by Sally Derby
CHAPTER THREE
I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF hammering nearby. Cripes, it wasn’t even full light yet. Who was working at this hour? The hammering stopped, then started again, a little farther away, and I realized—a woodpecker, that’s what it was! I’d forgotten how loud woodpeckers can be. I didn’t mind, though. Thanks to him or her, I’d get an early start on the day. Now I heard other birds stirring and chirping, and the light beyond the screens seemed to brighten by the minute. I lay under the warm covers a bit more, then stretched my arms over my head. Right away goose bumps puckered my skin. I could feel a smile stretch across my face. I threw the blankets off and jumped to my feet, pulling my jeans on in a hurry. Sweatshirt and sneakers, and I was ready to go.
I opened the door to the cottage proper. It was warmer in here, dark and still except for quiet whispers of breath. I tiptoed through to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed the milk carton. I raised the carton to my lips and took long gulps. Naturally I couldn’t do that when Mom was around, but I figured, why dirty a glass—washing dishes up here was a real production. You had to pump a teakettle of water, carry it inside to heat on the stove, pour a pan for washing and a pan for rinsing … you get the idea. I put the milk carton back, grabbed an envelope of Pop-Tarts, and went out into the morning, careful not to let the screen door slam. At the pump I splashed cold water on my face. My toothbrush, along with everyone else’s, was waiting in the cup on the shelf outside the door. But I didn’t see any point in brushing if I was going to eat Pop-Tarts in a minute, so I just swished some water around in my mouth, then hurried down to the lake.
The reeds to the west were still wrapped in mist, and the Wilks’ sailboat, bobbing at anchor a few cottages down, was only a ghostly shape. From the fields behind the cottages a crow cawed, and another answered from farther away. I took off my sneakers and rolled up my jeans, got the oars and life jackets from the shed, and laid them on the pier. Then I dragged the rowboat down to the lake, which wasn’t easy, believe me. I was sweating by the time I got the boat into the water. I gave it a strong shove, then jumped in after it. The shallow water felt warm on my legs, compared to the chilly air, and the bottom was squishy under my feet. I tied the boat to the pole sticking out of the water, then waded to shore, watching out for clamshells—they weren’t sharp enough to cut, but it hurt to step on them. Back on the pier, I maneuvered the oars down into the boat and buckled on my life jacket. Then I stepped into the boat, untied the rope, and pushed off.
This was the second summer I was allowed out in the boat by myself. First I’d had to pass a zillion swim lessons at the Y, and then I’d had to promise faithfully never to fish without my life jacket. And still Mom hadn’t wanted to say yes. I remembered standing at the cottage door last June and seeing Dad put his arm around her. “Let him go, Dorrie,” he’d said. “He’s sensible and careful, and you’ve got to let go sometime.”
She’d given him a long, funny look, and I kind of held my breath until she shook her head a little and smiled. “Go on, then,” she told me. “I can’t hold out against both of you.” And Dad had walked down the steps with me and handed me my bait can, then stood on the pier watching as I rowed away.
Today it took me just a few minutes to row past the end of the pier and head toward the island. Later on I would get bait, and Josh and I would fish. Right now I just wanted to enjoy being almost alone on the lake. It was “almost,” because out beyond the point of the island the serious bluegill and bass fishermen were already hunched over their poles. The water was deep there; they wouldn’t be disturbed by small fish nibbling at their bait. When a fish took the bait, pulling the bobber under with an I-mean-business downward tug, a cry of “Socko!” would go up, and the other fishermen would glance over with brief interest.
I rowed steadily, watching the cottages on the hill grow smaller as I got farther from shore. When I was about fifty feet from the island, I turned the boat and let it drift while I studied the tree- and bush-covered shoreline. This was the year, I promised myself. This summer I was finally going to explore the island. By myself. Dad had said it was uninhabited, except by birds and maybe a snake or two, but I wanted to investigate anyway. It wasn’t a large island, only about the size of a football field, and it rose from the water in a gentle mound like the back of a giant turtle. Did that border of crowded trees and bushes extend clear to the other side? Maybe someplace in there was a clearing or two you couldn’t see from the water. Maybe there was a cave. Could you have a cave on an island? Sometimes I was sure I could see the trace of a path leading into the trees from a point on the southwestern tip, but Dad had said I was imagining it. Well, I wasn’t taking his word for anything anymore. I’d find out for myself if he was right about the island. Soon.
After I’d rowed around the island, I headed back toward the cottage. I thought it would be nice to put on a pot of coffee for Mom while she was still asleep. But when I climbed the steps, I found her sitting on the bottom of the two steps to the porch. A cup of coffee sat on the step beside her, and she was smoking a cigarette. That was Dad’s fault. She’d quit years ago, but the day after Valentine’s she’d gone out and bought a pack of cigarettes, and she’d come home and lit one in front of all of us with a look that just dared us to complain. None of us said a word, but I’d seen tears in Andrea’s eyes.
“Been out around the island?” Mom asked me now.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll get some bait this morning.”
“I know.”
I sat down beside her, and we just stayed there listening to the birds and the sound of the water lapping the rocks along the shore until the door behind us creaked open and Josh threw his arms around Mom’s neck and twisted around into her lap. “Brrrr. Keep me warm,” he said.
That was the end of the quiet time. Mom fixed breakfast while Andrea played catch with Josh down by the lake and Vicki folded up the roll-away bed. “I thought you and Andrea were going to share the big bed,” I said.
“Sleeping with Andrea is like sharing a lifeboat with a puppy,” Vicki said grumpily. “It’s no wonder she’s so skinny—she doesn’t lie still for two minutes straight. She turns, and she shifts, and the springs creak, and the mattress moves up and down constantly. It’s enough to make you seasick, so I pulled out the roll-away. I don’t see why I can’t have the porch. You’ve got a reading lamp and everything. Just because …”
She was winding up for her Just Because You’re a Boy speech when we heard Mom’s warning—“Victoria!” She was quiet then, but she threw a dirty look at the kitchen doorway. Vicki doesn’t wake up well. At home she’d sleep until eleven, but even she couldn’t sleep with four other people moving around in three small rooms.
I went into the kitchen to start making toast, and Vicki went outside. “I’m going to take a little walk down the road,” she called through the screen door. In just a bit she came back with a handful of purple flowers she put in a glass on the middle of the table.
Andrea came up from the lake just then. “How pretty!” she said when she saw the flowers.
“Aren’t they?” Vicki answered. “Hey, maybe you could begin with them!” She and Andrea exchanged what a book would call a “significant” look. It bugged me a little—what could be significant about a handful of flowers?
“Begin what?” I asked, but Vicki said only, “Oh, just an idea Andrea and I had last night. Nothing important.” She paused. “We’ll have to throw them out if they make me sneeze, though,” she went on. “I don’t know why I have to have hay fever when none of the rest of you do.”
Just then Mom brought over bacon and eggs, so we dug in and began to make plans for the day. We had plenty of time to plan, because we all ate a lot. Food tastes really good at the lake, even things you don’t ordinarily like. I don’t know why that is.
We’d cleared the plates when Mom brought over a box of glazed doughnuts. “Dessert?” she asked with a smile. While we ate the doughnuts, we made a list of things for Mom to ge
t from the little store on the way to Cassopolis. I asked, “Who’s going to go with you?”
“I’m going by myself,” she answered. “I’ve a couple of things to do that won’t be interesting to any of you. Victoria, if you’ll watch Josh very carefully while I’m gone, I’ll see that you have time to sunbathe and read this afternoon. Andrea and Kyle will clean up the kitchen, then check to make sure the fishing poles are ready to use. I won’t be gone more than an hour or two.”
“An hour or two!” I said. “You can’t spend an hour or two at that little store. Not even picking out bait and getting your fishing license.”
“I’m going on into Cassopolis,” Mom said. “I told you I had a couple of things to attend to.”
Mom had a lot of business details to look after when Gram died. She was an only child, so she had to close all Gram’s accounts and pay her bills and things like that. Maybe she had more of that stuff to do. Still, an hour or two! I probably wouldn’t get to fish before lunch, and after lunch was the worst time of day for fishing. I might as well wait until suppertime. “Cripes,” I muttered. Mom gave me the Look, but I ignored it. “Why can’t—”
“Hey, Kyle, look sharp!” I raised my head when I heard Dad’s old phrase, and my hand shot up to grab the half-doughnut flying toward me.
“Andrea!” Mom protested.
“I can’t eat any more,” Andrea said, sort of fake-innocently.
“That’s not the point and you know it.” Mom was glaring, but her lips were twitching.
“Thanks, Andy,” I said, smiling. Andrea the peacemaker, at it again.
“No problem.” She smiled back at me, and for the millionth time I thought how much I like being a twin.
When Mom came back from Cassopolis, her eyes were red and her face was kind of blotchy-looking. I’d thought she was over grieving for Gram, but I guess it takes a long time to quit missing your mother. I don’t even like to think about things like that. Anyway, she looked so unhappy I didn’t complain when I found out she’d forgotten to buy the bait.
“That’s okay, I can walk down to Clyde’s,” I told her. “Or I can just go dig some worms across the road.”
“Not until I’ve asked the Dieners if it’s still okay for you to dig there. I suppose it is, but it won’t hurt to check. Besides, Clyde will be glad to see you.”
Clyde’s Bait Shop was just down the road half a mile or so. He was a nice guy, and his prices were fair, but we never bought bait after the first day. By the time it was gone, I’d have dug enough red worms and found enough night crawlers to keep us supplied. I even caught crickets sometimes and put them in Gram’s old cricket cage, but I didn’t like using them. I wouldn’t tell everyone, but I have kind of a soft spot for crickets. It seems a shame to drown that pretty song.
The road to Clyde’s is the one that runs along the backs of the cottages, the same one you come in on. It goes all around the lake, I think, but we’d never driven down the other way. Once you got to the lake, the last thing you wanted to do was get into a car and leave, even for a little while.
Walking along the road, kicking at stones and watching the dust cloud around my sneakers, I let my ears fill with peacefulness. The birds were quieter than they’d been earlier, and there was no breeze. Now and then you’d hear a screen door slam, and sometimes you could hear voices from down at the water’s edge, but mostly it was so quiet I felt as if I were the only one around.
When I got to Clyde’s and stepped inside, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness of the shop. There were only two people there—Clyde, and Tom Butler. The shop wasn’t much, just one room, with an old cash register on a countertop, some shelves, a couple stools, and two refrigerators. One refrigerator was for bait, and one was for beer and soft drinks. For such a little place, it was amazing how Clyde’s shelves always seemed to hold what you needed, from candles and fuses to playing cards and dish towels.
“Afternoon,” said Clyde when I came in. “Kyle Chester, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Afternoon. Afternoon, Mr. Butler.”
“Sorry about your grandmother, Kyle,” Clyde told me. “We all miss Hazel Cook. I thought she was one of those who’d go on forever. Well, you never can tell.”
“Thank you.” That seemed a funny answer when someone said they missed your gram, but I couldn’t think what else to say.
“You here for the summer?”
“I hope so. Mom won’t say for sure how long we’re staying. The longer the better for me.”
“What’s your dad say?”
“Dad’s not with us. I’d like a pint of red worms,” I added in a hurry, hoping to avoid any more questions about Dad.
Clyde seemed to take the hint—at least he moved over to the refrigerator and took out an old dirt-filled cottage cheese carton. He came back and plopped it on the countertop. “Lucky you came early,” he told me. “I’m having trouble keeping up with the demand these days. You dig your own worms most of the time, don’t you?”
“Yeah, back behind the cottage the soil’s full of them.”
“Well, if you want to make some spending money, I’ll be glad to buy some off you. Whatever you can provide. Boy who used to supply me is off to college this year, and his younger brother’s as lazy as an old sow.”
“That’d be great,” I said. “I could use a little money.”
Tom Butler spoke up then. “Tell your momma I said hello, will you?” It must have been the first time in my life I ever heard Tom Butler speak. He was known for his silence, and if I’d ever heard his voice before, I sure would have remembered it. It was an announcer’s voice, deep and kind of husky.
It was hard not to stare at him. He was the fattest man I’d ever seen. Not just fat, enormous. The pouches of fat under his jaws made whatever neck he had disappear. His stomach bulged out over his thighs. Even his hands were fat—his wedding ring cut into his finger like a rubber band wound around once too often. It was kind of disgusting. It wasn’t a Santa Claus kind of fat; there was too much of him for that. But his eyes were Santa Claus eyes. Blue, and crinkly around the edges.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Butler, I’ll tell her,” I said.
I paid for my red worms and started to go, but then Clyde opened the door to the second refrigerator. “Here, have one on me,” he said, handing me a bottle of root beer. “In honor of our new partnership.”
“Thanks,” I said. I started back to the cottage all light-footed and excited. I wondered how much I could earn selling red worms. Anything would help, I thought. Mom didn’t talk a lot about money, but I had noticed the worry on her face whenever she went through the mail, pulling out the bills. I suppose by the time she paid the mortgage and bought food and stuff, there wasn’t much of her paycheck left. It wasn’t as if we’d had a lot extra even when Dad was with us. Schoolteachers, which is what Mom and Dad are, don’t earn very much money. What made him think it was fair to have an apartment all to himself? I’ll bet his rent cost him more than Josh’s soccer camp would have.
There I went—Dad again. Think of something else, I scolded myself. I began planning the afternoon. As soon as I got back, I’d change into my swim trunks and start coaching Josh a little.
I was almost at the cottage when I noticed it. A sign, stuck in the dirt of our parking space. What was a sign doing there? I drew closer, close enough to read the writing. “For Sale,” it said. “Dave Becker Realty.” And it had a telephone number and a Cassopolis address below that.
Somebody had made a mistake. I’d better tell Mom. She’d want it moved right away. I ran into the cottage and set my bait carton on the kitchen table. Where was she? I found her on the porch in the old wicker rocker. “Mom?” I asked.
She turned her face to me. “Back already?” She smiled, but there was something wrong with her smile. I didn’t take time to try figuring it out.
“Mom, some dope’s put a For Sale sign by our cottage. It’s out in back. You better tell the real estate people to move it—the
ir telephone number’s on the sign.”
“A sign?” she said. “Dave’s already put up a sign? Damn.” I saw the pity in her face then, and I knew. I knew before she said another word. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I was sitting here trying to think how to tell you. I didn’t know Dave had put a sign up. You shouldn’t have found out this way.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SO IT WAS TRUE. I STARED at her, and she stared back. I went through the doorway, sat down on the footstool in front of her. “You’re selling the cottage?” I could hear my voice getting louder. “Gram’s cottage? Our cottage? The first year it’s all ours and you’re selling it?”
“I am.” Mom’s voice trembled, but I’d heard that tone before. There was steel in it.
“Why?” I didn’t think I was shouting, but maybe I was, because Mom flinched.
“We can’t afford to keep it, Kyle. The taxes alone are eight hundred dollars a year. And there’s upkeep. When Mom was up here, she could keep an eye on things, hire someone to put the pier in and out, lime the outhouse, cut down weeds. … You can’t manage a property when you’re two hundred miles away.” I didn’t want to listen. I tried to answer, but she didn’t give me a chance to say anything. She just plowed ahead. “Besides,” she said, “The money we’ll get from the sale can go into the college fund. That’s always been a worry, how we could afford to send all of you, and now that your dad—” she broke off, swallowed, began again. “Vicki’s already a sophomore, and when you and Andrea go, too …”
“Forget about college—I’m not going.”
That stopped her. “Not going to college? Oh, Kyle, of course you are. These days …”
“Not if we have to sell the cottage to get the money, I’m not. And I’ll bet Vicki and Andrea won’t go either. Where are they? Do they know?”
