Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  As I yank one of the oars and carry it to the light of the doorway, I inspect the repair I once made to the fractured wood. It was a pretty good fix for a kid—a narrow strip of copper flashing wrapped around the split end of the paddle, and a row of small brass nails driven through to the other side and peened, like little rivets. Dad said it was a waste of copper and threw off the balance between the two oars—as if a couple ounces made a difference.

  I deposit my handiwork beside Mom’s old recliner. A swatch of yellow behind a pickle jar catches my eye. I chuckle, reaching for the wrinkled Mad magazine wedged behind an old bucket. As I pull it out, the faded image of a black Alfred E. Neuman, standing in for Linc of the Mod Squad—that is, Odd Squad of Mad —stares back. I give it a good shake, relieving it of any vermin. Between some mindless comic reading, the coffee-stained sketchbook, and some other memorabilia I brought along, I should have plenty to distract me after dark.

  I give the cover a second glance. I’m pretty sure this is the very same magazine I bought at Garver’s that first week of June. As I tuck the folded magazine in my back pocket, I remember tucking it under my shirt as if it were Playboy and smuggled it into my room.

  With my contraband reading secure under my mattress, I emptied my pockets of coins and candy. Tootsie Rolls, Bazooka bubble gum, and fireballs. That left me with $3.33. Three singles, three dimes, and three pennies. The number seemed lucky somehow, like a good omen. Like this summer was going to be something special.

  As I lay in bed that night, I would have fallen asleep to the image of Amelia staring, of her kissable lips, three aisles away at Garver’s, but every time I envisioned her, Dora’s voice cut in, bringing with it a heat wave of guilt. I would have pulled out my fresh copy of Mad, but even that had guilt attached to it—all those ‘bursting bosoms’—and the fact that I had snuck it. Rather than continue to wallow in guilt, I retrieved The Island of Dr. Moreau and my flashlight from beneath my pillow and read until my eyes and brain could no longer focus.

  In spite of fitful sleep, I still woke early the next morning. Amid the first peeps of songbirds, I listened for stirrings in the bedrooms on either side of mine. By the time each chirp and caw had become an incoherent chorus, I slipped out of bed and into shorts. Careful on the tread that creaked, I snuck down the stairs and then out the back basement door.

  I sat for a few minutes at the end of the dock. The ruckus of birds receded as the sun lightened the sky. I had never realized how peaceful the lake could be, the way it looked as if it was still sleeping under a thin blanket of mist, how remote everything felt—how alone I felt, but in a good way, as if I were the only person on the lake. Having siblings, I was hardly ever all by myself, but I liked being alone. Solitude made me feel stronger, made me wish I were stronger.

  I stood, stretched, and then dove. The water was a lot warmer than I expected. I swam until my muscles strained. Before I knew it, I had reached the mouth of the cove and pushed myself beyond Whispering Narrows and the floatplane. I kept swimming through the mist, toward the island. The water didn’t turn shallow at the island’s edge, it was more like a drop-off. When I reached its root-bound shore, I hoisted myself up and stepped into thick brush and the dense aroma of pine pitch. A branch bobbed as a crow lighted upon it and cawed, as if curious about my arrival. A fallen tree made a convenient bench below a white pine with evenly spaced branches. Perfect for climbing. Within a minute, I had scaled halfway up, my feet feeling every inch.

  I perched upon a high bough and peered at the cove, sleepy and dormant, nestled in the shade. I squinted for a glimpse of Amelia’s bedroom at eye level. A loon warbled, skimming the lake’s surface and came to rest in the cove. I scrambled down and jumped into a bed of pine needles that stuck to the bottoms of my feet. Trying to scrape twigs and leaves from my tenderized soles, I made my way to the water’s edge. One last breath of privacy and I dove into the lake.

  If I were to draw a line between our camp and me, Doc’s plane would intersect that line. Whenever I ventured out of the cove, I always swam wide so it wouldn’t look as if I were messing around near his mooring. As I gained on the Narrows and the Cessna, I slowed at the sight of a figure on the landing. Doc. He spotted me at the same time and waved. I veered toward him, hoping he hadn’t overheard my snide remark to Dora the day before.

  “An early riser?” he called out. “Good man!”

  He still seemed to like me. I closed the gap between us, swimming nearer.

  He beckoned toward the ladder. “Come on up.”

  I didn’t dare refuse. As I emerged, goose bumps rose in the chill air, but a rush of excitement quickly warmed my torso as I checked our camp for movement. It remained unlit.

  “Wow,” I said, walking the length of the fuselage.

  Doc folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Yeah, she’s a beauty. Wanted one like her ever since I was your age. What are you, just about fourteen in September?”

  I didn’t take my eyes off her. “Yes, sir. Almost fourteen.”

  He looked me up and down and seemed to study my face for a moment. “And how’s your mom feeling these days?”

  It seemed an odd question at first, but then, not so much. For whatever reason, I had always sensed that their estrangement was one-sided. In fact, I recalled a time when I had caught them in conversation. But why did his question, and that fleeting trace of a memory, leave me uncomfortable? I shrugged. “She’s good, sir.”

  He nodded as I stepped closer to the plane and caressed the white and red paint job.

  “First time I went up was when I was fourteen. One of my best memories.”

  I craned to see the control panel. “How old were you when you learned to fly, sir?”

  “Doc,” he reminded me. “I was in my twenties. Perhaps you’d like to go up sometime.”

  “Me?”

  He expelled a throaty chuckle. “Who else would I mean?”

  Now I didn’t have a single goose bump. “I sure would love that.”

  “Get permission and we’ll take her up.”

  “Okay,” I said, aware that if my parents saw me talking to Doc, there would be a whole lot of explaining to do. It triggered pounding in my chest. Then, to get my pulse screaming, Amelia sauntered down the lawn and on to the mooring, like a model on a runway, flaunting shorts and a snug T-shirt. The heat of my body parched my throat. Even if Doc still liked me despite my rude behavior at Garver’s, I knew Amelia had heard me and seen Dora cry.

  “I should go,” I said, torn between my first real-live encounter with Amelia, and wishing I could take a dive without being noticed. Problem was, the water would sizzle, given the heat that emanated from my chest.

  “You coming by later this morning to work on the clock?” Doc asked, his back to Amelia.

  “Maybe.” My eyes darted and my breathing faltered. “Depends on if my dad’s taking me fishing.”

  Doc glanced over his shoulder at Amelia as she approached. “You’ve met my granddaughter, haven’t you?”

  It was odd that in all the years we’d been coming to camp, I had never met her, face to face, let alone talked to her. “Not exactly—I mean, I’ve seen her around.” That was it; that was all the air I had. I could barely make eye contact, and when I did, she acknowledged me with a half-hearted smile. She must have thought I was the biggest moron, ever!

  “This is our neighbor, Benjamin Hughes,” Doc said.

  She offered a quiet, “Hi.”

  I nodded a greeting and again said, “I gotta go,” and dove into the water. If Doc hadn’t thought I was rude before, he probably did now. Idiot. I was a moron.

  Swimming all the way back to our camp, I came up with a hundred ways I should have responded—none of them included ‘I gotta go’ or running out of breath or swimming away like some scared kid. I could have asked how Amelia liked the book she had bought yesterday, or told her that she played piano beautifully, or that I liked Oreos too. I could have told her I felt bad for what I had said to Dora, but it w
asn’t Amelia I needed to apologize to. And would telling Dora I was sorry just make things worse? Then she would never leave me alone!

  Behind me, the Cessna’s engine rumbled into and around the cove. I turned, treading water as the plane pulled away from its mooring, picked up momentum, and skimmed the lake. As it lifted off, it disappeared from sight. I emerged onto our pebbled beach and shook off my shame like a dog shakes off water—not quite dry and still foul smelling.

  Chapter 9

  The hands of my pocket watch haven’t moved since 9:42 this morning. As I slip it back into my vest, it occurs to me that guilt is a lot like hands on a broken clock, stuck in the random past. That might sound a bit melodramatic—if it weren’t painfully true. In fact, as I reflect on that summer, so much of it seems steeped in melodrama. I’ve downplayed it over the years—except for the guilt—but there is no denying that I’ve endured too much drama.

  Overhead, the sun has slipped past its zenith and begun its descent. It’s after noon for sure, but by how much? Not that it matters. In less than twenty-four hours, I hope I will have accomplished what I came for. In the morning, I’ll wait for Oscar’s truck and move on. Nothing melodramatic about that.

  I gather my lunch rubbish and juggle my boots—time to return to the cottage. Pausing at the basement door, the insecurities of a kid creep back in. After my conversation with Doc beside his plane that morning, I wondered how I would ever get permission to fly in the Cessna. It seemed as unlikely as scoring another four bucks from Dad. The most I could have hoped for was part of an hour with him, fishing like he had promised—like he had promised every year. Not that he hadn’t followed through in the past, but his idea of fishing involved minimal time and effort, and a lot of checking his watch. Just the same, I had always hoped, although I can’t call it optimism.

  Anxious to make plans with Dad, I bolted up the basement stairs, composing myself, ready to play it cool when I stepped into the kitchen.

  Mom sauntered out of their bedroom and posed in the hallway.

  Ignoring me, Dad peered up over his newspaper at Mom. “Those are new.”

  “I got the sandals at Garver’s.”

  He fluffed his paper. “I’m talking about the entire outfit.”

  Mom’s gaze landed on me as I grabbed the Corn Flakes box at the table. “And where have you been?”

  “Just went for a morning swim,” I said.

  “When did you start taking morning swims?”

  I shrugged. “Today, I guess.”

  As I sat at the table, Dad’s focus shifted from Mom’s outfit back to his paper.

  I shook cereal into my bowl. “We’re still going fishing this morning, right Dad?”

  “We’ll see.” He circled something on the newsprint. “Why don’t you get the rowboat cleaned up and we’ll see what’s left of the day.” That was as good as ‘Don’t count on it!’, but I still hoped.

  After I scarfed down my cereal, I went to my room, crammed candy in my pocket and counted my change. My $3.33 had turned into $2.22. Maybe I had miscalculated how much candy I had bought, but I had been so sure of the threes. I then headed down to the beach where Frankie and the neighbor kid, Skip, squatted at the water’s edge.

  “Hey, Frankie, you seen my dollar floating around the room?”

  Wiping his nose, Frankie looked up from scooping a bucketful of tadpoles. “Where the heck did you get a dollar?”

  “None of your business. Have you seen it?”

  He shrugged. “No. You should check under the bed.”

  As if he would have owned up to seeing it.

  “Hey, give me a hand, would ya’?” I said, uncovering the rowboat.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out a couple Tootsie Rolls. In two seconds, both Frankie and Skip splashed out of the water and stood opposite me, lifting the aluminum boat from upside down onto its side. I took it from there, lowering it to a row of round posts that I had laid on the ground as rollers. My grip slipped and the boat landed with a tunk, adding yet another dent to its underside. Skip squealed with a shiver. A nest of wriggling pink bodies had dropped from under the seat onto the floor.

  “It’s just a bunch of baby mice,” I scooped up a couple with a leaf and laid them back in the nest. “They’re no grosser than frogs and tadpoles.”

  I carried the full nest inside the shed and tucked it in the corner nearest where the boat had sat.

  “Will their mama find them?” Skip squatted for a better look and then glanced up at me with big brown eyes full of concern. “Or will something come and eat them?”

  “Sure, she’ll find them—that’s what mamas do. They protect their young. No matter what.” There was a good chance she would abandon her offspring and that, in fact, something would eat them, but I didn’t want to upset little Skippy. And a part of me needed to believe in the strength of maternal instincts.

  I left the boys in the shed—making plans for how to protect and feed the babies until mama could take over—and returned to the boat. I spent the next half hour scraping a wasp nest from the transom and removing mice crap and spider sacks and sweeping earwigs with a half-worn whiskbroom. With the oarlocks in place, I retrieved the paddles from the shed. In the corner, Skip and Frankie had built a fortress around the nest. Beside it, I grabbed both of our fishing rods, the tackle box, and a net. I carried them to the boat, admiring my oar repair, making sure it would survive another summer. I bet it would hold up a lot longer than me.

  With the rods and oars in place, I was good to go. Now all I needed was a dad. I bounded up the path to the basement door and flew up the staircase into the kitchen.

  “The boat’s ready!” I said as I burst into the room.

  At the table, Mom jumped, disrupting her coffee mug as she raised it to her lips. Coffee sloshed all down the front of her outfit.

  “Now look what you’ve done, Ben! How many times have I told you …?”

  Told me what? To not breathe? “Sorry, Mom.”

  I grabbed a dishtowel from the sink and went to mop up the table. Snatching it and blotting her front, she huffed with impatience. “What do you want?”

  I mumbled, “Where’s Dad?”

  “He had to run a last-minute errand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she opened a random cabinet, “he took off to run an errand, last minute.”

  “But he said we’d go fishing.”

  She slammed the cupboard door and faced me, her expression as sharp as her tone. “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

  Her eyes gaped and her lips pressed. I didn’t dare push it. She gripped the back of the chair and stared at me.

  “Fine. I’ll go fishing by myself.” I knew how to do that. But first, I had to use the bathroom. When I came out, Mom stood at the counter and spun around to face me, pushing something behind her as she sipped her new cup of coffee.

  “Have a nice time on the lake,” she said with a sweet smile.

  “Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath as I headed downstairs and out to the boat.

  As I pushed off shore, scraping my way to shallow water, the sound of running feet pounded the dock.

  “Wait up Ben! I’ll come with!” Penny came up alongside the boat as I neared the dock.

  “I already put Dad’s rod away. You’ll have to go get it from the shed.” I steadied the boat.

  She stepped inside with her beach bag and plunked down at the transom end. “Who needs a rod?”

  “Yeah, right.” I had just become her indentured cabby, her ride to the public beach. “Does Mom know where you’re going?”

  “I told her I took pity on you and that we’d be gone for hours, fishing, of course.”

  It was all the same to me. I could drop her off at the beach and still do some fishing, even if I was all by myself.

  With a pivot of my oar, I aimed the boat toward Whispering Narrows, rowing with the bow at my back. As we passed Amelia’s
beach, I imagined her sprawled on the sand. I used to imagine her sitting at the end of their little beachside dock and maybe having an opportunity to talk, but this morning, that seemed a little too up-close for comfort.

  Amelia’s vacant dock jutted out about twenty feet into the cove. I could have touched it with my oar as I passed by. Peering across their lawn, I envisioned the grand piano behind the prow-shaped picture windows at the center of the house.

  “Keeping an eye out for Amy?” Penny asked as soon as we passed through the Narrows to the privacy of the open lake.

  “No. She’s not even home.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “Saw her taking off with Doc this morning,” I said, tossing a glance over my shoulder at the mooring ahead of us. From a set of sliding-glass doors, a slender brunette, wearing a peasant dress and round dark spectacles, stepped out onto the patio and waved. Penny waved back.

  I kept rowing. “Who’s that?”

  “I think it’s Amy’s cousin from California.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Forget it, lover boy. She’s like twenty-two years old.”

  “So?” As if I had any more chance with her than I did Amelia. “What’s her name?”

  Penny shielded her mouth, “Sunshine.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s actually Matilda, named after her grandmother, but she changed it. Says Sunshine is what Doc always called her, but she is such a hippie—” the word hippie rolled from the curl of Penny’s smile. “I think that’s why she changed it.”

  “I’ve heard that hippies don’t wash.”

  “That’s not true, any more than it is to say thirteen-year-old boys don’t wash.”

  “I do too.” Though I hadn’t showered since we arrived, but swimming in the lake was as good as bathing. “So, speaking of hippies, who’s at the beach?”