Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  “Good, then. It’s a plan.” They discussed the details a bit longer, with Matt gratified to see some animation returning to Abby’s face. Whatever had been on her mind had either been resolved or put away for the time being.

  “You’re on clean-up tonight, right, Abby?” he asked. “I have a union meeting, and I’ll probably be out late. Round two of our cribbage tournament is after the meeting. Will you guys be okay here alone?”

  “Of course,” Abby said. “How late you going to be?”

  “Probably after dark. You can stay up if you want. But have all your chores done.” He looked at Ben. “You have any homework for tomorrow?”

  The question seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at his father like he hadn’t understood a word he’d said. Matt stood up, stacking dishes for a trip to the kitchen sink. “Go through your backpack, Ben,” he said. “I’ll check with you when I get home to see that your schoolwork is ready. Okay?”

  Ben nodded, and Matt carried his load to the kitchen. When he returned, the children were clearing the rest of the table. “I’ll see you later tonight, then,” he said, passing through the room toward the front door. “If you need me, I’ll be up at the Hall.”

  “Dad,” Abby called after him. “Try to remember, you don’t cut the cards in cribbage. That’s poker.”

  Matt laughed. “You just get your fishing gear ready. I’m collecting a buck from each of you for first fish and biggest fish.”

  “You’re on.”

  FOUR

  Abby Simon

  “You’re crazy,” Ben said when they were alone in the kitchen. “Did you forget that you no longer have a new fishing rod? And that I don’t have any homework, or even a backpack anymore?”

  “I’m going to fix all that,” Abby replied, stashing leftover goulash in the refrigerator.

  “When?”

  “Can you do the dishes for me?”

  Ben looked at his sister, dumbfounded. “You really are crazy. You’re going back up there, aren’t you?”

  “The timing is perfect. It doesn’t get dark until ten o’clock this time of year.” She looked at the old round-faced clock above the sink. “That’s a good four hours from now. If I cut straight up over the ridge, I can make the round trip in less than three hours.”

  “There’s a dead person up there, Abby, remember?”

  “I know. But our backpacks are up there, too. I’ll be back before Dad gets home.”

  “I’m not staying here alone, Abby. I’m going with you.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Retrieving her Minnesota Twins cap from the hook at the back door, she fed her braid through the adjustable strap at the back, placed the cap on her head, then tightened up the rubber band securing the end of her braid.

  “You can’t carry both backpacks,” Ben argued. His eyes strayed past his sister, through the kitchen doorway to the empty expanse of dining room beyond. Color dissolved from his cheeks as he looked into the deserted space.

  “Come on, Ben. It’s just a couple hours. Turn on the TV. I’ll be back before dark.”

  “But we saw a dead body, Abby. And that big man carrying it over his shoulders.”

  “None of that concerns us. The only things I’m worried about are that stupid fishing pole of mine and our backpacks. We have to go to school tomorrow.”

  “But you almost got caught by that bad guy. What if he’s still up there?”

  Abby closed a cupboard door and looked at her brother. He seemed so young and vulnerable standing at the sink, hands hanging at his sides, fingers twitching with apprehension. “He won’t be up there now, Ben. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just going to grab our backpacks and get out of there.” She could see her words weren’t having any effect on her brother, so she walked over to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes, she said, “The guy was some kind of city slicker. Did you see his big shiny car and fancy clothes? I’m sure he’s long gone by now, but if not, he’ll be keeping to the road, in his car. I’ll be in the woods. Our paths won’t ever cross. Besides, do you know anyone that can outrun me in the woods?”

  She took his lack of response as a positive sign. “It’ll be totally safe, Ben. Honest.”

  “I’m coming, too.”

  “No you’re not.” Looking at the dishes in the sink, another idea occurred to her. “Do the dishes for me tonight, and I’ll take your turn for the rest of the month.”

  Ultimately, before Abby charged out the back door and into the woods behind their house, Ben had negotiated away not only his clean-up duties for the month, but his cooking chores as well.

  Ten minutes after Abby left, there was a knock at the front door.

  • • • • •

  The ridge running along the backside of Black Otter Bay was no trifling little hill. Rising several hundred feet above the shoreline of Lake Superior, it boasted a steep craggy face with huge bedrock boulder outcroppings, as well as knarly old white cedars that had taken up residence there about the time of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

  Deer trails zigzagged the slope, although not too many animals chose to travel over this treacherous stretch. The Moose Lake Road cut over the ridge where it wound up from Highway 61 about a half-mile outside of town, but for someone on foot, and in a hurry, the ridge provided the quickest access to the lake district inland from Lake Superior. An old black bear might occasionally den up for the winter on this slope facing away from the prevailing Canadian northwesterlies, and the howling of wolves could often be heard in town when they hunted the ridgeline. But neither of these things worried Abby, even now with the sun behind the crest of the ridge and shadows growing longer by the minute. In a way, this wilderness remnant of the ancient Sawtooth Mountains represented home to her. She knew their geologic history, the habits of the wild creatures that lived here, and many of the plants and trees, including their useful attributes.

  Over the top of the ridge she angled along an old animal path that soon intersected the Superior Hiking Trail. Roughly following the spine of the old mountain range, day hikers, as well as more serious long distance backpackers, used this trail all summer long. In the winter, cross-country skiers and snow-shoers kept the trail open. Abby remembered hiking here as a young girl, exploring the woodlands behind their house with her father. One time, he’d cut across to the Trail while Abby stayed on the animal path. Looking back at her, he’d called, “I’ll race you, Abby. Up to where the trails meet.”

  She took off running, her short little seven-year-old legs kicking out hard on the dirt track. Off to the side, she saw her father swinging his arms in an exaggerated fashion, showing off how fast he could run. But at the last instant she darted ahead of him to win the race.

  Abby bragged about her victory for days, and couldn’t understand why her schoolmates didn’t see the wonder of it. Even her mother hadn’t made much of a fuss over it. Of course, now she knew that her father couldn’t have lost that race without letting her win. But at seven years old, she’d been convinced that she was easily the fastest creature in the woods.

  And Abby still loved to run the forest paths. Even now, whenever the trail headed downhill, it was virtually impossible to keep from breaking into a run. So when she picked up the Big Island Lake Trail where it sloped away from the Superior Hiking Trail, she set a quick jogging pace for herself and let her mind wander.

  Remembering that footrace with her father brought up images of her mother. Jackie Simon had never been the type to spend time in the woods. She’d gone camping with them a few times when Abby was very young, but at some point she’d given it up, and as mean as it may have been to even think about in private, Abby had to admit that camping was a lot more fun without her. Jackie always complained: it was too cold, or it rained too much, or the mosquitoes were going to eat her alive. The last time she’d gone with them, probably two or three years ago, she’d thrown her dinner into the campfire, exclaiming, “This is disgusting!”

  Abby r
emembered getting mad about it, because she and Ben had worked hard to keep the fire going in the damp woods. And Ben had been just a little kid then. Stick by stick they’d built up the campfire, both of them getting soaked as they ranged far out from the campsite to find dry tinder under blow-downs or at the base of rocky outcroppings. But she’d felt especially bad for her father, the designated cook for these excursions. Dinner had been a freeze-dried stroganoff dish, but with a fire that was either too large and hot, or threatening to die out at any moment, the meat had been a little tough and the pasta undercooked. But, hey, Abby conceded, that’s what happened sometimes in the woods. As far as she was concerned, after portaging the canoe, fishing all day, and tending to the campfire, she could have eaten the food straight out of the vacuum-sealed pouch.

  A day trip to the mall down in Duluth was a whole different matter for Jackie. She had a knack for finding the best deals, just as Abby knew how to find fish in any given lake. And while Abby could cast a lure all day, Jackie somehow found the stamina to walk through dozens of shops while wearing high heels, taking breaks in trendy coffee shops, seemingly able to reenergize herself off the artificial lights, or perhaps the thrill of the hunt for a good deal. The trouble was that the rest of the family had no interest in driving fifty miles to Duluth just to go shopping with her. One time, Abby overheard her father say, “If I wanted to spend my free time hanging out in the mall, I’d live in Duluth, or better yet, down in the Cities, where they have that monster Mall of America place.”

  When Abby’s mother discovered the casinos, however, small-town Minnesota quickly lost whatever appeal it may have had for her. Flashing lights, plush surroundings, and piles of money—Jackie had finally found her true home.

  Abby tried to be open-minded about her mother’s decision to leave, but she’d come to understand that sometimes a person’s head and heart could have differing opinions. Last August, for her thirteenth birthday, Abby’s father took her on a thirteen-day canoe trip into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Every summer they went camping together, just the two of them, each year venturing farther into the wilderness. With every passing year they added one day to the trip in honor of another birthday. Last year, they’d traveled well up into Quetico Provincial Park in Canada. Jackie had moved out a few months prior to the trip, and Abby’s initial sadness had recently been replaced by a simmering anger.

  Looking back on last summer’s canoe trip, she had to give her father his due. He wasn’t much for talking about himself or sharing feelings, but in his taciturn, modest sort of way he’d attempted to reach a hand out to his daughter. Sitting by a campfire next to a nameless lake in the far north country late one night, their tent in the shadows behind them and the moon reflecting off the water before them, her father explained to her how the energy of the city called to Abby’s mother.

  “You know that your mother grew up in Chicago, right?” he’d said. “She’s got that big-city blood in her, just like the mysteries of these deep, cold lakes course through you.” Abby had liked that image, and the idea that she could somehow be related to this incredible wilderness.

  “Your mother was actually pretty excited about moving up here when we first got married. I think she had some notion about how it would be. You know, like one of those Norman Rockwell paintings. I think she looked forward to a slower pace, and raising a family far away from gangs and violence.”

  Abby sat on a rock next to the campfire, poking at the flames with a long stick. She found it thrilling, and somewhat intimidating, to be having this grown-up conversation. She’d only just become a teenager, and it seemed like a whole world of adult emotions and passions was already opening up to her. She didn’t dare speak for fear of sounding like the child she still felt herself to be.

  “I’d say your mother knew that Black Otter Bay wouldn’t work for her even before you were born. There’s not much privacy in a small town. But you have to give her credit. She did try. Remember how she went fishing with us? And camping, too.”

  “Oh, sure,” Abby pouted. “It was like babysitting the whole time.”

  Her father laughed. “But think about it. What if you suddenly found yourself living in Chicago? How would you feel about riding a crowded subway with all those strangers, or going to school in the city with thousands of other kids? It would be kind of frightening, wouldn’t it?”

  “I guess so,” she replied.

  “Well, your mother did it. She thrived on it, just like you thrive on a run through the woods.”

  “But she wanted to live here,” Abby argued. “And then she didn’t. It’s not fair. Once you decide, you should stick to it.”

  “It’s not always that easy. Sometimes people make mistakes. You wouldn’t want her to stay here if she was unhappy, would you?”

  Abby considered her father’s words in silence for a while, until she realized that just thinking and talking about her mother made her angrier. She threw the poker stick into the fire, stood up, and stalked off down to the shoreline. Over her shoulder, she said, “Isn’t it more unfair for her to make all three of us unhappy?”

  Tears had threatened to erupt, but in the dark, gazing out over the placid lake, she managed to blink them back. Now, as she ran the Big Island Lake Trail, she let the tears roll. Letting her frustration push her even harder, she wondered aloud, “How can it be that I miss her so much when she makes me so mad?”

  It was her mother’s relationship with Randall Bengston that Abby had the hardest time justifying. With long, wispy, thin hair and shifty eyes, he gave Abby the creeps. Randall’s mother, Rosie, owned the bait shop, but he had no interest in the business or small-town life. Jackie had found a kindred spirit in Randall. The lure of the city called to both of them, and when Jackie left Black Otter Bay for good, the two of them took up together in a small apartment on the eastern edge of downtown Duluth. Abby and Ben had spent a couple days with her after she was settled in, but they had no interest in going back. They saw their mother when she came home to visit, but she didn’t make the trip up here much anymore. It was probably like her father said, Abby thought: Jackie didn’t want to spend time in a tiny, rural town any more than Abby wanted to visit the big city.

  Randall held minor financial interests in several small businesses in Duluth. He wore flashy suits, drove a small sports car, and Abby thought he strutted around like one of those hyperactive little dogs, a cockapoo or whatever they called them. If the man ever had to do an honest day’s work, like her father did down at the taconite plant, it would kill him. Randall owned an art gallery, known as The Tempest, in the East End of Duluth. Jackie worked for him, dressing up in tailored business suits, greeting customers and, after getting to know them, showing select pieces she thought would be of interest to them. The prestige of her position appealed to her. The clientele was generally older and affluent, and Jackie’s graceful bearing and knowledgeable conversation suited the job perfectly.

  By night, she worked the dollar slot machines in the downtown casino. Recently, Abby had overheard some troubling talk about her mother. Rumor had it that she owed the casino money. She might even have a gambling problem. Her father wouldn’t acknowledge the rumors, wouldn’t discuss it with Abby at all, other than the one time when he’d said, “It’s just a bunch of mean-spirited people saying these things. Don’t you believe them.”

  Mean-spirited? Abby thought. Her own classmates were the ones doing the talking. When she considered her mother’s behavior, she preferred to think of her as being temporarily insane. She’d come to her senses sooner or later. And Abby really didn’t care what her friends said. She wasn’t embarrassed about her mother leaving, but if she ever came home, she had some serious explaining to do.

  Abby’s pace never faltered as she covered the distance to Big Island Lake. Sure-footed and determined, she ran lightly, her thoughts carrying her past the burning in her lungs and the ache in her thighs. It helped that it was lighter on this western side of the ridge. There was more animal sign, too,
and at one point she spotted a pileated woodpecker in its undulating flight through the woods. Deer tracks littered the forest floor, especially now with the snow gone and everything wet and muddy.

  Dropping down off the hillside, Abby noted a large opening in the foliage ahead. It wasn’t so much that she could see through the trees into the clearing, as that the existence of the opening was apparent to someone used to looking for such things. And an opening that large in this country signified one of two things: the site of recent logging operations or the presence of a lake. Quickly scanning the terrain, Abby estimated her location. The abandoned road leading to the boat landing and Rosie’s minnow seines wound in off the county highway about a quarter mile from the base of the hill. The trail she was on would take her to the iced-in side of the lake where she and Ben had first come this morning.

  There wasn’t much underbrush this early in the season, so after plotting an imaginary line through the woods, Abby jumped off the trail on a heading to cross the old roadway. Within minutes, patches of blue water flashed through the trees. The sun had dropped a bit but was still a long way from setting, and bright reflections off the water flickered through the early summer foliage.

  To be on the safe side, when Abby came to the roadway, she followed it from just inside the treeline. She didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour, but considering the events they’d witnessed that afternoon, there was no sense in taking chances.

  Through a series of short curves, the overgrown roadway led Abby to the old boat landing. As she’d expected, no one was there. She paused for a moment at the water’s edge to catch her breath. Scanning the lake surface, she saw that much of the ice had disappeared over the afternoon, with the remaining floes a dark gray and mottled with holes and standing water. Abby stood on the spot where the big fancy car had parked. Looking at the ground around her, it seemed as though the gravel and weeds were more disturbed than the passing of one car would warrant. Then she remembered the second vehicle approaching as she’d made her escape, the pickup truck she’d glimpsed through the trees. Studying the tracks, she wondered if the ground could have been dug up this much by just the two vehicles turning around in the small clearing. Finally shrugging off the mystery, Abby took another deep breath, and then turned into the brush to retrieve the backpacks.