by Ann Herrick
As we approached the entrance to the park bordering the lake, we stopped and looked out at the water. The sun skittered across the ripples. Sailboats skimmed the surface. Kids splashed on the shoreline and families picnicked in the shade of towering fir trees.
"Did you want to stop here?" Glynnie asked.
The picnickers and the evening light prompted memories of happier times with my family. "No. Not tonight. I have somewhere else in mind."
"Okay." Glynnie gave me a half-smile. "I'm not sure I could take the happy-family setting right now, anyway."
"Yeah …." I nodded toward the road heading off to the right. "Let's go."
The road veered away from the lake, but sometimes we had a view of it when it wasn't obscured by enormous clumps of blackberry bushes or stands of scrub oak trees. There was a smooth but steady incline, and by the time we reached the top I was puffing.
"Man, and I'm supposed to be in shape!" I noticed Glynnie had barely broken a sweat.
"Don't worry." Glynnie grinned. "It's not about being in shape. It has to do with what you're used to. I probably couldn't keep up with you in a game of football."
"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't," I groused.
Glynnie shrugged and laughed. "Sorry!"
"Come on," I said. "We're almost there."
"Almost where?"
"You'll see."
We took a road that hooked to the left, away from the hill we'd been climbing and back toward the lake. A couple of S curves and a hairpin turn later and there we were.
"Wow," Glynnie whispered as she gazed at the towering dam and the force of water storming through the turbine openings into the river below. She turned and looked at me. "How on earth have I missed seeing this before?"
"Not many people come up here unless they fish." I pointed to some distant figures on the other side of the dam.
"Why are they all over there?"
"Fishing's not allowed on this side because of the hatchery. Come on. That's what I really brought you up here to see."
We parked our bikes and walked past the overlook platform, down a few steps and up again over to the hatchery. I stopped in front of one of the collecting areas. "Do you see the fingerlings?"
"The what?" Glynnie peered down into the water. "Hey, a little fish! Another one. It's full of fish. What are they?"
"Salmon. They'll release them in November, so they can swim out to sea."
"Then what?"
"Someday they'll come back to spawn, their eggs will be collected, moved to another facility to hatch, brought back here as fingerlings to be released and start the whole cycle over again." I felt like a human brochure, but I couldn't help it. Must've been all those field trips in grade school.
"But why all that? Doesn't nature take care of that stuff?"
"For one thing, if it weren't for the fish ladders, the salmon would get caught in the turbines. Then there's freezing, flooding, disease, predators. These days the salmon need all the help they can get."
"Fish have it tougher than I thought."
"Yeah," I said. "But I really didn't bring you up here for a lecture on the obstacles to salmon spawning." I grabbed her hand and led her to a collecting area that was protected on three sides by a rail. The water was far below us. The fourth side was a high wall holding back the next level of water. "This is what I wanted you to see. Now just keep watching. There! Did you see it?"
"Omigosh, Eric. That salmon must've jumped ten feet in the air. Look! There's another one. And another!" Glynnie's eyes flashed with excitement.
"When we were ten, twelve, around that age, Rolf and I used to come up here, climb on the rail and try to catch a salmon with our bare hands."
"Any luck?"
"No, but we had fun trying—until I slipped and almost fell in. That cured us."
A huge shiny salmon hurled itself against the wall, almost reaching the top. We watched as others continually flung themselves in the air, only to hit the wall of the holding tank with a heavy slap, fall back in the water and try again.
"They don't give up, do they?" Glynnie asked.
"They're relentless," I said. "They go through all the effort of swimming upstream no matter what, just so they can spawn and die."
"Too bad some fathers don't do that," Glynnie said sarcastically. She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, Eric … I didn't mean … I was thinking of my … oh, me and my big mouth."
"No problem," I said quickly. I knew what she meant. Still, the mood was broken and we both knew it. It was too late to go back and recapture that rare moment of feeling carefree.
"I really messed up. I'm sorry. You brought me all the way up here, for a few minutes it actually took my mind off everything, and I blow it."
I couldn't stand the way Glynnie's brief look of happiness faded into a gloomy sorrow that seemed to weigh her down. "There's only one way to deal with such incompetence." I scooped Glynnie up in my arms, carried her over to the fingerling collecting area and held her over the water.
"And now, you will swim with the fishes." I'm not sure how mob-like I sounded, but it was the best I could do on short notice. I guess my plan worked, because Glynnie's shrieks were of laughter, not terror.
I had to put her down. Her laughter was catching. I tried to hold it in, but I couldn't.
We both stopped, looked at each other, and then there was another spurt of laughs and snorts.
"I don't even know why I'm laughing!" Glynnie exclaimed.
"Me either!"
We both roared, until finally, wiping tears from our faces, we were out of breath. It was then I noticed the dusty orange line of impending night closing in on us. "We should head back to town."
"Good idea. I wouldn't want to ride this road in the dark."
We glided silently down the hill, enjoying the quiet and the sweet, sometimes pungent, summer air. By the time we reached the lake, the picnicking families were gone and the sky was a muted purple. When we pulled up in front of Glynnie's house, I walked her around back while she put away her bike.
"Thanks for taking me up to the fish hatchery, Eric," she said. "I had a good time."
"Me, too."
"And … and thanks for making me laugh." In the pale light of the moon her face took on a polished glow. "I haven't laughed … really laughed … like that for quite a while."
I swallowed hard. "Me, either."
For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other.
Then Glynnie reached out and shook my hand. "Goodnight, Eric."
"Goodnight, Glynnie." I watched her go inside. A girl never gave me a goodnight handshake before. But somehow it felt right.
Chapter Ten
I nailed Steve Grant. I mean, I really flattened him, and it felt good. A great hit always got my blood going, but I especially savored sticking it to Grant. He was a hotshot tight end who liked to think linebackers had the IQ of lettuce. As I held out a hand to help him up, I had the satisfaction of knowing he knew I'd read him like a book.
Just as Grant got to his feet, he yanked my arm. "Nielsen, you smart-ass!"
"You're half right. I'm smart and you're an—"
Steve sucker-punched me in the gut.
I jabbed right back at him, and next thing we were really mixing it up.
Coach Horton jumped in and pried us apart. "That's enough."
But he didn't look all that ticked off. After that, more guys got into fights, and each time it was a bit longer before Coach Horton stepped in.
On one play, Derek Davis missed what should've been an easy tackle, and Larry Johnson, the ball carrier, taunted him after making a big gain. Suddenly, they both had their helmets off and really throttled each other.
Coach Pickett jumped up from the bench and stormed onto the field. He threw down his clipboard. "What the hell is going on?"
All the players, including Derek and Larry, froze. It seemed as if all movement, from the birds to the breeze, stopped. None of the players had ever heard
Coach Pickett utter even the most insignificant swear word. He once gave us a lecture saying that if we weren't articulate enough to speak without swearing, we had better hit the books harder.
"Since you don't seem to be in the mood to practice football, you can just run and drop. Now!"
There was a collective moan as we all lined up. Running ten yards, dropping to a three-point stance, standing up and running another ten yards, etc. for the length of the field was grueling. Needless to say, it accomplished Coach Pickett's goal of reminding us to stick to football.
But I could see that it took a toll on him, too. As he sat on the sidelines, he looked wearier than ever. Jamar must've noticed too, because he came down from the stands, strolled ever-so-casually over to the bench, and sat next to his father, something he ordinarily would not do. Even from the middle of the field I could read the look of concern on Jamar's face.
As soon as we finished our drop-and-run, Coach Horton got practice going again. I couldn't decide if maybe he was a good coach, or the bad coach I usually thought he was, or somewhere in between. I just knew he was different. I think that's why I had a hard time relating to him. He represented change, and I did not want to deal with change.
Finally, practice was almost over and it was time for stretches and warming down. I noticed that Rolf was trying to be his usual enthusiastic self, but it didn't seem natural. The effort showed. I guess he was tired. I knew I was.
I looked up after finishing a set of stretches and there was Mom over on the sidelines—talking to Coach Horton. I became instantly wide awake. Mom was all smiles and hand gestures. What really shocked me was that Horton was staring down at Mom with a big cheesy smile on his face! A smile! He never smiled! I was ready to run over and punch him out, but then Horton sort of nodded at Mom in a goodbye way and went over to talk to Coach Pickett. Still, I didn't like the idea of Horton looking at my Mom the way he did.
Next thing, practice was over and we all headed to the locker room. I was still fuming about Mom and Horton, when we drew alongside of Jamar.
"How's the toe?" Rolf asked.
"What?" Jamar said. "Oh. My toe. It's a little better. I guess." He shrugged. "Maybe I should just quit the team."
"What?" Rolf exclaimed. "You can't quit. Your toe will heal up. I bet you'll be playing by the fourth game of the season."
"It's not just my toe …." Jamar sighed. "It's my father …."
"Your dad?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"You saw him today. He looks so tired. The doctor said he should take it easy, avoid too much stress. I think he's coaching this year 'cause it's my last season. Maybe if I quit the team, he would, too."
I was too shocked to say anything.
"Hey, don't think like that." Rolf threw his arm around Jamar's shoulder. "Your dad would never want you to quit. He wouldn't want any of us to quit. You know that. Remember two years ago when we were down twenty-eight to three at the half against the Timbers? We all dragged into the locker room ready to give up. But that speech he gave us about never quitting! We got so fired up we went out and won thirty-four to thirty one. Remember?"
"How could I forget?"
"You know if you stick with it you'll get more offers for scholarships than you can count. You'll have your choice of school and no worries about tuition."
"Yeah …."
"Your dad would want that for you."
"I guess …."
"This heat won't last forever!" Rolf said. "That's gotta be what's gettin' to your dad. Another week or so and it'll cool down and we'll all feel a lot better."
"Yeah, the heat …," Jamar said. "That could be why Dad is so tired."
"If your father thought you quit the team because of him," Rolf said, "well, talk about stress."
"I didn't think of that." Jamar paused, then said, "You're right. Dad wouldn't want me to quit. Thanks, Rolf."
"Sure …."
Good old Rolf. Another problem solved.
***
As we rode home in Rolf's truck, he was real quiet for a change, so I finally let myself think about Glynnie again. It was better than thinking about Mom and Horton. Glynnie didn't usually show up for morning practice. But … I'd probably see her, maybe in the evening, if not at afternoon practice. I had a feeling she wasn't through griping about her dad. I was willing to listen.
At home, Rolf lit up when we walked into the kitchen and saw Kirstin running around putting last-minute touches on the food. She had prepared her usual feast for lunch, and if there was one thing that could put a huge smile on Rolf's face it was the sight of plenty to eat.
Mom dashed in from her store. Before I could say anything about her appearance at practice, she grabbed a couple plates of food and dashed back to the shop with them. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Lindquist in the store.
"Doesn't he have a job?" I said, jerking my thumb in Lindquist's direction.
"He said Mrs. Petzold can run the office for a few days, so he's taking some time off to help Mom." Kirstin stuck a serving spoon into a bowl of potato dumplings. "You know, like Dad always used to help Mom."
I simmered. Mr. Lindquist was not Dad. Neither was Horton. I wished I could just vaporize both of them.
Rolf rubbed his hands together. "Everything looks great."
With that, Kirstin lectured in great detail about the ingredients and origins of each dish she'd prepared. You'd think she was already starring in her own Scandinavian Cooking show.
Rolf hung on her every word, but I concentrated on eating. Kirstin was a terrific cook. I couldn't decide which I liked better, her Swedish sausage or potato dumplings.
"Man, I really blew it today," Rolf said suddenly.
"Huh?" I snapped out of my taste-bud trance.
"What do you mean?" Kirstin's brow wrinkled with concern.
"We had to do the run-and-drop," Rolf explained. "It was all my fault."
"Nah, it was me," I said.
"There! You see," Kirstin said. "It was Eric's fault, not yours."
"Your sibling devotion is touching, Kirstin. But she's right, Rolf, it was my fault."
Rolf waved off my guilty plea. "That was nothing. Other guys started mixing it up and it got out of hand. I should've put a stop to it right away."
"Rolf, you can't control every move every guy—"
"I should've kept a better watch on Derek Davis, so that—"
"Hey. You can't take the blame for everything." I switched to a joking mode. "You should threaten to make Davis a captain for a day. Let 'im see it's not so easy."
"Yeah," Kirstin said. "If you threaten him like that, Rolf, he'd totally shape up."
"Says the president of my fan club," Rolf teased, reaching over to muss Kirstin's hair.
"Well, I made you smile, didn't I?" Kirstin asked.
"You always do." Rolf's smile widened.
"I've got something that should put you in a really good mood," Kirstin said.
"You're leaving town?" I said.
Kirstin pointed her tongue at me. "I wasn't talking to you, Eric." She went into the pantry and walked out with a cake. "Ta da! My Danish Chocolate Four-Layer Cake!"
"Eric, you'd better be nice to Kirstin from now on," Rolf said, smacking his lips, "or I'll take her home with me."
"Fine," I said. "As long as I get a piece of cake first."
Kirstin stuck out her tongue at me again, but she did give me a slice of cake—after first cutting off a huge wedge for Rolf.
"Mmm, mmm." Rolf directed his gaze skyward. "This cake is great!"
"Thanks." Kirstin beamed. "It was my dad's absolute favorite."
A cake crumb caught in my throat. I started choking.
"I need some milk." I jumped up, poured myself a glass and tried to drink it between coughing spells.
There was a knock at the front door.
I managed to swallow the last drop of milk without further choking. "I'll get it."
When I yanked the door open, I found Glynnie standing there. She wore an oversi
zed white T-shirt that was thin enough to reveal a red tank swimsuit underneath. "Hi, Eric," she said cheerfully. "I'm going to the lake for a swim. Wanta come?"
"Well … um … uh …." I guess I was tongue-tied because I was so surprised to see her.
"I got the car, so you won't have to wear yourself out biking there," she teased.
"Ah, an offer I can't refuse," I said in my best gangster voice.
"I'll wait in the car," Glynnie said.
I hurried and changed into my swimsuit. On the way out I yelled where I was going to anyone who might be listening and ran to the car, an old Volkswagen Bug.
"Hop in," Glynnie said as she reached over and opened the door. "This car may be ancient, but it's reliable."
I saw how ancient when she put on the turn signal and a little red arm flipped out of the side of the car. My knees were up to my chin. "I feel like I'm riding inside a turtle."
Glynnie laughed. "Don't worry. This turtle can go the speed limit."
She was right. We got to the lake before my legs had a chance to cramp up. In the bright afternoon sun the lake looked different than it had last evening. There were grade-school kids taking swim lessons, a cluster of junior high kids diving and throwing each other off the raft and a few older people sunning themselves. It wasn't packed though, which was nice.
Glynnie took off her glasses and tucked them into a canvas bag. Without them she had kind of a sweet myopic look. She peeled off her T-shirt. For the first time I noticed that, slim as she was, she was not completely shapeless. Her swimsuit, with its scoop front and back dipping down to a low V revealed a tanned, well-sculpted body with gentle curves in the right places.
Maybe it was because I hadn't seen that much female flesh for a few months, but I felt my face growing red and hot as I stared at the contour of her breasts through the thin material of her swimsuit. You'd think I was twelve years old.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Huh?" My face burned red as I forced my gaze up to her face.
"Should we sit or swim?"
"Oh." I tried to swallow my sigh of relief. Of course that's what she meant. What was the matter with me? Maybe Rolf was right. Maybe I'd been out of circulation too long. "Swim," I said. "I, uh, need to cool off."
