from happening again. Until then, how can we be sure that lake overturn cannot happen at Lake Overlook?”

  The group that had gathered broke out in applause. No one had applauded the other projects; the judges had simply thanked the students and moved on.

  “Enrique,” said the veterinarian, “has this lake overturn ever happened before?”

  “Yes. Two years ago, at another lake in Cameroon, the same thing appears to have taken place. Forty people were killed. But what caused it remains a mystery. We haven’t found any other recorded incidents, but, as I said, this phenomenon leaves no trace, so, who knows?”

  “You said ‘we,’ Enrique,” said the mayor. “Who is your partner?”

  Enrique had a lie prepared: “Gene Anderson, but he’s at home with a sore throat.”

  “What is that stuff?” a little kid asked.

  “Dry ice. It’s carbon dioxide in solid form. The fumes you see are actually carbon dioxide gas mixed with steam from the water. At Lake Nyos, it would have flowed in exactly the same way, but would have been invisible.”

  The child stepped away from the model, blindly holding a hand out behind him for his mother’s leg.

  “Thank you, young man,” said the professor. “Very impressive.” He gave the other judges a nod heavy with perseverance, and they obediently followed him to the next project.

  Lina rushed forward and embraced Enrique. “My little genius,” she said. “You did so good.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  “I think you’re going to win, don’ you?”

  “I hope so.”

  Her voice became a whisper. “I didn’t see anyone could beat you, mi vida.”

  April Martinez and Tommy Hess came through the crowd. They were both dressed in tight black clothes and black stocking caps. If it wasn’t for the hand-sewn stuffed-animal bacteria that hung from Tommy and bounced with his every step, they would have looked like a pair of cat burglars.

  “Good job, Enrique,” said April.

  “That was awesome,” Tommy added.

  “Thanks, you guys,” Enrique said.

  “What happens now?” Lina asked.

  “Hold on, Ma. I want to see this.”

  Miriam stood in front of her opened triptych which, in big letters in the center, said EULA RESERVOIR: OUR MISUNDERSTOOD LAKE.

  “Who here has ever water-skied in Eula Reservoir?” Miriam said loudly. “All right, then, who has ever taken a swim in Eula Reservoir? Really? I sure have. Okay, here’s an easy one: Who has ever seen Eula Reservoir? No one? Well, you’re all liars, because you have. In fact, many of you standing here can see Eula Reservoir from your front lawns. You just call it by its nickname, Lake Overlook.

  “In 1880, what we now call Lake Overlook—Eula Reservoir—was merely an empty field in a large cattle ranch owned by Robert Dewey, one of Eula’s founders. It was determined that, in order to make the area around Eula suitable for farming, Walker’s Creek should be dammed about eight miles before it flowed into the Snake River. Robert Dewey sold the land to the city, and the dam was built. This photo shows the dam under construction. It’s really just a fifteen-foot dirt levee. And this photo shows the field that would become Eula Reservoir. You can see that, at its deepest, the reservoir would only be twenty-five feet deep, not even as high as the roof of this field house. Not deep enough for much gas to collect under it.”

  A couple of observers glanced at Enrique, but most missed the reference to his project. Their gazes had already wandered—to wristwatches, to the tables where the lunch ladies were putting out Styrofoam boxes, even back to Enrique’s project. Several of the smaller kids had returned to cautiously put their fingers in the mist that still fell from the diorama. Enrique was enraged and, in spite of himself, intrigued. Where had Miriam found those photos? The landscape looked as old-fashioned as the handlebar mustaches of the men who stood before it with their shovels and picks. Even the sagebrush looked antique, the way it polka-dotted the hillsides.

  “The name Lake Overlook seems to have come about in the thirties, when the city put out a road sign directing drivers to a hill, now part of Overlook Park, where they could enjoy a view of the lake and surrounding countryside. People mistakenly thought the sign was directing them to the lake itself, not the lake overlook. Hence, Eula Reservoir became Lake Overlook. Silly, isn’t it?

  “Now that we have a bit of history, let’s turn our attention to the uses Eulans have put their reservoir to, and to how it affects the environment.”

  The eyes of the judges dimmed in boredom, but Enrique couldn’t savor the sight. He was too angry. The whole purpose of Miriam’s project was to refute his. She obviously didn’t even want to win.

  Eventually, nearly everyone had wandered off. The mayor had his eye on the food table, the professor covered his mouth with his handkerchief, and the veterinarian occasionally shot curious glances toward Enrique.

  “In conclusion, this project is a celebration of the Eula Reservoir. Without it, Eula would have stayed a tiny railroad town and died with the railroads, rather than becoming the vibrant agricultural center it is. Eula couldn’t survive without its life-giving reservoir.”

  The veterinarian picked up a handout from the pile and studied it quietly. It seemed that, after the attention the judges had showered on Enrique’s project, they couldn’t move on without asking a question.

  Enrique broke the silence. “Miriam, how long have you been working on this project?”

  “About two weeks,” she responded in the same chipper voice with which she had delivered her presentation.

  “Interesting,” Enrique said. “So you started after you saw me present mine to the science club.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you, that was my only question.”

  The judges exchanged glances. “Thank you, young lady,” said the mayor, and they moved on.

  Enrique took off his gloves and folded his arms as Miriam, avoiding his eyes, put away her notes and restacked the handouts. “Where’s Cam Pierce?” he asked.

  “Where’s Abby Hall?” Miriam asked. She adjusted the triptych to stand straighter.

  “She had to go to Salt Lake.”

  “Cam and I decided we needed to spend some time apart.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you and Cam are, like, going together?”

  “No, I’m trying to tell you we’re not.”

  Enrique allowed Miriam to continue organizing, but her display was too small for the act to be convincing. Again, she restacked the handouts.

  “Well, I think it’s pretty pathetic that the whole purpose of your project is to prove mine wrong,” Enrique said.

  “Yeah? Well, that’s how science works. If your hypothesis can’t pass the test, then tough—you shouldn’t win.”

  “But I will win, Miriam. I think it’s pretty much in the bag.”

  “You’ll win because you’ve got dry ice and little houses, and because this is just a stupid junior high science fair where no one cares about what’s right.”

  Enrique saw in Miriam’s eyes that Gene had been correct: his project scared her.

  “Right, Miriam? Is it right to base your project on meanness, just to get me back for choosing Gene and not you?”

  “At least mine is scientifically sound, unlike yours. If this were a real science fair, you’d lose.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Miriam—this is a real science fair and I’m going to win and you’re going to lose.”

  Miriam took a big breath. It appeared she
was trying to draw everything in—the tears in her eyes and the words on her tongue. She turned and folded closed her triptych. “Last summer,” she said, “I thought we could be friends. Like, really good friends. But now I can see you’re just a stupid boy like all the rest. You want to play with your little cars and your little houses and smash them all up. Well, go ahead. See if I care.” She unzipped her backpack and threw in the pile of handouts.

  “What are you doing?” Enrique asked.

  “I’m going home.”

  “You can’t go home. It’s not over.”

  “You said it yourself, Enrique—you’re going to win. Why should I stick around?”

  “Jeez, Miriam, you’re such a spoilsport!”

  Miriam said nothing but put on her backpack and struggled to balance the folded triptych under one arm.

  “Quitter!” Enrique said.

  “Don’t be immature, Enrique,” Miriam said. “You want me to stay and cry when you win? Give me a break.” She marched away toward the exit.

  Enrique did want her to stay. But he didn’t want her to cry, he wanted her to apologize. He wanted to win and for everyone to apologize—Gene, his mother, Jay, Pete Randolph—he wanted everyone to take back everything they had ever done to him and say they were sorry.

  “Go home, then, little girl,” said Enrique, at a loss. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!”

  “Screw you, Enrique!” Miriam called over her shoulder.

  Enrique noticed that a few adults had been standing and watching and, maybe, deciding whether to intervene. Lina came up and put her arm around him. “You okay, baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe her!”

  “Let’s not talk about it, Ma.”

  “Okay.”

  They went over to the eating area, where a line had formed. $1 LUNCHES PROVIDED BY CHANDLER BAPTIST, a sign on the table read, and two women in aprons exchanged Styrofoam boxes for $1 bills with exaggerated nods and bright thank-yous. Lina and Enrique took their lunches and sat at one of the long tables. They cracked open the boxes like oysters, slowly, as if they would hold pearls. Instead they found Tater Tots, boiled carrots, and a vivid pink disk of ham.

  When the judges reached the last table, the boy there seemed tired, hungry, and resigned to the fact that his project would be rushed over. He eyed the lunch line as he spoke, as if worried there would be no box left for him. Then, at last, the judges were finished. A teacher led them into a side office where they could eat and deliberate in private.

  “If you don’t mind,” said the professor, once they were alone, “I’ll put my two cents in, then get going.”

  “Of course,” said the veterinarian.

  “Looks like your head is about to pop off,” chuckled the mayor.

  The professor ignored this comment and addressed the veterinarian. “I think we know who the winner is.”

  “Lake overturn,” she said.

  “Little fella is darn bright,” the mayor said in a pleasantly surprised tone.

  “Well, then,” the professor said, “there you have it. I’m going to pass on lunch and go find an antihistamine.”

  He wriggled out of his lab coat as he charged down the center aisle past all the projects, then burst out the front door and breathed fresh air into the whistling, rattling depths of his lungs. Nearby, a group of similarly afflicted parents and children used a communal paper-towel roll to blow their noses and wipe their eyes. And down at the curb Miriam stood, in her strange dress, with her folded display, waiting for her ride.

  THAT NIGHT LINA took Enrique to their favorite restaurant, El Charro, to celebrate. She ordered herself a margarita, which came in a huge, frosty goblet encrusted with salt. “My little genius,” she said, raising her glass.

  She let Enrique have a sip. “Yuck,” he said, and made a face, mostly just to see his mother laugh.

  In the dimly lit dining room, fake vines and colored lights lined stucco arches, and a dusty stuffed parrot hung above the bar. There were paintings on black velvet of bullfighters, guitar players, and large-breasted women carrying water jugs.

  When the waitress, a young woman whom Enrique recognized from church, came to take their order, Lina said, in Spanish, “Enrique won the science fair today.”

  “Ma,” said Enrique.

  “Felicitaciones,” the waitress said.

  “Show her your ribbon,” Lina said.

  “I didn’t bring it,” Enrique said.

  “You got a ribbon?” the waitress said.

  “Yes.”

  “The mayor of Chandler presented it to him—and twenty-five dollars, and he gets to go to State!” Lina said.

  “So, are you using the money to take your ma out for dinner?” the waitress asked.

  “Oh, no,” Lina said. “That money goes toward college.”

  “Are you going to be a mad scientist, Enrique?” the waitress asked.

  Enrique refused to look up as he whispered, “No.”

  “Are you going to be a doctor, then?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Enrique heard his mother gasp, and when he looked up, her eyes were full of tears.

  “I’ll come back in a minute,” the waitress said. “Congratulations, Enrique. You’re a good kid.”

  “Don’t cry, Mama,” said Enrique.

  Lina swallowed, lifted her head, and said, “How about those other projects! Bo-ring!”

  They compared notes on the different projects that Enrique had beaten. The waitress took their order, and soon they were laughing and eating off each other’s plates tamales, carne asada, and cheesy, sauce-soaked enchiladas.

  “April Martinez did a good job with her bacteria,” Lina said.

  “Yeah, I liked that project.”

  “It’s so gross to think about bugs living in your eyelashes.” Lina’s focus seemed to swim a little around Enrique’s face. That margarita had made her tipsy. “Ay, but that Miriam! Can you believe her?”

  “Forget about Miriam, Ma.”

  “Oh, Enrique, you know I don’ like this word, but that girl is a bitch.”

  “Mama!”

  “I can’t help it, Enrique. That’s what she is.”

  “She’s still my friend.”

  “No, she’s not. That girl is not your friend, mijo. Friends don’ do that stuff to each other.”

  “Still . . .” Enrique let his voice trail off. An unexpected tenderness toward Miriam had risen in him after he won, and now he could see that a few of the things she had said were right. Lina was quiet and flushed, and Enrique wondered if she was ashamed of having used a dirty word. Then she asked the question he had been expecting all day: “Enrique, where did you get those little trees and houses?”

  Trying to mask the scrutiny with which he watched for her response, he said, “Abby Hall gave them to me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. They’re her dad’s. He gave them to her to give to me.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty nice. Do you have to give them back?”

  “No, it’s a gift.”

  Lina nodded and chewed.

  “Yeah,” said Enrique, “Abby wanted to come today, but she had to go down to Salt Lake City, since her mom is, like, dying.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew, since you clean their house. Mrs. Hall is super-sick. Abby made it sound like she’s going to die.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that sad?”

  For a moment Lina doubted the truth of what Enrique had said, but then she remembered the last time she had seen Sandra Hall, how worn-down she had looked, how she couldn’t take the noise of the vacuum cleaner. And her makeup! Now Lina realized that Sandra’s eyebrows had been drawn on. She had no eyebrows. All those trips to Salt Lake City made sense now, a different sense than they had before. What was Hall up to? Lina sat in quiet rumination as Enrique finished his dinner.

  “Can we get dessert, Ma
?”

  “Of course, baby.”

  “You seem sad.”

  “I am sad.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would bother you so much.”

  “Of course it bothers me! Why wouldn’t it bother me?”

  “Because, she’s sort of your boss. She’s not, like, your friend.”

  “Enrique! What’s gotten into you? She’s my boss and she’s my friend. Of course I’m going to be sad to know she’s sick!”

  “Sorry,” Enrique said angrily. “Let’s go, I don’t want dessert.”

  “Oh, don’ you pout now. We’re getting dessert.”

  Lina ordered a flan, and the waitress went to the glass-doored refrigerator behind the bar, lifted a tray from where it rested atop the beer bottles, and cut a large piece. “Here, Enrique,” she said, setting it down, “on the house.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Enrique.

  “Now, Enrique, stop it!” Lina said once the waitress had left the table. “No more pouting. We’re here to celebrate.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to look up from the quivering brick of custard before him. Now he was quiet, not out of anger, but because if he spoke, he would cry. He had said those things to provoke and observe a response, but when his mother called Mrs. Hall her friend, it had conjured, for him, an image of a lovely woman in a forest of well-wishers’ bouquets, her voluminous bob a tasteful shade between blond and gray, her emaciated body neatly pinned down under a satin sheet. There was a pale film over her eyes, and she saw not the beautiful room, the flowers, or Abby, who sat at her bedside, but soft-focus scenes from her life: riding horses back at school, climbing the stairs to the cathedral with her twenty-foot train on her wedding day, lifting a silk handkerchief to her eye at the news that she only had a year to live. Enrique wasn’t thick-skinned enough for this type of experiment; his own fantasy overwhelmed him.

  After dinner, they drove home. Lina parked, but kept the motor running. “You go on in, Enrique. I’m going to Saturday night Mass.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.