by Ann Tatlock
“I know you’re not,” John said. “Still, you need to have an adult with you when you come out on the water.”
“But I’m an adult now, Dad.” Billy’s protest was pained, his voice almost a whine. “I’m eighteen now, and that makes me a grown-up.”
John wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally he said, “Give yourself some time, son. You’ll get there.”
“No.” Billy shook his head. “I can drive the boat, but not alone. And Mom thinks I’ll never drive a car. I tell her, some people with Downs drive a car, but she still says no. I’ll never be independent the way Beka is.”
What Billy said was true, John reflected. Though Billy was far more competent than many people with Down syndrome, he would still never be completely independent. But John decided to let the subject drop. He didn’t want worries for the future infringing on the afternoon.
“Hey, Billy,” he said, “hand me some water out of the cooler, will you?”
Billy dug into the small cooler with one hand and pulled out a bottle of water. He handed it to Phoebe, who handed it to John.
John wedged the bottle between his feet while he reeled in his line. “Well, the fish aren’t biting, so I think I’ll just enjoy the ride for a while.”
“But we aren’t going anywhere, Daddy,” Phoebe said.
“Exactly.” John unscrewed the bottle top and took a long cold swallow. “You kids need to be drinking some water too. It’s hot out here.”
“It’s even hotter when you’re wearing a life jacket,” Billy noted, pulling at the padded orange canvas around his neck.
“Yeah, Dad. Can we take them off?” Phoebe asked.
“Not a chance,” John said. “You keep them on.”
“You know it’s no use asking, Phoeb,” Billy said. “You know what Mom always says. She says everyone has to have one on, no matter what.”
“Smart lady,” John said, nodding.
“But I’m a good swimmer,” Billy went on. “Better than you even, Dad.”
John thought of the Special Olympics medals lined up on the windowsill in Billy’s room. “Can’t argue with you there. Still, let’s not take any chances.”
Billy frowned. He appeared to be in thought. Finally he said with a shrug, “Okay. Mom says it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“That’s right, son. Anyway, it’ll cool down as the sun begins to set. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Billy handed a bottle of water to Phoebe and got one out for himself. John watched the kids fish quietly for a while before a passing motorboat jogged his memory of Billy’s struggle to get their own outboard motor started. “Hey, Billy?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“You always have trouble starting the motor?”
“Not always. Sometimes she starts right up. Sometimes, like today, it takes a while. When Uncle Owen gave us the boat, he told us the engine was finicky.”
“Yeah,” John muttered, “no wonder Owen got rid of it.”
“What’s that, Dad?”
“Nothing. Listen, when we can afford it, we’ll buy a new motor, all right? No, we’ll buy a whole new boat.”
“Really, Dad?”
“Really.”
“All right!” Billy slapped his knee and laughed happily.
“Someday,” John continued, “we’ll have a whole new everything. New boat, new cars, new house.”
“Yeah!” Billy agreed. “A house with more than one bathroom.”
“Right.”
“And where the toilet doesn’t always get clogged up,” Phoebe added.
“Yeah, that too.”
And nothing, John added to himself, nothing they owned would be from Owen. Not one thing. John was home now and these were his kids, and he was going to take care of them without the help of his brother-in-law.
After a moment John said, “Hey, Billy? Phoebe?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“What, Daddy?”
John pushed the words past the ache in his throat. “I love you guys.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
John nodded. It was all sweeter than he had dared to dream.
Thirty minutes passed as they floated on the surface of the lake, the boat a cradle, the breeze a lullaby. They caught no fish and John was glad; it would have broken the serenity. If this was it, John thought, if this moment was the whole of his life, he would be satisfied.
It was starting to get dark, and clouds rolled in over the lake, casting shadows on the water, letting loose small drops of rain.
“Let’s head back,” John said. “We don’t want to get caught out here in a storm.”
Billy nodded and reeled in his line. “Mom says, first sign of rain to get out of the water. She says it can get bad pretty fast, and you sure don’t want to be in an aluminum boat like this if there’s lightning.”
“That’s right, Billy. I think your mom has taught you well.”
John helped Phoebe lay the fishing rods on the floor of the boat while Billy pulled up anchor. He watched as Billy stood, opened the fuel valve on the motor, and pulled the starter cord. The motor roared to life on the first try.
“I did it!” Billy yelled excitedly, waving a fist in the air.
John gave him a nod and a thumbs-up.
Billy smiled broadly, then hollered over the roar of the motor, “Last one home’s a rotten egg!”
He steered the boat around to the south and headed toward home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rebekah slapped the steering wheel with both hands, then pulled the key out of the ignition and stormed back into the cottage. The place was deserted. In the few minutes she’d spent in the Jetta talking on her cell to David, everyone had disappeared. She’d been late already when he called. Now Lena and Aunt Jo were going to start wondering where she was.
“Dad!”
“Upstairs, Beka,” he hollered.
Just as he answered, she spotted her mother standing on the dock, watching Billy and Phoebe swim. For a moment she forgot her anger, forgot everything as she watched her mother clap for Phoebe, who had just dived like a champion off the end of the dock. Rebekah remembered her mother cheering her on once, just like that. But that was a long time ago, when she was a child.
She let out a breath, then stomped up the stairs with an exaggerated heaviness, her sandals slapping against the bare wood. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered.
“What’s the matter?” her father asked.
He was sitting in that tattered old chair by the window, the one with the antimacassar draped over the back. The granny chair, she called it. Her dad looked kind of silly in it, sunk down as he was in the cushioned seat, an open book in his lap. He must have thought so too, judging by the look in his eyes. You’d think he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.
“Beka?” he prodded.
“My car won’t start,” she told him.
He nodded slightly, almost smiled. “You mean that old rattletrap from Uncle Owen?”
She frowned at his comment, shook her head. “Well, yeah, whatever. It won’t start.”
“What’s it sound like?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you turn the key, what’s it sound like?”
“It doesn’t sound like anything. Nothing happens.”
“Must be the battery, then.”
“Oh great.”
“Did you leave an overhead light on or something?”
“No. I don’t know. I mean, I was sitting in the front seat with the door open for a few minutes, if that’s a problem.”
“All right, Beka, don’t worry. We’ll give you a jump. You going to work already?”
Rebekah shook her head. “I’m off today. I’m going over to a friend’s house.”
“Oh? Hey, you know, I’ve been home for weeks, and I haven’t met any of your friends yet. Why don’t you bring them over here?”
Rebekah thought she might explode. Th
e last thing she wanted was to introduce her friends to her father. The only thing she wanted right now was to get out of here. “Listen, Dad,” she said, “can you just give me a jump or whatever so I can get going? I’m already late.”
He gazed at her a moment—a little sadly, she thought—then closed the book in his lap. She noticed for the first time what it was. And yet she asked anyway. “What are you reading?”
“Well—” He looked down at the book, as though he had to check for himself. “It’s a Bible I was given while I—”
“Why are you reading that?” Her words sounded sharper than she had meant.
“Well, actually, Beka,” he said quietly, “I’ve been thinking I should tell you about—you know, what happened to me in prison. I haven’t been very good about sharing all these things with you and Billy and Phoebe. I haven’t even been very good about reading the Bible since . . .”
He seemed to realize then that she wasn’t really listening, because he stopped talking. Silence fell over the room. Rebekah was aware only of the giant weight of fear in the pit of her stomach.
“Dad?” she whispered. “What is it, Beka?”
“Do you think there’s evil in the world?”
He seemed to wince at that, as though it pained him to answer. “I know there’s evil in the world.”
“But there isn’t supposed to be. There’s . . .” She didn’t know how to go on. Aunt Jo had explained it all, had told her and Lena how evil was only an illusion and not really there at all. Everything was one, and it was all good, but beyond that Rebekah couldn’t remember how Aunt Jo had explained the part about evil.
Her father was waiting for her to go on. “What is it, Beka?” he asked again.
“Do you think—” She stopped. She could hardly believe she was going to ask her father this question, but she had to ask somebody. She had to know. “Do you think we can put a curse on people?”
“A curse? What do you mean?”
“I mean, like, if you cast a spell that might hurt someone, do you think it would work?”
Her father seemed to think about that. Finally he said, “Listen, honey, in prison I came up against everything you can imagine. One of the guys there was into voodoo. He was forever ripping up his bedsheets to make dolls out of them to put curses on people. Finally the guards made him sleep without sheets.”
“So he’d stop putting curses on people?”
“No, so he’d stop ripping up the prison’s sheets. That kind of stuff costs, and the warden doesn’t like it when the prisoners waste money.”
Rebekah cocked her head and eyed her father sideways. “So did he ever put a curse on you?”
“Yeah, he did. He thought I cut in on him in line once, when I really didn’t. But that’s a big thing in prison, especially when you’re in the chow line, which we were. I heard that night through the prison grapevine that he’d put a curse on me.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No. A few days later he was transferred out of the prison and taken somewhere else.”
“Are you saying there’s nothing to any of this stuff?”
He laid the Bible on the bed, kept his hand on top of it. “Well, I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask, but I really don’t think so. Why do you want to know?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I just—I saw a movie. Yeah, there was a movie about that sort of thing, and it got me thinking.”
“Oh.” He tilted his chin, seemed to study her. “I think you watch too much scary stuff. It gives you nightmares. I’ve heard you wake up screaming more than once.”
“Um, yeah.” She tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “Well, I’ve got to get going. Can you . . . ?” She nodded toward the stairway.
“Sure.” He stood. “I think your mom has some jumper cables in the Volvo.”
Ten minutes later the Jetta was purring. Rebekah, behind the wheel, watched as her father pushed the hood closed and then disconnected the cables from the battery of her mother’s car.
Cables still in one hand, he leaned his other hand on the sill of the open driver’s-side window. “How far you going?”
“A couple miles.”
“Well, listen, take the long way. You need to run this thing for a good twenty minutes. I suppose this is the original battery?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, we’ll have to get you a new one. Along with everything else around here. When we can afford it.”
She frowned. “Yeah, okay.”
He took a step back, started rolling up the cable.
Rebekah reached for the shift and put the car in reverse. She kept her foot on the brake and squeezed the wheel with both hands.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the jump.”
“Sure thing, Beka.”
She wanted to say something else, but she wasn’t sure what it was. And then the moment passed.
“Well,” her father said, “have a good time at your friend’s.”
“Yeah.” Her hands relaxed; her foot let up on the brake. A certain longing hung at the back of her throat. “I will,” she said quietly.
She backed the car down the graveled drive, looked for traffic, eased out onto the road. She traveled around the lake for twenty minutes, trying unsuccessfully to erase from her thoughts the image of her father standing there alone by the cottage, one hand raised in a small wave as she drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“It’s about time you got here,” Lena said as she swung open the front door.
Rebekah looked beyond her friend’s shoulder as she spoke. “Sorry,” she said. “I—my car wouldn’t start.”
“So how come you didn’t call?”
“I was busy. I mean, my dad and I—we had to jump the car and all. The battery was dead.”
“Yeah? Well, I called you. Didn’t you hear the phone?”
Rebekah’s jaw tightened. She had heard her cell phone go off, but she’d ignored it. “I told you I was sorry,” she said. “I would have been on time if the battery hadn’t died.”
“Uh-huh. I thought maybe you were chickening out on me.”
Rebekah drummed up the courage to look Lena in the eye. “Listen, Lena,” she said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Lena’s mouth grew small, but at the same time her face seemed to soften. She stepped aside and nodded toward the hall. “Well, come on in.”
Rebekah took a deep breath and stepped inside. Lena shut the door, then led the way down the hall to the kitchen.
Aunt Jo’s cottage was one of the newer ones on the lake, large and airy. The first time Rebekah visited, more than a year before, she’d simply walked from room to room, taking in the open spaces and the sunshine streaming in through the many large windows. While the place was unfamiliar, she felt oddly at home, almost as though she belonged there. Something about the cottage, she told Aunt Jo, made her happy.
Aunt Jo had been pleased. She had worked hard, she explained, to arrange everything in the cottage so that the energy would flow freely through each room, bringing balance and harmony. Rebekah had no idea what Aunt Jo was talking about, but in the months ahead, she would learn.
Rebekah and Lena entered the kitchen, where Aunt Jo was wiping the center island with a dishcloth. “Well, there you are, Beka,” the woman said warmly. She smiled, laid down the dishcloth, and pulled Rebekah into a hug. She was tall and willowy, so thin there was hardly anything there to hug, thought Rebekah.
“We were beginning to wonder,” Aunt Jo went on. “Anyway, I’ve just put a loaf of bread in the oven, so why don’t we sit at the kitchen table while it’s baking. I have some fresh lemonade in the fridge. Does everybody want some?”
Aunt Jo was a pretty woman, though she preferred what Lena called “the natural look.” She used little makeup—maybe a dab of powder and blush, but nothing at all to highlight her eyes or color her lips.
She didn’t bother either to wash the gray streaks out of her otherwise dark brown hair, which she generally pulled back into a simple clip at the base of her neck. She most often, as now, wore a solid color cotton blouse and a long billowy skirt, the hem of which reached almost down to her slender bare feet. Her one indulgence was jewelry, which she wore a lot of. She seemed especially fond of weighty earrings that pulled on her lobes and tickled the sides of her neck. She also wore a variety of necklaces, bracelets, and rings—several at once, as though she couldn’t settle on one or two. She even wore ankle bracelets and toe rings.
Her features were fine and even, her skin amazingly smooth except for the deep laugh lines around her eyes. That was what Rebekah liked most about her—the ready smile, the quick and easy laugh. She seemed to be in love with the world and everyone in it. The only exception Rebekah knew of was Aunt Jo’s former husband, who had left her alone and childless some years before. She supported herself as a buyer for a department store in the next town over, though she earned a little extra cash reading tarot cards for clients on the weekends.
As much as Rebekah liked Lena’s aunt, her stomach churned now as she watched the woman pour lemonade into tall, narrow glasses. She wished she hadn’t come. She wished she had just kept driving in circles around the lake. She didn’t want to talk with Aunt Jo about what had happened. She was here only because for more than a week Lena kept bugging her until she agreed to come.
When the three of them settled at the kitchen table, Rebekah thought she might be able to steer the conversation toward small talk. But Aunt Jo plunged right in. “Well, Beka,” she said, “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“She’s not our friend,” Lena interrupted.
No, Rebekah’s mind echoed, she’s not our friend. Rebekah didn’t like Jessica Faulkner, had had thoughts of her—no, it was wrong even to remember. She pursed her lips and shut her eyes for a moment. She had to be careful what she thought. Thoughts had power. Thoughts could change things.
“Well . . .” Aunt Jo paused and took a sip of lemonade. Then she looked at Rebekah. “Lena tells me you think it’s your fault, that you somehow brought about the accident.”
