Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham)

by Sheffield, Jamie

  “If you get a chance, could you park, and leave, the Element, at the Ampersand Bay end of Lower Saranac Lake?” I asked, knowing that the ranger would find my car in short order, and waste days paddling to all of the official and unofficial campsites on Lower and Middle Saranac Lakes, hoping to catch me squatting for longer than allowed, or without a permit at one of the pay-sites.

  Dot must have seen some level of the desperation in my eyes beneath my attempt to distract her with a chance to harass the ranger, or heard it in my voice (she knows me better than anyone else on Earth, except possibly for Mickey Schwarz, and could read the tiny signs I give that most people miss altogether), because she let Cheeko swoop down on baby Deirdre for one more round of kisses, and then peeled out of the gravel parking area and driveway nearly fast enough to shower us in pea-sized indignities and gravel.

  I got an awkward round of introductions, with the highlight being a leg-hug from the short, but enthusiastic Deirdre; I perhaps got some kid-cred for being a member of Team Dorothy and Cheeko. Mike walked us all inside, was surprised to note two extra settings for lunch, and arranged drinks for everyone (and a snack for Deirdre) and then led a discussion about the service, and paddle trip-planning for the afternoon and/or tomorrow as everyone settled into the overstuffed furniture around the room engaged in pre-lunch conversation, talking as if I wasn’t there.

  “Back from church, time to begin drinking,” said a woman who had walked up from the direction of the boathouse to join us. I nodded, taking in her different-ness … outside tan and wrinkles and fancy earth/sky tone clothes and lots of turquoise and silver (Santa Fe, I guessed internally, to be checked against the facts, should they come to light).

  She made a quick scan of the room and then headed right for me, looping her arm in mine and ushering me over to the large bay window and its views of the lake. “Elyse Portner, I’m a friend of Peggy’s, Mike’s second wife, the current one,” she said. “I’m up visiting for a week or so. Peg’s helping me put together a show in ‘The City’ (emphasis hers) this fall, and we’re hashing out some details before I talk with her people at the gallery.” She talked with an assurance of (or lack of caring about) my knowledge of her and her relations with the Crockers, which I found interesting … I nodded, and waited to see what else she would say; it worked.

  “I was hiding down by the water in the upstairs of that magnificent boathouse while they were all off being churched up. I saw your girlfriend and the dog, but just kept painting those two lovely islands off to the left of the tiny one (Tommy’s Rock and Dry Island, I thought, but didn’t say. I also didn’t say anything about Dot not being my girlfriend, a type of relationship I couldn’t/can’t imagine for myself, with Dot or anyone else … not from a desire to keep secrets/truth from this woman, but from a lifelong habit of not volunteering information that might be used to further unwanted social interactions). What is that tiny one, Loon Island I believe Mike called it (Goose Island, actually, but again, I just smiled and nodded politely), and the big one in front of us—what’s it called?” She ran down, hoping perhaps for me to supply the name for her, which after a somewhat long pause, I did.

  “Green,” I said, pointing out at the island, so that she wouldn’t think that I was just telling her my favorite color (which is, in point of fact, green).

  “Yes. At any rate, I was starting to get hungry—and thirsty,” she said this last with a wink, the meaning of which was lost on me, “when I heard the cars and commotion that heralded the arrival of the churchgoing Crockers, old and small.” She spun me around to gesture at the room full of Crockers who were busying themselves with post church/pre-lunch activities.

  “Peg is so glad to have Daniel and Kristen up, with little Dee. They haven’t seen them hardly at all since Dee was born. It was so sweet of Kitty to arrange for Tessa,” she said gesturing towards the au pair who had just re-entered the room with Deirdre in tow, freshly changed out of her church fancies and ready for an afternoon of camp play. “Although,” Elyse went on without missing a beat, “I think perhaps ‘Tessa from Odessa’ is almost too attractive to be spending all that time within reach of Daniel, or possibly even Mike, don’t you think?” she asked. I couldn’t have commented, even if I wanted to; I’m generally not aware of beauty or the lack thereof in humans, beyond symmetricality and obvious disfigurements (Tessa had, and did not have any, in turns, if you were wondering). I was getting tired, absorbing all of this information, and wondered if there would be a quiz later; Kitty could have talked for a week without letting slip this much personal data.

  “You’re the secret, the surprise, the mystery that everyone knows about, but they’re all much too polite to talk about, right?” She said/asked/guessed. I smiled vaguely, my #2—friendly/gentle/clueless-ish, and re-directed.

  “How do you know Peggy?” I asked.

  “We met at Bennington, both of us in the process of trying to escape that glorious green state. After school, the two of us opened a gallery in Girlington, grinding painfully along for a few years until she met Mike, and I fled the winters for Santa Fe (I credited myself with a win).

  “That was a nice try, Tyler, but I’m going to spill my Bloody Mary on you if you don’t tell me your secret,” she said, smiling in a way that would let most people know if she was kidding or not; I took a half-step back and saw her eyes widen with what might have been pleasure.

  “Mike will know after lunch, and I assume you can get it from Peg shortly thereafter. I’ve had worse on these clothes, and still worn them for a couple of days. Can you say the same?” I said.

  She looked for me to be kidding, saw that I wasn’t (can’t), tried to decide whether to land on angry or shocked, and eventually settled on a loud and comfortable laugh. Everyone else in the room turned to look at us, in much the same way that Frank and Meg look at my dog Hope when she farts loudly during a visit. I took advantage of the interruption to orbit away from Elyse, and study a trio of Blagden watercolors on the wall … they looked to have been done at this end of Upper Saranac: Dry and Goose islands from a point just to the northwest of Green Island, Spider Creek coming from Follensby Clear Pond, and Buck Island from the mouth of Saginaw Bay, unless I was wrong (which I mostly add for politeness’ sake, because I’m not, except in very rare cases).

  As I slid around the rim of the Great Room, taking in the details of artwork and taxidermy, I was enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of an old great camp, while all of my sensory recording equipment kept running; I didn’t mind being isolated from the majority of the conversation. Mike’s wife and children (Peg and Daniel and Kristen, as I now knew) made a few attempts to either steer the conversation in my direction and/or to loft a conversational slow-pitch my way, but I am horrible at polite conversation, and was able/destined to avoid getting caught up in whatever they were talking about. I took in the old and dark wood all around me, the fancy but well used silver at the table (and in Deirdre’s hands and mouth), the birchbark placemats around the table decoratively stitched with porcupine quills, the smells of old wood and dust and moth balls and pitch and Murphy’s Oil Soap and coffee and lake and pine needles, the sound of a loon out on the lake yelling at a jetskier and the help rattling around in the kitchen while ‘the wealthy Spanish landowners’ (a phrase my father had always used to describe America’s old money, a Zorro reference I believe) debated the merits of various pastors in their log-built summer church and canoe trips they had all done dozens of times over the years. I took it all in, taking advantage of the chance to be a fly on the wall.

  The mood, and my reverent study of the great camp environment, was broken when Anthony came into the room, followed, noisily, by Kitty Crocker. She rattled through the door, propelled and held aloft by an incongruent (both in this setting, and apparently, by design) aluminum walker with bright/new/glowing tennis balls on its feet. The walker seemed to bang into everything, establishing its territory like an aggressive dog, and fit into the calm (and calming) room like poop in a punchbow
l (a saying that popped unbidden into my head, my mother’s, from my childhood … this place seemed to evoke memories of long ago times). Kitty scowled at attempts to help her, at her walker, at Anthony for suggesting that they should pull up the old Persian carpet to allow her easier access to the room, at Mike’s too-large/too-early bourbon, and to a lesser degree, at my presence (I know that she wanted me to do what I do, but I had complicated her day in a number of ways, and so had certainly earned the scowl); little Deirdre was our saviour.

  As if scripted, she reached for the walker as Kitty hunched and shuffled past her, grabbing one of the brightly colored balls, and nearly making the old woman fall. Everyone drew breath at the same moment, anticipating disaster/anger/shouting/crying (except me, I like to watch crises not of my creation unfold, to log/learn about human emotions under stress), then Kitty turned to me, and said, “Tyler, get one of these balls for her so she doesn’t kill me.”

  It broke the ice, made the kid happy, let the family know where I stood (somewhere between acquaintance and hired help), and helped Kitty get past her awkwardness about being old and cranky and dying and difficult. I pulled a ball off the walker, gave it to Deirdre, and helped Kitty negotiate her way into the seat at the head of the table. Anthony hustled in with a drink for her, which smelled like rum and tonic (which seemed horrific to me, but I find alcohol nasty and stupid stuff to consume in the best case, so I should not be trusted to judge other people’s drink choices).

  As soon as Kitty was settled comfortably, the food started coming in, and the au pair (too attractive ‘Tessa from Odessa’, who did, it was only fair to say, get watched more closely than seemed warranted by three of the four male humans in the room) got Deirdre into a strikingly modern-looking highchair. Talk shifted to news, and eager anticipation of reading ‘The Times’ (which isn’t available in the Adirondacks until after church on Sundays, apparently a hardship on par with plague or famine), with opinions sought and offered about current events among the adults, as food was being passed and served and eaten. Sunday lunch was cold and casual and yummy, although surprisingly it came with both salad and dessert.

  I resumed my imitation of a fly on the wall, interrupted only once by Deirdre’s au pair, who was seated to my left, when she asked what I did. Everyone but Kitty (and I) looked at Tessa as though she had beaten the child (although Mike’s and Anthony’s and Daniel’s looks seemed tempered by some mitigating forgiveness), and Kitty shut the conversation down with a simple shut-ended reply.

  “Tyler is helping me with some loose ends, and needs a tour of the camp after lunch … Mike.” Mike looked genteel daggers at me, and continued eating his way through a stack of avocado, tomato, and fresh mozzarella, dressed with basil and balsamic vinegar, while the rest of the table restarted a discussion of the newest Middle-East peace efforts, and why they were destined to fail.

  Anthony was mostly quiet, but would occasionally offer an opinion on financial or legal matters. His role and station seemed similar to mine: minor functionary in the service of Kitty, not a minion, but also not family or guest. I would later find out that he had been travelling with Kitty for weeks, helping her work through the final disposition of her will, and family asset/property allocation after her passing.

  When the meal was finished, and had been cleared by the cook (and her assistant), Kitty asked if I would help the younger generation load boats on cartops for the afternoon paddle while she spoke briefly with Mike. Mike’s wife, Peggy, announced that she would be reading her book up on top of the boathouse (which the knowing and significant nods and winks from the younger Crockers led me to believe that that was code for a nap in the sun, which seemed to me a perfectly acceptable activity for a well-fed Sunday afternoon, code or no). I went out of the cool quiet of the great room, into the bright light and mild heat of the Adirondack afternoon to help the younger Crockers tie boats up onto the roof of their Subaru, and talk about the merits of various canoe trips (they were heading out to paddle around Follensby Clear Pond, a nearby and pretty little pond, filled with pleasant islands for Deirdre to play on and explore). I mentioned Floodwood Pond to Fish Creek, which was met with groaning and knowing nods, so followed up with Jones Pond to Osgood Pond to Church Pond … a fun little trip through a series of gorgeous ponds and canals and beaver-choked streams; they said they hadn’t tried it, and might give it a shot tomorrow.

  We finished, and they were just crunching out of the driveway, when Mike came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed down towards the boathouse, “Come on then, Tyler. The tour has to start down at the boathouse.” He paused before continuing, grinding his teeth a bit, trying to plan his way through this unpleasant conversation and chore. “I understand Mother’s desire to know about Dee before she dies, but have no patience for anyone taking advantage of our pain for their profit. Also, if you so much as scratch my car, I’ll get the roofing contractors working here this summer (he pointed to a number of buildings with signs of roof work in various stages of need or preparation or completion) to grind you into gazpacho.”

  As Mike delivered his tasteful threat, I could see the ghost of Barry walk around the back of one of the long garage buildings, and turn towards us. He seems to appear when I am feeling threatened, when the subject of violence is raised in general, or in the presence of loud noises. He was a nearly constant companion during hunting season last fall, made a number of visits during various firework displays that Saranac Lake hosts during the year (Winter Carnival, and July Fourth come to mind). Sometimes he speaks, sometimes we carry on a conversation, other times he is a quiet guest; this appeared to be one of the latter visitations.

  Knowing that he exists only in my imagination was no help at first. He would speak to me in the presence of other people and I initially answered by turning to face him. Active listening and responsive conversations are hard habits to break, especially as they had been so hard for me to learn (my response to a dizzyingly stimulating world as a baby was to focus only on what had my attention at that instant, and tune everything else out … something most people do not do). I knew that I had to take some control of my relationship with Barry when Hope started turning to face him during our conversations too (taking her cues, I assume, from the direction of my eyes/face/hands). In this case, it was easy to tune him out as he wasn’t (yet) speaking to me, and had likely been drawn by Mike’s threat if I damaged his car.

  The three of us walked down to the water, with me sucking in every detail I could hold in eye and ear and nose … some of it might even be useful in finding Mike’s sister, although I doubted it.

  Camp Topsail, Upper Saranac Lake, 7/14/2013, 1:52 p.m.

  “Mother told me to give you the VIP tour of the camp, as well as my memories of the night she ….” Mike broke off and shook his head like a wet dog, or in his case like an aging polo pony, before starting up again on a new tack that brought Barry in closer to us.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? Do you actually think that you can find anything after all this time, when the others over the years have failed? Or are you just taking advantage of a sick old woman’s pathetic hope?” he asked, punctuating his questions with a finger poking into my chest, five inches south of my Adam’s apple … it hurt … I flinched and winced with each poke.

  “I’d twist that finger right off, and shove it up his ass, Tyler. You can’t let a guy like that get up on top of you.” Barry was right behind me, speaking down into my right ear from his towering height, close enough that I should have felt his breath on my ear (but of course, I couldn’t).

  “Not helping,” I said, under my breath, hoping that Mike wouldn’t hear me. Barry refuses to respect or respond to my wishes or thoughts if not spoken aloud, which is both tricky and annoying behavior for a symptom.

  “Mr. Crocker, I’m here because your mother asked me to come and apply my investigative talents to your sister’s disappearance. I do believe that I may be able to find something that others missed because I take a diffe
rent approach to problem-solving than others generally do; if I did not think that there was a chance, I wouldn’t be wasting my time. If I were taking advantage of your mother’s hope, I would have a fat check in my pocket right now, instead of the promise to borrow a car nearly as old as I am.”

  “What’s the deal with borrowing my car anyway? Do you have some beef against me personally, or a chip against rich people with fancy cars? The Porsche was a gift, and is, as you say, probably as old as you, and likely worth more.”

  “The father of a friend of mine (not really a ‘friend’, but I didn’t want to confuse Mike) had a 993. Niko, my friend, was obsessed with the car, as a way to try and get close to his father … it failed. I joined in with his obsession as a way to try and get close to Niko … that also failed. But we both learned a lot about the 993 variant of the 911, and I remember all of it to this day, along with that throaty roar the last air-cooled model that Porsche makes when you unleash it, from my drives in it with Niko and his dad. I have nothing against you personally, or against rich people, with or without fancy cars. I grew up in and amongst rich people, and until your mother dies, I would bet that I both have more money in the bank than you, and care about it less than anyone you know. Are we good? Can we look around Topsail, and talk about your sister now?” Mike glared at me a bit, turning my words over in his head; as per Barry’s advice, I wanted to back him off of me, and get on top of him a bit.

  “Also, I like the 993 because the number has 2 factors, both awesome prime numbers: three and 331. Pythagoras thought three the noblest of all digits, it is the first prime in both Fermat’s and Mersenne’s sequences … and the only number in both. 331 is even better … it’s the 7th cuban prime, and is both a centered pentagonal and centered hexagonal number.” When I finished this statement, Mike actually took a step back, and away from me … I have trouble reading fear versus awe, but my nerdery had done the trick in either case. Barry gave a nod and orbited out and away from the two of us as we walked down and out onto the dock running out into the water beside the large boathouse.