For the first ten feet, Rakmen used the paddle like a pole and shoved them forward. Stink rose from the rotting stuff at the bottom in bubbly explosions, but after a few more pushes, they slid out of the lily pads into deeper water.
Rakmen put his paddle in a stranglehold and reached forward with it. After a few strokes, the canoe veered off to the right. He switched sides, sending water drops in an arc above him. After another minute, they veered drastically the other way, and his arms hurt.
“People do this for fun?” he muttered, rubbing his arms.
Behind him, Jacey continued beating the water with her paddle. The canoe revolved a full three-sixty. This was worse than learning to drive a stick shift. While they fishtailed in slick zig-zags across the water, a breeze caught the canoe and blew them halfway across the main body of the lake. Each gust brought a new smell—pine pitch, wet earth, something spicy like cloves—and carried them toward the cabin with the tongue-like dock.
No matter how Rakmen paddled, the canoe shimmied erratically across the surface. He wanted to turn around and get back to shore, but waves sloshed against the sides of the canoe, pushing them along.
Looking up to gauge the distance to the dock, Rakmen saw a stout, gray-haired woman in jeans and a red sweatshirt emerge from the tongue house and walk down the steps to the dock. Again, Rakmen tried to control the direction of the canoe, paddling first on one side and then the other. Nothing he did changed their course.
Panic swirled through him. If they crashed into that dock, they’d flip for sure.
“Hey, kids!” the old woman yelled. “What do you think you’re doing? Stop paddling.” She crouched on the warped dock with more grace than Rakmen expected and caught the bow of the canoe before impact.
“Get up here,” she growled, sliding the canoe parallel with the dock.
Jacey clambered out, and Rakmen followed. The woman nodded to him, indicating he should take one end of the canoe. “Let’s pull it up on the dock so the waves don’t damage Leroy’s precious canoe.”
That done, she sat heavily on a metal lawn chair with frayed nylon straps and scrutinized them. Her eyes glittered deep in a leathery face. Rakmen took a step back, feeling like a worm about to be snapped up. The end of the dock was at his heels. Jacey squeezed in close. The nylon of her life jacket swished against his side.
The old woman’s eyes flicked to Jacey. “Quit chewing on your hair,” she said. “Leroy said you had manners.” Jacey gaped at her. “And close your mouth. You,” she said, rounding on Rakmen, “are in the wrong damn place.”
“Um . . .” Rakmen floundered for words. “You mean, like, trespassing?”
She laced her fingers together, flipped them around palm out, and pressed forward until her knuckles gave a staccato series of cracks. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, like, um . . . in like . . . the canoe.” Rakmen’s eyes narrowed, but before he could think of a comeback, she unlaced her fingers. “Neither of you has a clue what you are doing.”
No good comeback for that either. It was true.
“Does Leroy know you stole his best canoe?” she asked, peering at them.
Rakmen stiffened. “I didn’t steal it.”
“He told us to come here and have a good time,” said Jacey, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet, “so I figure he meant the canoe too. Keeps me out of the leeches.”
At that the old woman leaned back in her chair and chuckled. “You’re a funny one. I’m Edna Brackton, and I’m guessing you’re Miss Jacey Tatlas.”
“Yup.”
“Leroy said you’d keep me on my toes.”
Jacey squinted at her. “But you’re sitting down.”
Edna laughed again and spit off the side of the dock. “Who’s the tall guy?” Rakmen wondered what Leroy would have to say about her manners.
Jacey grinned. “Rakmen.”
Edna snorted. “Rock Man? That’s a weird name.”
“Whatever,” he shrugged.
She squint-eyed him. “Well, whatever, I’m going to teach you how to paddle. This canoe,” she said, stroking its graceful curves with one finger, “deserves better.”
Her gibe reverberated in his head, as if she could see right through him and already found him lacking. From the trees behind Edna’s cabin, a bird burst into an exuberant, rising trill. Edna whistled back. Instantly, the bird responded.
“You talk bird,” said Jacey. “That’s so cool.”
Edna flashed her a smile, and not a sarcastic one either. “White-throated sparrow.”
Jacey nudged him. “Write it down.”
Edna waited for him to do something.
“What?” he asked.
“What?” she mimicked.
“Alright,” he said to Jacey, pulling out the notebook and pencil. White-throated sparrow. “Now let’s go.”
“No. I wanna stay. She talks to birds!” Jacey said in a whisper half the lake could hear.
“Smart girl,” said Edna, derailing his exit strategy, “Let’s turn you into a paddler your Great-uncle Leroy won’t disown. Put the canoe in the water,” Edna commanded, pointing at him. He glared at her. She smiled back placidly.
Jacey tugged on his elbow. “Come on,” she pleaded. “I want to know how to do it right.”
“I’m not gonna say please,” said Edna, “if that’s what you’re waiting for. Either you want to know how to paddle right or you don’t.”
Rakmen looked away from her. It was a long way back. He and Jacey had only ended up here because of the breeze, which was still blowing in the wrong direction. Between Edna’s dock and the cabin were a hundred opportunities to drown.
With Jacey’s help, he lowered the canoe into the water.
Edna presided from the lawn chair. “Hold the gunnel. That’s what we call the edge of the canoe.”
Rakmen curled his hands around the raised rim of the boat.
“First you have to know front from back,” said Edna. “Look at the seats.”
The two seats bolted under the gunnels were made of woven cane strips in a wooden frame. One was mounted only a few feet from the pointy end of the canoe. The other was much closer to the wooden bar in the middle of the boat.
“That’s the bow,” said Edna, pointing to the one with plenty of space. “The front. The lightest person sits there. The rear end is called the stern. That’s where you sit,” she said to Rakmen. “Get in,” she said to Jacey, who hop-stepped into the front of the canoe, sending it into a dangerous tilt.
“Weight in the middle,” Edna snapped. Jacey crouched. “Rock Man, put your hands on the dock and support yourself while you slide your butt into the middle. Keep your weight low.”
When both of them were settled, she handed Jacey a paddle. “You—bow paddler—you are the power. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Always the same side. Always the same pace.” Jacey nodded.
“And you—” The woman’s head swiveled, owl-like, toward him. “You direct.” She slashed an arm straight down, ending poker-straight and pointing west. “Here.” She karate-chopped down again, now pointing ninety degrees from the first direction. “Or here. You decide direction. J-stroke and go there.”
“J-stroke?” Rakmen asked, wondering if she would karate chop him next.
The woman snatched the paddle from him and turned on the dock so she was sitting alongside the edge and facing the same direction as he was.
“Like this.” She grasped the rounded handgrip of the paddle in her right hand. Her left encircled the paddle shaft down near the blade. Leaning forward a little, she pointed the paddle in front of her with the flat blade facing the sky. She pulled it through the water until it was pointing straight down at the bottom of the lake, then she bent her wrist sharply. Rakmen watched as the paddle blade scooped the shape of the letter J in the water.
“Watch again.”
They watched. Jacey, her face crinkled in concentration, started to put her hair in her mouth, but Edna glared at her, and she dropped it.
“The end of
the stroke pushes the water away from you. You use the water.”
“O-kaaay,” Rakmen said. Watching this backwoods Yoda paddle from the side of the dock hadn’t exactly cleared everything up.
“You try it now.” Edna thrust the paddle at him, untied the canoe, and pushed them off before either Jacey or Rakmen could argue.
“I am the power. I am the power.” Jacey muttered to herself in the bow. She bent to the task of pulling the blade through the water on the right side of the canoe.
Rakmen took a stroke on the left. Immediately the canoe veered right.
“J-stroke,” Edna called.
He bent his wrist and banged the shaft of the paddle on the side of the canoe with a horrible clunk, but the canoe straightened. He tried again, this time putting more muscle into it. The canoe veered left.
“Too much!” Edna yelled from the dock.
Rakmen eased off the J part of the stroke until he found the exact amount of wrist flick that balanced Jacey’s stroke and kept them straight.
“Ah-ha! The Rock Man does it!” the woman crowed from the dock.
Jacey stopped paddling and grinned over her shoulder at him. The canoe immediately veered right again.
“Hey you, Power,” the woman yelled. “Do not stop!”
Jacey redoubled her efforts, showering him with water from her frenzied paddling.
“Hey!” yelped Rakmen.
“Sorry,” said Jacey, through panting breaths. “Can’t stop now.”
Rakmen directed them straight ahead for twenty feet before adding extra wrist and turning the canoe toward the left. After another twenty feet, he turned again. They were pointing back toward the house.
“How do I turn the other way?” he hollered.
“No J,” Edna called back.
He went back to a plain stroke and sure enough the canoe turned right in a wide graceful arc. The lake stretched out before them, sun-dappled and twinkly. Rakmen could see the rocky point where they had eaten dinner. Tall pines at its crest swayed in the breeze. Crisp, woodsy smells swirled past him.
There was some pattern to it all that he couldn’t quite grasp. It was as if the sweep of the canoe drew everything together. A union of sky and water, stone and tree. There was order. Rakmen felt it but did not understand the way the pieces fit together.
CHAPTER 15
When he and Jacey skimmed to a halt at the dock, Edna beamed at them, and Rakmen couldn’t help but smile back.
“Stay here a sec,” said Edna, stumping back into her cabin.
Jacey waggled her eyebrows at Rakmen. “I’m the power! Did you see that? Did you see how fast we went?”
“Yeah, you did good.”
Jacey glowed at him.
“Here ya go,” said Edna, returning with a squashed yellow box of Nilla wafers.
“Oooh. Yum. I love these,” said Jacey, taking a handful and passing the box back to Rakmen. He crunched into a cookie, reminded of his mom’s banana cream pie. “That was so super!” Jacey jabbered. “Did you see how fast we went? My arms hurt a little. I like—”
“Listen,” Edna cut her off, pointing to the shoreline down from the dock. Loud rustling punctuated by breaking twigs erupted from the forest. Rakmen stared into the bushes at the edge of the lake, crushing a forgotten Nilla wafer in one hand.
A huge shape was pushing through the branches.
Jacey grabbed at his sleeve.
“What in the—?” Rakmen muttered.
The shape emerged into sunlight. Not a bear shape or a moose shape. It was a canoe. Upside down. With legs. An arm snaked up over the top of the canoe and flipped it to the ground. A mud-splattered, bearded sasquatch of a man slung off a heavy backpack and began mopping sweat off his forehead with a wadded bandana.
The man threw back his head and drained his water bottle. When he was done drinking, he wiped his face with the back of his hand. Catching sight of them, he waved.
Jacey waved back.
Rakmen elbowed her. “Don’t encourage him. He’s probably homeless.”
Edna busted into wheezing laughter.
“What?” Rakmen demanded.
Tears leaking from the sides of her eyes, Edna waved him off with one knobby hand. The crazy man loaded his canoe and sat on the bow seat facing backward. Within seconds he was skimming toward them, single-handedly propelling the canoe in a straight line.
“How’s he doing that alone?” Rakmen asked.
Edna’s laughter abated. “It’s all in the J.”
“Hey, there,” said the man when he got close enough. “Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?”
Edna nodded.
“Are you lost?” Jacey asked.
“Lost?” he chortled. “No way! I am living the dream.”
Rakmen shifted on the rough boards of the dock. The guy looked like a meth head.
“How long you been out?” Edna asked him.
“Two weeks on trip. Now I’m heading straight for the boat landing and a double-scoop ice cream cone for breakfast.” He leaned into his paddle stroke, the muscles in his back straining against his sweat-stained shirt. His beard shook as he grinned at them.
“Enjoy,” said Edna as he skimmed by.
“I want ice cream for breakfast,” Jacey whispered, awed into something like silence.
Rakmen watched the man paddle away. “What did he mean on trip? Like acid?”
Edna gaped at him, and then started laughing so hard she hacked up a glob of mucus. “On trip means canoe camping. That portage—the trail—it leads to a string of wilderness lakes.”
“In the woods?”
“Of course.”
“That’s nuts. Why would anyone want to do that?”
Edna cracked up again, bending over her knees and shaking in her lawn chair. “You are a city boy, aren’t you?”
Rakmen bristled. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, I guess not,” said Edna dryly, “if you’re into that kind of thing. Me, I prefer the woods.”
Rakmen watched the man paddle across the shifting surface of the lake. One moment it reflected cloud white and sky blue, the next a hundred different shades of green. The man didn’t look anything like a meth head, Rakmen realized. He didn’t jitter or twitch. He didn’t look like he was about to jump out of his own skin.
And he didn’t look homeless either, in spite of the unkempt hair and the grime. He wasn’t a man who’d been chewed up and spit out. The bearded man paddled like home was a canoe, and he knew exactly where he was going.
. . .
It rained on and off—mostly on—for six days. Jacey had taken pictures of every piece of crap in the cabin—twice. Rakmen marked time in his notebook.
Tuesday: five mice.
Rain = even more mosquitos.
Cat piss stink in the woodshed. Leah says maybe bobcat. WTF?
Thursday: three mice.
Leech on canoe after we paddled to Edna’s.
Will she ever stop talking?
Sandwiches. Mold on the bread.
Friday: three more furry corpses.
Everything smells like rot.
Leah stayed in her room most of the time reading and rereading a book called Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. When Jacey asked her if it was about Thanksgiving, Leah had answered, “It’s about trying to make sense of the world.”
“Sounds boring,” said Jacey.
Sounds pointless, thought Rakmen.
Jacey found a box of ancient art supplies. A pad of cotton drawing paper, yellowed around the edges. A box of pipe cleaners in brown, green, and orange. A tray of dried and cracked watercolor paints. Drawing pencils. When she slathered bright smears of paint in the shape of turtles and rocket ships, it reminded him far too much of the basement at Promise House.
Only he couldn’t leave after an hour.
Rakmen texted Molly and then paced the room trying not to text her. He read a battered booklet from the 1950s on how to thrive if confined to a bomb shelter for extended periods of time. Preparation
is key! A Boy Scout manual on fishing from the same era depicted cheerful white boys crouched by streams and lovingly placing trout in wicker creels.
They both rummaged through the drawers and shelves filled with the detritus of Leroy’s life. Rakmen found a folding knife, still sharp as anything, with the initials RJP on the handle.
“Who do you think this belonged to?” he asked, opening the blade and running a finger along it.
“Don’t know,” said Jacey. “Uncle Leroy’s last name is Thoms. So he’d be LT.”
As Rakmen replaced the knife in the drawer, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grinned to see Molly’s name on the screen.
Guess what? she texted.
You’re taking me skydiving when I get back?
Mom’ll love that. Guess again.
He racked his brain for the most high-risk sports he could think of. Scuba diving? Ice climbing? Base jumping?
She doesn’t let me walk around the block alone.
He set down the phone and felt the concrete setting up around his limbs. It always came back to the damage. Every joke, every chance they had to break free, Promise House caught them and held them. He wondered if he’d made her cry.
Rakmen swept up the phone again. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be a dick. I can’t guess. Tell me.
One of my drawings won an art contest.
!!!!!!!!!!!!! Of course it did! You’re amazing!
*Blush.*
Truth!
“Hey Rakmen,” Jacey said. “Check this out.”
Jacey’s bugging me about something, he typed. Catch you later?
Yes! You must save me from utter boredom. :-)
He couldn’t help smiling as he tucked the phone into his pocket.
Jacey was standing by the fishing lures holding up a pocket-sized notebook. “It’s like yours.”
“What’s in it?”
“I dunno. A code or something.”
Rakmen took it from her and flipped through the pages. Neat rows of tiny print filled line after line.
10 July 1959, 4 lbs 2 oz, 4 colors, silver Williams, w/ RJP
17 July 1959, 2 lbs 14 oz, 3.5 colors, black rooster tail, w/ RJP & EDB
The log began in 1958 and continued through 1977. Sometimes there were additional notes about weather or water conditions. Sometimes there were other initials, but mostly it was RJP and EDB.
The Way Back from Broken Page 9
