Robert Larson moved slowly back up the sand, his hands in his pockets. He entered the cottage. He looked at his wife and shrugged. Then Penny shrugged. Then Robert Larson shrugged again. Then he said, Nature down here is funky, and he clicked his tongue and sat down.
The children, these fine and very sweet and well-mannered twins, were glancing back and forth between their parents, very forlorn and very anxious. Larson looked at his wife, and Penny looked at him. Larson nodded. The children darted through the screen door and ran to the beachfront again. They plunged into the water and seized the fish in large quantities, held them against their bodies, and threw them at one another. They lobbed them in various ways—like footballs, like hand grenades. They kissed them, and pretended to fall in love with them, and then they threw them back into the water, jilted. They rode on top of the big ones like dolphins. They pitched them onto the beach; some of the carp were more than five feet long, and by working together, the children were able to drag them onto the sand. The twins then began making forts and castles with them. We held our mouths.
We might have kept holding our mouths had Larson not sped out of the driveway. We turned to see him go. He drove quickly, but the stop signs slowed him. He had his arm out the window. He spat tobacco onto the road. He had his music on loudly—a local radio channel, country-western, not from the Chicago towers but from those in Kankakee. He turned into the Cat rental facility on the north end of Route 176, went inside, and according to Davis, the manager, rented a small skid steer loader for one half day at a holiday rate of $175. Davis also covered the cost of delivery, which would take place later that afternoon, as there was no demand for skid steers at that time. Repelling open or clandestine bribes is one thing; facilitating the enemy is really something entirely different. We sometimes look at Davis and wonder what Slocum Lake would feel like without him.
Larson stopped off at the Island Foods grocery. He called his wife two times on his cellular phone while he stood, looking uneasy, in the meats and seafood department. He bypassed the local bakery doughnuts and took three boxed Danish rings, the national brand. He brought his items to the counter and had the clerk fill several paper bags. He used coupons. He slid his credit card. He pushed his cart to the truck, dropped the bags in the back, and then returned the cart to the rack by the store entry. We never doubted Larson’s goodness. He drove back to the cottage and joined his wife, who was sitting on the porch watching the twins bury each other in fish carcasses.
That night the Larsons barbecued the carp on an open grill and somehow managed to swallow it. Penny served the fillets with a mayonnaise and dill relish. We had not seen Robert purchase the dill. After dinner the kids climbed into their bunk beds, and the Larsons went down to the beach and rearranged the carp the kids had strewn across the sand. Given our distance, we did not know they had organized the fish into a sort of soft bed until, as they had the night before, they lay down to make sustained love.
Words cannot bring clarity to the feelings we had while watching the Larsons make love on top of the carp. We felt very depressed might be about as close as we can get. We left the Larsons’ cottage to have meals with our own families. We figured we were back to the drawing board. We figured we had not impacted the children in the right way, and we therefore had failed to alter the Larsons’ iron grip on their ownership of Lake Slocum waterfront property. Because of our depression, we had not foreseen Robert Larson’s critical error.
Thankfully, we were not so depressed that we did not return the next morning, just after dawn. The twins were again playing in the boat, and Robert was already awake, running the skid steer, scooping large quantities of the carp and shunting them from the waterfront to the back of his property, where he had—apparently before sunrise—dug a massive grave for the fish. It did not strike all of us at the same time, but the image of Larson hoisting the fish and steering them away from our water gave one of us, and then every one of us, a rather brutal jolt.
We called Princess at the Parks and Recreation office to confirm the limit of carp a person could take from Slocum Lake on any single fishing day. Princess told us what we all well knew from the bylaws of the constitutional charter on fish reparation: one hundred carp is the maximum any one licensed person can catch and keep on a given day. We asked nicely if Princess would send some one over to have a look at the load of carp Mr. Robert Larson had taken from our Slocum Lake.
The fine for violating the charter ran $1,000 alone; the fine for each violating fish ran $100 per fish; the fine for not having a license issued by the state of Illinois for taking any fish from the water, $100. Princess herself came over with a clutch of Slocum Lake police officers to hand the Larsons their ticket for $250,000. She explained that the police estimated Larson had extracted no fewer than twenty-five hundred carp from Slocum Lake, and she pointed down into the massive pit. It would be difficult to doubt that estimate, certainly. She continued in explaining that Parks and Recreation was actually, probably, estimating low, and they were willing, also, to give the Larsons a break on the other violations and round off at a quarter of a million dollars, due October first of the current fiscal year. She touched Robert’s shoulder and said, We only take money orders for fines that exceed one hundred thousand, Mister Larson, but we know we can trust your personal checks around here. Princess winked.
Robert Larson winced and recoiled from her hand. He attempted to explain that the fish were already dead, but Princess waved him down—irrelevant and subjective. Robert protested a second time. Princess simply extended the ticket. Robert refused to take it. Princess placed it on the ground near his feet. Robert raised his voice. The children came out from the boat to watch. The police officers adjusted their belts and crossed their arms. Princess withdrew. Robert picked up the ticket. He was sweating so completely, the sunlight glinted wildly off his face.
Robert took the ticket to the porch, where he had a brief conversation with Penny. They shook their heads. They retreated inside. Their children—so bright and sensitive—grasped the gravity of the situation and went inside, settled down into Indian-style sitting, and played cards with one another for the duration of the afternoon. The Larsons held protracted, at times heated dialogues inside the cottage. The skid steer simply sat out in the sun. Some of the carp baked in their pit, and still more lapped against the shoreline.
The sun shifted its weight against the east-facing side of the shore. Evening came and went. Night tumbled in. We were pretty drunk by then. Someone had brought tequila. We had a great deal to celebrate. We took a shot every time Robert Larson rubbed his eyes. We breathed very easily when the house went dark. We assumed we would retire early to our families. But then we heard the Larsons slip out of their screen door and head down to the beach again. The minxes! They took each other’s clothes off and made love in the sand. They experimented a little bit. The locusts were screaming. The insects were loathsome. The Larsons rolled about for forty minutes, then ran naked back into their cottage. We wondered if we had all seen this, or if the most drunk of us had imagined it. How strange, these Larsons. What was Slocum Lake property to the kind of people who could make love in the face of its certain loss?
How brazen. We’d had someone at our bank evaluate the Larsons’ portfolio: there was no way they could afford the fines. We shook our heads. These people from the northern fringe of Wisconsin were very much like our grandparents in so many ways. We knew them, and yet we knew them not at all.
We drank to this. Then we had a few more drinks. We became increasingly easy with one another as the night wore on. We did not return to our homes and families. We kissed a little bit ourselves, touching each other’s limbs in the night. We became stupid in lust and mouthed one another. We did not hear Robert Larson leave the cottage. We did not at first hear the skid steer ignition. Sensuality creates a noise that cannot be rapidly punctured, but in time it became clear we were not hearing the thrumming of our bodies but rather Robert and the skid steer shifting gears in the middle
of the night.
We cleared our throats and straightened. We had to adjust our eyes. We tapped our watches. Robert Larson was scooping out the grave of dead fish and, it became clear, trundling his scoops back down to the beach, where he was dumping them into his Shamrock 270 diesel. He had launched the Shamrock in the afternoon. It was a detail that meant very little to us while we were drinking. He was working very quickly with the skid steer. No sooner had he dumped a load into the Shamrock than he was racing back up toward the cottage, behind it, to the grave, to collect another scoop. Then back down to the beach and the boat. We tried to divine the meaning of this activity.
We discovered Penny Larson had also left the cottage and gone down to the water. She was in over her waist. She was wearing only a bra. She appeared to be moving the fish closer to the sand. She did not speak. She did not luxuriate. She seemed entirely devoted to the fish, a sort of shepherd, and we were perplexed until Robert emptied the grave and turned his scoop to the shoreline. Then the Larsons’ intentions were made horribly clear and vivid to us. As Robert Larson loaded carp into the Shamrock—hoisting all our work and money very high in the air, water pouring from the hinges in the metal scoop, and dumping them with heavy thuds inside of the gunwales—we could see, very plainly, that Robert Larson planned to scuttle his fiscal and moral obligations to Slocum Lake. We were just sick. If the insects were draining us at that point, we were entirely unaware. We held each other.
And in what was surely less than thirty minutes, while we looked on, Robert Larson had filled his boat with every last fish from the grave and our mostly invisible netted cage. The sun was just beginning to illuminate Slocum Lake. The Larsons’ boat sat low against the mooring. Robert killed the skid steer engine and hopped out. He walked the dock and stepped into the boat. With Penny’s help, he proceeded to snap the canvas top over the entire boat, covering the fish with a sort of tightly fitted pall.
That’s when one of us lost it. It was unspeakably hot. Heat like that, even under less demanding circumstances, it’s cruel. Half of us were naked or drunk. All of us were slick with sweat. It is not surprising that one of us would break from our cover and rush the Larsons’ cottage with a burning poplar branch in his arms.
Perhaps he thought the rest of us would join him. Perhaps the heat had harmed him. Perhaps he could just no longer operate in clandestine rage, as we all were, and let the Larsons prolong our suffering and embarrassment another year. But there he was—the Kubicka kid, we believed—thrusting a burning, limpid poplar branch at the Larsons’ kitchen window, yelling the word crimes over and over again at the top of his childish pitch. Try as he might, he could not in the end break through the window with this flaming branch. The limb bent and splayed each time he thrust. But the boy kept at it, jabbing, stepping back a few steps, and charging, jousting, shouting crimes!
It was painful to watch, and we did what we could: we called him away. We tried to flag him down. We implored him to drop the branch and return to us. But Robert Larson ran quickly to apprehend the Kubicka boy. Had Larson been faster, he might have stopped the fire from torching the wooden shingles of the cottage. In that heat, the siding and the roof went up like gasoline. Penny had followed Robert and slipped inside the cottage. She emerged with their beautiful children, groggy, and pointed them down to the beachfront, away from the cottage.
The Larson kids, so precious, walked down toward the dock in silence and did not raise their eyes. Had the cottage not caught fire, the children would probably never have gone down to the water. But it did, and they did, and we owe a great debt to the Kubicka kid, whom we have never since seen. Robert Larson grappled with the lithe Kubicka boy in the grass beside the burning cottage until the boy broke from Robert’s grip and fled into the dark glow of dawn.
Robert did not follow. He grabbed the hose, turned on the house spigot, and began dousing the fire before it could race to the other side of the cottage. Penny took down a pickax from the porch. She yanked the burned and burning siding away from the house and spread it across the lawn. She whacked at the flames when they flared up. To watch these two was like watching junior amateur firefighters in earnest judged competition, a sort of marvel of meticulous and urgent care, and all the while their children, those wonderful blond twins, stood in pajamas by the dock, looking upon the smoke rising from the last cottage on our Slocum Lake.
Those beautiful children, dear God, to think of them. So good. What we loved most were their good natures. They never knew mistrust. They never asked questions or doubted strangers. You could tell them to go inside the boat, lie down among the carp, that their mother had instructed you to help them bed down inside the boat, beneath the cover of the boat, and to close their eyes. And they would not doubt you. They would not fuss. They would not fear.
You could sing them a quiet song, hum a melody, and you could touch their fine hair, brush it from their cheeks, over their ears, and they would curl to the feel of your knuckles, and they would smile as their sleep took them back. You don’t always know what you are doing in this sort of Slocum Lake midsummer heat, but the Larson kids could just slip beneath the canopy of a boat and never say a word, even as you snapped their covers securely over their heads. Those tender kids, the last thing you’d ever see of them, their hands folded beneath their chins, and that image could just shake you to the core, shatter your soul in a million ways.
And then we receded, and we watched Robert descend to the beach and the dock, and there we held our breath. Penny was scrambling about the inside of the house, working the interior wood paneling and insulation for any trace of smoldering. Robert Larson unmoored the boat, unlashed the tethers from its side, and hopped into the water. From there he pushed on the stern and, straining, moved the heavy, low-riding boat into deeper water. He pushed and built momentum until Slocum Lake was over his neck and nearly in his mouth. Then he let the boat go. In the placid water, it skated silently over our nearly invisible netted cage and into open water. No breeze touched its gentle, steady wake. Out it went.
Robert pulled himself on the dock and watched it go. Then he bent down, dripping, and lifted a rifle to his shoulder. He closed his eye. He aimed and, from his knee, fired two quick, resonant shots. We turned. We saw the boat pitch. It lurched, dropped, then plunged into the depths of Slocum Lake with enormous emissions of escaping air, like the blowing of cattle gas.
Then silence. Just like that. The hot Slocum Lake water was still. Our carp were gone, returned to the gunk of our lake bottom, and with them all our efforts to fleece and harry the Larsons. We felt some remorse. We do not like to devastate children, after all. But the sun was coming up. It shone on the Larsons’ cottage. We waited. We watched Robert Larson walk inside, shower, and then sit down on the cottage’s fine wood floor beside his wife. They talked as the sun rose. Penny had poured coffee. They wiped their eyes and their foreheads. They studied the fire damage to their interior wall. It was minor. They smiled and shook their heads. Then, as if pricked, Penny stuck up her head. We could see in her eyes the sudden flaming of awareness. She opened her mouth and ran to the empty bunk beds. She returned to Robert. She trembled. She took his shoulder. They began calling out the children’s names. They searched the cottage. They moved outside to search the property. They yelled out. They shouted. They screamed in ways we could not have predicted. They ran to the water. They shielded their eyes from the sun in searching. Robert waded in several steps, and then he turned around to look at Penny. His face, we could see, was rent. He yelled to the skies above us all for states around. He entered and left our chests. We know the Larsons, yes. We have known them for years. Now we know they know loss. Now we know they know us.
Heart Like a Balloon
Andrew Riconda
FROM Criminal Class Review
DENNY FINAFRIGGINALLY NOTICED that the blonde serving us drinks and Cajun fries at Fiddlesticks was missing a finger, the finger that traditionally bears a wedding ring.
It was an Irish pub in the Villag
e, always busy as hell for happy hour. But it was three in the afternoon, a time for nonworking drunks mostly, the dour hour. I flicked a pistachio down and around the horseshoe-shaped bar and it silently disappeared. If people still smoked in bars (like they should), it would’ve pinged off a metal ashtray.
“How should I know? Maybe she’s real commitment-phobic.”
“But don’t you want to know?” He implored with both hands, shaking those nicely manicured fingernails in my face on the you. And he always said shit like that with a guilt-provoking inflection because you didn’t agree with what he wanted right then and there.
“I don’t. But I will ask anyway. By the way, your cuticles are lovely in this light.”
I knew he wouldn’t ask. That’s the Denny way. If Denny wants an answer, he asks somebody to get it for him. If he wants some business done, he gets a subordinate to handle it. And everybody’s a subordinate in Denny’s world. He’s very successful, owns his own (big) contracting firm, but he’s gotten everywhere by having others provide for him. He was like that even in high school. And even before, I’d hazard. Hell, as an infant he probably outsourced for tit milk.
So when the defingered blonde came by, I said, “My friend here is wondering what happened to your finger.”
Denny was shooting me a look, quick-tilted head and all, but she didn’t mind. You can tell sometimes when someone’s the type who’s going to be bothered by any little thing or nothing in the world, and she was the latter. And quite from being commitment-phobic, her story was that she had been married all of a week and had been tending bar when her eye caught a cobweb on some ornamental woodwork above the shelves of booze. She jumped up to “swish” the cobweb away, the ring caught on the woodwork, and when she came down to the ground, the finger was literally ripped from her hand. Denny winced. I followed suit with a wince of my own—a courtesy wince. She provided more graphic details: doctors had cut her open at the hip—she peeled back enough of her jeans to show us the scar—and had sewn the severed digit up inside her, hoping to make it more amenable to a bid for future reattachment. Alas…
Harlan Coben Page 41
