I push open my door and step inside. The walls close in around me. The metal-framed bunk bed against the near wall eats up most of the cubicle that now feels no bigger than a closet. Two steps away, a small corner window offsets the bed. The bare mattress of the upper bunk looks like the same one I slept on, back when I didn’t care how lumpy the bedding was. I usually dozed off easily at camp, although, now that I think of it, I had a hard time sleeping that first night, and it wasn’t because I would be sneaking to Doc’s in the morning. The problem was Mom and Dad. Even over Frankie’s snoring below me, I detected contention in their hushed voices.
“ … Well, Ben’s at that age, you know,” Mom rebutted.
My ears perked.
Dad’s deep sigh penetrated the wall. “And what would you have me do? Search his room?”
My cheeks heated. I would have to find a new hiding place for my Mad magazines. Good thing I had already transplanted the bulk of them before we left last summer.
“You need to do something about your son. I don’t want him smoking—like father, like son.”
“Like father, like son? That’s a stretch.”
“I know you have a smoke every now and then, Frank.”
“The smoking isn’t what I’m talking about…. ”
Through the pause, I envisioned Mom’s glare. “We are not having that discussion again.”
Something clunked the floorboards—a shoe, maybe, followed by a second thud. “No, I suppose we don’t need to, now that you’re up here in the boonies, away from—”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I pictured Dad knotting his arms with finality. “Fine. I’ll talk to Ben.”
If I hadn’t heard that phrase, “Fine, I’ll talk to Ben,” a hundred times before Dad brought up any of Mom’s pet topics, chances were, I would never receive the Why-Smoking-Is-Bad lecture. It would be a refreshing change from the Stand-Up-to-Bullies spiel. I would never forget that speech.
Dad had waited until a neighborhood barbeque when my friends and their parents gathered around the picnic table and grill. “Ben just needs to learn how to stand his ground, like his old man,” he’d said, smacking his fist to his palm. “He’s got to earn respect the old fashioned way.”
It wasn’t as if Dad were some tough guy who went around getting into brawls. He wasn’t violent so much as always on the edge. Although I never knew when he might lash out at me, his full-blown hairy fits usually coincided with one of Mom’s moods. And even when he booted my rear end or smacked me upside the head, it wasn’t hard enough to really hurt. But he always chose the worst times, like when I was around my buddies. As much as I would have liked a friend at camp, at least there was no audience for Dad’s belittling—that was a perk. And so far, Mom was in a relatively good mood. At least she had been until they started bickering tonight. To my relief, their argument didn’t last long. Mom ended it with her predictable, “Quiet or you’ll wake them ….”
As I lay there, hoping that was the last of it, I couldn’t help thinking about exactly which discussion Mom and Dad were ‘not going to have again.’ Why were adult arguments always so cryptic? And why did so many of my parents’ disputes begin or end with my name? If I hoped for any sleep at all, I needed to quit thinking about stuff that made my heart pound. If I was going to dwell on any of life’s big mysteries, I was better off fantasizing about Amelia Burns—the ultimate mystery. My thoughts jumped from her to Doc to Whispering Narrows, and how I might sneak down there undetected. Halfway into formulating a plan, I fell asleep.
The next morning, my plotting picked up where I had left off. My strategy would be to play it cool and draw no undue attention. I never had much to say at the breakfast table, so I didn’t appear any different from usual, but I thought for sure someone would notice my excitement. I chewed slowly, made no eye contact, brought my dishes to the sink, and even volunteered to sweep pine needles off the stoop. That might have been a mistake.
Mom grabbed my sleeve. “Are you feeling alright this morning, Ben?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just gonna ride my bike—that okay?”
She looked me up and down like a schoolmarm, and I half-expected her to inspect my fingernails for tobacco stains or check my breath.
“Just be careful, stay off the main road, and be back by lunchtime,” she said.
It never occurred to me that I should bother to ask if it was okay to go to Doc’s place. My mother disliked him, although I didn’t recall that she ever came out and said so, but I did have some recollection—more like an out-of-focus snapshot—of some falling-out between them. And, why provide one more opportunity to prove that my parents delighted in disappointing me? Besides, Mom never said I couldn’t go to Whispering Narrows. In my book, omission was as good as permission.
In case Mom or Dad might have observed me from the window over the kitchen sink, I headed away from Doc’s and then calculated my turnaround. A few minutes later, I zipped back past our dooryard and coasted downhill. For the first time in my life, I ventured between the grotesque lions atop the large stone pillars and onto pea stone gravel. The lions would have been scarier if they didn’t have their paws up, like Lassie. Doc’s Land Rover was parked in the half-circle drive in front of the grand entryway, between the west wing and the east.
I didn’t want to leave my bike lying in the driveway, but my run-in with the Land Rover had snapped off my stingray’s kickstand. I dared not lean it against any of the large concrete planters, the sculpted shrubs, or the wrought iron railing that curled up either side of three steps to the front door. I opted for the large oak tree near the road, tucked out of sight from passing vehicles.
I climbed the wide granite steps between two pillars, twice as tall as me. The faint roll of piano scales penetrated the wooden door. Standing under the huge porch, I stared up into the fearsome eyes of a cast-iron lion’s head. I hesitated to lift the large ring and looked for a doorbell. Surely, the richest man on the lake had a doorbell, but no, I had no choice but to use the knocker. With two timid raps, the sound of piano notes ceased. As I waited, I imagined Amelia at her piano, wearing a bikini, with her strawberry locks tumbling down her arched back—a side view of course. I continued waiting, hoping that she might be sauntering toward the door at that very moment—that the door would open slowly, that she would blush and take my hand ….
The heavy door flew open, displacing enough atmosphere to cool the sweat collecting at my hairline.
“Ben—Good,” Doc bellowed from within, his voice as vigorous as his stature, which loomed like a sequoia. “How’s the knee?”
“Good, sir,” I said without moving. Before I could add anything, he walked back into the house, leaving the door wide open.
“Don’t just stand there,” he called. “Do you think I want to air condition the entire lake?” Was that an invitation to step in? He half turned, his voice booming in the large foyer. “Inside, son! And shut the door behind you!”
“Yes, sir,” I said as he exited into a doorway that seemed to narrow as it enveloped his girth. I stepped inside, onto slate. Although I stood indoors, everything surrounding me—the wood and iron, the earthy colors, the smell of pine—felt like outdoors. Overhead and in front of a balcony, a massive iron chandelier hung like an eagle descending upon its prey. An oak rail and balusters wound around the upper foyer and joined a staircase that landed to my right. Opposite the main entrance, a set of double doors was cracked ajar. Stained-glass panes shrouded the room’s contents but could not obscure an outline of a grand piano.
Music had not picked up again. The figure sitting at the bench shifted. Her back faced me. I thought she might have turned around for a look, and so I moved just out of sight, although I’m not certain why. Perhaps I felt out of place—perhaps standing in the grand foyer brought Penny’s words back to me: She’s out of your league, Ben ….
My throat tightened with an involuntary cough—it ricocheted off a hundred surfaces and cam
e crashing back like thunder. The seconds hung forever. With stealth, I moved just enough to snatch a view between the doors.
She wore a sundress. Tendrils escaped from a ponytail atop her head and swept across her shoulder as her face turned toward me. A piano keystroke cut the silence like shattering glass, and then another stroke, a note lower. As if in time with a metronome, her notes repeated: one-two—one-two. Tick-tock—tick-tock—tick-tock, drawing blood to my face. Our eyes met. I resisted the impulse to look away. To endure her tease without a flinch was the lesser humiliation. She seemed to be smiling. Was it at me, or at my discomfort?
Rescuing me from torment, Doc’s voice reached the foyer before he did.
“Found it—seems to be all here,” he said as he approached, carrying a box with flaps askew.
I moved from Amelia’s sight and met Doc, my heart pounding. He shoved some crumpled old newspaper from the box to my hand. I stretched my neck for a peek at a pointed-top, beehive-shaped clock with a plain, porcelain face and mahogany-looking case. I bet it was old. My confidence bolstered at the sight of the manufacturer’s stamp, Seth Thomas—I had heard of that clock maker.
“Well? What do you think? Fixable?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’ll need a closer look.”
He thrust the box at me with a wink. “You got tools?”
“No, sir—I mean, yes, but not at camp.”
“Follow me,” he rumbled, heading back through the narrow doorway. I obeyed.
From what I could tell, it was a service hall—a long one, unadorned and emptying into a room that dwarfed under his presence. A door to the right remained open, exposing a kitchen. We exited through another door directly ahead, leading to the garage. It looked nothing like any garage I had ever been in, and it didn’t smell like gasoline and oily rags, either. I stayed close at his heel, counting off four cars sheathed in canvas—except for the Jag, which sparkled even in the dim light. Side by side, we stood in his workshop, tucked in a corner that was the size of an entire room.
Benches lined the wall, over which a set of windows peered out at the lake, providing a view of not only Amelia’s beach, but also Doc’s floatplane.
I scarcely noticed when he asked, “Ever been in one of those?”
I shook my head—with my mouth agape.
“Every boy’s dream, I suppose.”
“What is it? I mean what kind of plane?”
“She’s a Cessna 185 with their new 300 horsepower Continental engine,” he said as I gawked. She. I had never heard anyone refer to a plane as ‘she’—a boat, yes, but I hadn’t ever thought of a plane the way he apparently did. All at once, his Cessna took on female characteristics—beautiful and curvaceous, while elusive and full of mystery.
He bent to a low drawer, pointing. “In there.”
I gave him a curious glance, hesitant to come off as presumptuous.
“Yes, open it! Don’t make a tired old man bend.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and pulled the drawer.
“You see what you need?”
“Yes.” A full set of jeweler’s screwdrivers and assorted other fine implements sat arranged in a wooden base. I had never seen such sparkling tools outside of a catalog.
“Well then, now you know where they are. Work on the clock for a little while this morning, if you like. When you’re done, leave through this door,” he said, opening the portal leading to the world outside—to the airplane dock. “Come back tomorrow if you’d like. Use this entrance. The key’s under the rock by the door.”
“Really?”
His brow crinkled with dismay. “Was I unclear?”
“No, sir,” I replied, bracing myself for his rebuke.
“You are trustworthy, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll get along fine,” he said, jabbing his hand toward me.
Apparently, he liked me. I shoved my hand at his.
“So, you do know how to smile, young Benjamin Hughes!”
He winked, exited into the yard, and shut the door behind him. Through the window, I watched him come into sight as he ambled down the dock toward his Cessna and all but disappear behind its fuselage. It barely rocked under his weight as he stepped up onto its torpedo-shaped float, which jostled for a few moments afterward. I imagined him checking all the controls, flipping switches, tapping gauges, and talking to some staticky voice in his headphone as he cleared everything for takeoff. Before long, the engine engaged and it started its forward lunge into the middle of the lake. After skimming the surface, it rose from the water, cleared the trees within inches, and then veered sharply to the southeast, disappearing from my view. He must have been the richest man on the East Coast!
Alone now, awe overtook me. The shop may as well have been a sanctuary for the reverential feelings it evoked. Light streamed in from the double window, as if through cathedral stained glass, and reflected off a set of hand ratchets of ascending sizes, gleaming like pipes of an old church organ. I was surely in heaven.
The clock drew my attention. I set it on the workbench and pulled the small brass knob on its back access door. A pendulum lay in the bottom of the case with a long and bent wire still attached. Its spring had cracked and split off. I had to think on the remedy, but before I tackled that, it needed a good cleaning. Of course, that would require at least several more trips to Doc’s shop. I glanced at my watch. Time was running short. I didn’t want him to think I had abandoned the project, so I wrote a note, letting him know I needed some mineral spirits, and that I would be back.
I slipped out the door and gazed at the spot where the plane had sat. How would it feel, moving forward over the water, gaining momentum, and lifting skyward? My imaginings soon wandered around the corner of the garage shop, across the back lawn, and down toward Amelia’s unoccupied beach. I kept out of sight, hidden from Safe Haven.
Penny sat reading on the float and Frankie played at the water’s edge. Mom reposed in her recliner, her head tipped sunward. I assumed that some project over at our shed kept Dad busy and out of sight. Our camp’s appearance from Amelia’s perspective excited me, but Frankie’s laughter rippling across the water, as if he were only feet away, reminded me of our precarious proximity. How many of our conversations had Amelia overheard? At the thought of it, heat pulsed from my neck up, intensifying as I recalled the look on her face as she played Tick-Tock on her piano.
Chapter 7
It’s strange how even as an adult, the memory of Amelia turns me into an insecure kid and twists my stomach. I’m not sure if my intensified mood is the result of staring out the window at Amelia’s beach, or because I’m standing in my old room, but the atmosphere now feels heavier—gloomier. As I crank the casement window open, a glint of light from the sill catches my eye. An aggie marble. Rubbing off the film of grime, I hold it up, marveling at the simplicity of it. I pop the marble into the air and catch it, grinning at the happy memento, and then stick it in my pocket. A cool breeze follows me out of the room.
Next, I need power and water. Or I could spend the evening in the dark. I walk toward the basement stairway, considering that option, and stall. Rather than succumb to cowardice, I give myself a rehearsed speech: All you have to do is walk downstairs, go directly to the utility closet, take care of business, and get the hell out! My eye twitches. Sucking in a long breath, I give my vest a fortifying yank and straighten my spine. Just do it.
I step onto the first tread. The second squeaks. From there, my nerves steady, and I continue down the narrow stairway. Humidity and the odor of mildew strengthen as I descend into the dimly lit basement. The exterior door, separating me from the hovering bug graveyard that I bypassed earlier, provides hazy illumination. As soon as I step onto concrete, the temperature drops. Although the fieldstone fireplace in the corner is swept clean, the acridity of ash still lingers in the air. How many rainy days did we warm ourselves in front of that fireplace, playing cards or monopoly? How many times did I stare into flickering embers
, wondering how my life would turn out? What career would I have? Whom would I end up marrying?
Gretchen comes back to mind. If all had gone according to plan, I would be wearing a wedding band at this moment, kissing my bride in front of 278 guests. God, I miss her. And yet I’m also relieved—not because she broke the engagement, but because she’s no longer dependent upon me. Not that she was a burden—I would have gladly followed through. Bittersweet, how you can build someone up, help her discover her own value, and then realize you’ve given her wings. The hardest part has been accepting the notion that I am no longer enough, that my emotional baggage has caught up with me. Watching her fly away gave me an odd satisfaction and the deepest pain I’ve ever known. Okay, that may be a little melodramatic. In reality, the pain of our breakup is farther down the list.
I focus on the utility closet opposite the fireplace. Inside, the water pump and the rusty, paint-peeled water heater look as if they’ve been here since the sixties. I turn levers, light the pilot, and flip the main breaker, working mechanically, going through the motions like checking off a mental list before takeoff. Clear.
I back out of the closet. Beside me, the door to an adjacent room at the rear wall—a flaking particleboard partition—remains shut. We called it the “unfinished room.” It housed a washer and two-by-four-constructed shelving with exposed rafters above. As soon as I catch myself lingering, I let go of the breath I’ve been holding and swallow back a wave of nausea.
I need air—now! Turning on heel and trotting upstairs, I trip on the laces I didn’t tie. Now that would be ironic, if I slipped and broke a leg and couldn’t climb back up. I would laugh myself to death, right here on the stairs.
Spilled Coffee Page 4
