The Girl of the Lake

by Bill Roorbach

  He prompted her again: “Grandpa said the family had to leave in guide boats.”

  “Total loss, yes. I wasn’t in the picture at that time, of course.” Sadder yet again, her soul shutters closing, the little clicks of the eyehooks all but audible: “’Twas a long, long time ago.”

  “And someone was killed?” This in a whisper. Chick knew just who was killed, but he fished for the secret he knew was lurking. When Grandpa would tell the story (all the cousins close around him at the fireplace), he’d grow sober and somber, not like him at all, and Grandma would sit away from him or even leave the room, such that as a kid with kid powers, you knew forcefully that something adult was going unsaid. Chick served himself a cookie, ate it in small bites, very patient, very polite.

  Grandma thought a while, perfectly still, her head bowed. Suddenly she shifted, seemed to have made a decision. She said, “The daughter was killed, yes. Seventeen years old. And the dog, who they say went back into the house for her.” She looked up quickly, said, “Your grandfather knew her, Chick.” She held his eye. “He knew her rather well.”

  “She was his girlfriend,” Chick blurted. Why else such emotion around the story for all these years? Grandma’s tone, her reluctance, it was jealousy.

  “I’m not sure they saw it like that,” Grandma said slowly. “They were friends. Very good friends indeed.”

  “Very good friends indeed,” said Chick. He saw Grandpa and the girl holding hands on an extensive dock, out of sight of the great house on the island, Grandpa seventeen (like Chick!), the girl lovely beside him. Grandpa he could picture perfectly. The girl—she was harder to conjure up, sepia tones, tight curls, sailor outfit. But no, that was an old photo of Grandma.

  Who said pointedly, “Oh, it was all very proper, I think.”

  Clearly not! Chick pinched another cookie, munched it in excitement.

  Grandma, eighty-two years old, flushed. Her voice grew hard. “The father, the girl’s father, Chick, was a bootlegger. What we’d think of now as an organized-crime boss, something of a hero, perversely. One knew him from the newspapers: very dapper, very Irish. All his sons became politicians, all the daughters, well! Tout ingénues, you know, all very innocent, despite rife rumors. This one, the one who died, the youngest, she was called Aine, spelled in the Irish way.” Grandma spelled it out, pronounced it Anya. “The fire, they say, was caused by a whiskey still or alternately by an explosion in the storage cellars: spirits.” She stage-whispered that last word, loving a conspiracy of two.

  “Spirits!” Chick gasped for her benefit.

  “Meaning alcohol, young man, with which I’m certain you have no relation and of which no knowledge!”

  Chick smiled innocently for her. “But you guys liked to drink! Martinis, every day at five.”

  “Darling, it’s true, we did like a cocktail.”

  “And the people on the island never came back?”

  “No, no, I suppose they couldn’t bring themselves to do so. But in fact Shaunesseys still own Spruce Island. The children of Aine’s siblings. They’ve let it all go back to nature, an agreeable tribute to her, even if it’s an accident of finances. But something terrible is happening, Chick, now that we’re speaking of it.” She gave him a long, unhappy look.

  Chick kept his face composed, gazed back at her soberly, hoping for something juicy. He’d be a receptacle for her secrets!

  At length she coughed, all her sentences ready in her head. She said, “Mr. Parmenter says the island—well, he says it’s up for sale.”

  That was what was so terrible? Chick’s face must have given him away. Grandma’s voice took on an injured tone he’d heard her use considerably but only with real adults. She said, “In the last four years nearly all the big parcels of land on the lake have changed hands, Chick. That Mulvaney boy is determined to turn this lake into a Levittown. Your uncle Bob is with him.”

  Chick swallowed his grin, which was a Flexhardt grin, the very one that plagued his grandpa and his father and his uncles and his brother, a show of teeth in the face of emotion. He knew what a Levittown was—vast tracts of houses packed together. Well, that wouldn’t happen here.

  Grandma rose, collected their plates and napkins and glasses, dropped them by the sink, returned for the cookie platter, which she pulled out from under Chick’s nose pointedly and emptied into the cookie jar, off limits. She looked out the window over the sink for a long time, suddenly sagged into grief, much as she had at Grandpa’s funeral, a sudden folding of the fortress, sorrow no grandmotherly courage could hide. Chick went to her, held her, planted his feet for strength. If he was all she had, then he would have to be enough.

  HE WOKE TO THE smell of bacon frying, of course. Bacon was daily at the lake. Grandma seemed happy again, cheerfully whistling complete arias from Bellini’s I Puritani, something she’d done so much over the years that Chick could whistle along. The day was brilliant again, a strong wind in the pine trees. After he’d eaten double what he wanted, and only then, he tripped outside and straight to the old jeep. His head was fuzzy from the pot he’d slipped out to smoke at midnight. Under the hood—that familiar, simple old engine—he found the battery freshly missing, that was all. Mr. Parmenter would have it in his shop on a charger, no doubt, no doubt would deliver it this afternoon with the newspaper and tonight’s pork chops; that’s how Grandma operated, three steps ahead of you, no matter what.

  So next it was a walk up through the butterfly meadow, which was also the stargazing meadow and also the firefly meadow and sometimes the football field, or a Capture the Flag base, all depending, and quite a bit of making out—not Chick but those older cousins and their steadies, probably his parents as well back in their day. Up there he felt too alone, ran back down the lane to the lake, stared out at Spruce Island, conjuring not so much Grandpa and his colorful past and not so much the girl who had burned up as the idea of girls, girls in general, and love in general, loss in general, a sad feeling in his breast. He’d had such awful dates in the past year since Ginnie had handed him back his I.D. bracelet, dates crowned by the horror of his junior prom. When you had no steady girl, you had to ask someone cold. And Kelly Twiningham was cold, all right. First was her undisguised disgust when she learned he had no driver’s license. No credit for having been grounded for the Southern Comfort incident at the homecoming game and therefore delayed a year. And then, just when she’d loosened up ever so slightly (he was an enthusiastic dancer), his dad had arrived to pick them up, brainlessly walking in on the last dance.

  And to the boathouse. The wind was too strong, but Chick dragged the blue canoe across the lawn to the rudimentary beach. A loud knocking caught his attention, and there, suddenly, Grandma stood in the window of the house, plucking at the front of her smock: Don’t forget your life vest. Well, a life vest was nice to sit on. He found an old one, dull orange, and two paddles, waved to her, shaking the vest for her to see, launched the heavy boat, made his way hugging the shore against the wind, all the way to Mulvaney’s. Down there, yes, a number of houses had been built in the four years since Grandpa’s crippling first heart attack. Chick waved to Patrick Mulvaney and two little girls, and they all waved back. The grand old family house reminded him of a mother hen, suddenly, all those littler houses growing up around it. He saw Mary Margaret Mulvaney (now named Carlson) down at their beach and waved. She was with four little boys. Once she’d been such a great beauty that even Chick at six had been smitten. She sat heavily on the stern of a rowboat, her chin cradled in her hands, oblivious of Chick in his canoe.

  He turned and the wind scooted him along, sun in his face. He felt great, suddenly. Bad Patrick Mulvaney might have a beer for him one of these nights, at least that. Home, he tugged the canoe up onto the sand, lifting it high as Grandpa always commanded, saving that paint. Mr. Parmenter was there, big truck in the driveway. The jeep hood was up, battery going in. “Yes, and which one are you?” Mr. Parmenter said, avoiding eye contact, his ears flopping under his oily cap.<
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  “I’m Charles Flexhardt,” said Chick.

  “Yup, yup. After your grandpa, you. He loved those old canoes, too, he did.”

  “I was just up the lake looking at the Mulvaney’s.”

  “Oh, that Ronald Mulvaney. All them houses new, too, yup. You watch, next seasons several. There won’t be a lot left on the shore here. Do you know Mulvaney himself has a bill in the state legislature to lift the motor ban? And for all his blither-blather about it the reason ain’t boating, nope. The reason ain’t fishing, nossuh! The reason is opportunism, going by the name of ‘development,’ going by the name of ‘growth,’ going by the name of ‘jobs.’ And much as I hate to say it, Charles, your uncle Bob is in on it, shortsighted of him, but there it is. Your uncle Bob and your aunt Lauren. Before—back when they was teens like you are now—it was always a motorboat. Now they’ve found a way to combine desecrations.”

  “People like to water ski,” said Chick equably. He was familiar with Uncle Bob’s arguments, Aunt Lauren’s, all the fights they’d had with Grandpa. His own dad went along with the older siblings, generally, but with no great conviction. Uncle Philip, well, he wanted the house and land to stay forever as it was, but he was the baby of the family, a beatnik in New York with troubled daughters, what clout did he have?

  Mr. Parmenter’s fire had ignited. “You been to Lake Winnipesaukee lately? All the hell-roaring and gasoline fumes?”

  “Well,” Chick said. He pictured pretty two-piece girls in motorboats waving and wasn’t entirely against the idea.

  Mr. Parmenter didn’t pause. He tapped the connector on the hot terminal, tightened the nut with his wrench, talked fast, thick accent as from another century: “You know the stripe of calm water as follows a motorboat? Those two-cycle engines put one-third of their gasoline unburned into the water, did you know that? A gallon for every three. These flatlanders will lift the motor ban, increase the property value, break everything up into lots, sell the shoreline dear, take the money and run. Your uncle Bob, he’s one of them. What does he care for this place from far away in Houston?”

  “He wouldn’t break up Grandpa’s Mile!”

  “Oh, ho. You ask your grandmother what line Mr. Bob’s been talking! You should read the letter of support he sent the august New Hampshire State Legislature! An out-of-stater, he! If they can change a few inconvenient laws and buy it all up! Well, then! Mulvaney’s, DePew’s, Gilman’s, the railroad bed, your Grandpa’s mile, Spruce Island—it all starts with motorboats.”

  “Then I don’t want motorboats!”

  “We’ll see about that. Plenty of you kids to occupy plenty of new houses, and taxes to pay. You think your uncle Bob is going to watch a million dollars sit on its hairy fundament by water?”

  Chick laughed. He loved Mr. Parmenter. Now he remembered Grandpa’s banter with the sharp little man, tried it on: “Oh, come on, you old fat! It’s not worth a million!” Fat meant “fart.” It was Grandpa-talk.

  “Soon be,” said Mr. Parmenter, grinning briefly and infinitesimally as he had for the old man, very nearly looking directly at Chick. “Now clamp your fangs you little shite and let me show you the clutch on this old girl.”

  And soon Chick was on his own in the jeep, roaring up the quarter mile of lane, turning around in the meadow, stalling, turning the key, double clutching as instructed, pretending the twin boulders were cars to park between, K-turn, back down the hill, reverse cautiously into the car shed, then forward out, race up the driveway and back down, up and back, forward and reverse, pumping that clutch, shifting up, shifting down. Life was good.

  BACON DAILY, CHORES ALSO, Sundays to town for church in Mr. Parmenter’s truck, the old caretaker dressed in a white shirt of the thinnest imaginable cloth, washed weekly for forty years Chick guessed, the shiniest black jacket, ragged tie, same old work pants and boots. How Chick admired the man. At church—Congregationalist—Mr. Parmenter stood at the back. Chick and his grandmother sat in the third pew left, same as always, Grandma listening fervently, Chick scanning the crowd surreptitiously for girls during hymns, hallelujah. That first Sunday a button-tight summer girl all in white captured his attention, but she wasn’t about to return his gaze.

  Toward the end of the interminable service, he managed to look behind him. In one of the side-facing pews under the windows, the gas-station girl caught his eye. She was a redhead with palest skin and freckles, her dress a homemade blue thing with ruffles at the collar. She’d outgrown it pretty thoroughly and it was short as a play dress, rode up her thighs, stretched taut across her tomboy’s chest, gaped at the buttons, showing an underblouse of some kind. She caught Chick staring and blushed hard. Next hymn he looked back again and she stuck out her tongue. Next she crossed her eyes. Next time he craned, her father was the one looking, and she’d sat up straight, her hands on her knees.

  She and her father were well known to live alone above the garage in town. Her mother had died of something years ago. The girl’s name was old fashioned, Chick remembered, and she was called Mena. He’d been aware of her for some years—since childhood, really—as someone friendly and nice. Philomena. But now there was this, too: her legs were long and bare in church. He caught sight of her one more time during the recessional. In the old days you’d go to town for gas and groceries with Dad and see her, make kid jokes. White socks and saddle shoes in church, crossed ankles. Mechanic and daughter didn’t attend the coffee circle after service, so that was about it for her. Still, now there was a reason to go to church.

  Chick split all the wood Mr. Parmenter brought, raced him secretly load for load, did pretty well at it, too, small splits for the kitchen stove, larger for the living room stove, which they’d likely use but once or twice all summer, larger yet for the fireplace, which they’d use more, though not these days: the weather stayed hot. “Summah,” Mr. Parmenter said with distaste. He came every day at three, brought ice, brought mail, brought the paper, brought meat, did a chore or two. Grandma cooked. That was her idea of a great day. She cooked and swept and worked in the gardens and took a swim and read thick books from the cabin shelves in one of the old leather chairs. Chick got bored with the driveway but resisted the temptation to pull the jeep out on Race Road and finally get to shift properly to third. That’s something maybe you would do early on a Sunday morning, when the sheriff was still in bed, not that you ever saw the sheriff out here. He paddled to Patrick Mulvaney’s one late afternoon, but Patrick had found Jesus and was no longer bad: no beer. Brenda Mulvaney, named DeCastro now, was up visiting—she was pretty nice but busy on the newest of all the houses going up. Her little brother Mark would be here later in the summer, she said. Whoop-dee-doo. Mark Mulvaney was youngest of that generation, only twenty-three, but his idea of a party had always been chess. He was an accountant now, had landed some kind of big-time tie-and-jacket job straight out of college.

  The wind stayed high, but the little old sailboat was in poor shape, the sails rotted, so there was no fun to be had in wind. Chick got it in his mind to paddle one of the canoes out to Conflagration Island soon as the weather came calm. And a few weeks into his stay, it did. Grandma had never let any of the kids paddle out across the open water, so Chick waited till midmorning when she took her clockwork nap, telling her he’d go see Mark Mulvaney, of whom she hugely approved: Mark, boring or no, had vowed publicly to keep his section of the Mulvaney shore forever wild.

  Grandma had spent her morning making Chick a lunch for the trip, insisted he provide for his conservation-minded friend, too. The ancient picnic basket weighed a ton: one whole roast chicken, the first three cucumbers from her garden, four thick slices of her raisin bread, a large bag of potato chips, great piles of chocolate cookies, and as if all of that weren’t enough, fruit, too, all the grapes Mr. Parmenter had brought, three oranges, a pear.

  The basket rode in the center of the canoe, shaded with an extra life preserver. Fishing rod, just in case. Grandpa’s homemade wind keel, too, just in case—but the water
was glass. Two extra paddles, just in case. Grandma saw to all that and saw him off with fond waves and brave smiles as if he were crossing into another life. Chick paddled in silence toward Mulvaney’s, made the point of land at Gilman’s, and figuring Grandma safely in her bed, made a sweeping turn to port and Conflagration Island. At first, he seemed to make no progress, and a vague fear touched at his chest, but soon enough the island grew perceptibly bigger, the trees perceptibly more individual, the gray mass of rocky shore differentiated into all its tumbled rocks. Chick could make out several little beaches, picked one of the middle ones. Halfway there, he got out of the lee of Mocassabontee Mountain and the breezes pushed at his bow, turning him, slowing him. J-stroke, pull hard, keep the bow straight. That was Grandpa’s voice. Even with the wind and the diversion to Mulvaney’s, the whole trip didn’t take an hour.

  The little landing he’d spotted was all sand, fine and white, like nothing on Grandpa’s shore. He beached the canoe, tucked the picnic basket in the cold shade of a thicket of sheep laurel hard on the water. A faint path led into the spruce forest and then along the crest of a rise along the water toward the southern tip of the island. Okay. He’d make a perimeter hike before lunch. When the path petered, he kept going, just pushed his way through the thick woods, clambered down to the lake wherever a little beach presented itself, pleased at the lack of footprints in the varying types of sand. He made a cup with his two hands, drank deeply from the clarity of the lake, carried on. Warblers sang and blue jays called and chickadees twittered, rattling the twigs above him. A red squirrel scolded. How had the first one gotten out here? This was olden woods—not a place a house might have stood. Chick remembered Grandpa’s gait, those sloped shoulders. The old man would never say where the mansion had been, only grew private when pressed, his face closing like a gate.