Tremolo

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “Morning, Mum.” I inhaled the aroma greedily and reached for the toast. “I’m starving.”

  Good morning, son.” She tapped the back of my hand. “Hold on a minute, young man. Just look at those hands.”

  I flipped my grimy hands over and shrugged. She ruffled my hair and leaned down to hug me, all pretense of strictness evaporating. “You had quite an adventure last night, didn’t you?” Her voice quivered. “I’m so glad you’re okay, honey.”

  I held her tight, comforted by her warm embrace. She released me after a few moments, brushing a tear from her eye. “Now go wash up and comb your hair.” She flipped the eggs in the skillet. “Your father started a fire. You can eat breakfast beside it, if you want.”

  I nodded and walked into the new bathroom installed just last year. It was located behind the kitchen and beside the big bedroom my parents used. The addition was a welcome replacement for the outhouse, in spite of the fact that it didn’t always function as it should. A bucket of water stood beside the toilet, ready for the next flush. I used the toilet and dumped water into the bowl. It gurgled down the drain. The tap was working, so I soaped my hands up with a sliver of Ivory soap, splashed cold water on my face, and ran a wet comb through my hair.

  “Don’t forget to fill the bucket,” my mother called.

  It was too big to fit under the faucet in the sink, so filling it up meant a trip to the water pump behind the cabin.

  I grabbed the bucket and carried it into the kitchen. “I won’t,” I said. “I’ll do it after I eat, okay?”

  She smiled indulgently and filled my plate with fried eggs, bacon, and buttered raisin toast. “All right, just this once.”

  Grinning, I took the plate and a hot mug of Ovaltine into the living room. Perching on the side of the hearth, I soaked in the warmth of the fire.

  My father entered with an armful of firewood. “Mornin,’ Gus.” He unloaded the logs onto the hearth beside me.

  “Mornin’, Dad,” I mumbled through a mouthful of bacon.

  He smiled at me with a familiar tolerance. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, Gus.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Is the coffee ready, Gloria?”

  “Yes, dear. Come sit with me and have some.”

  Throwing another log on the blazing fire, he leaned down to pat Shadow. He stroked his long ears and made a fuss over him, just like I had.

  Shadow was in his glory. His tail whipped back and forth in delight.

  The flames licked higher, glowing gold and red on the rough pine walls.

  My father cupped his hand beneath my chin and raised my face to his. To my horror, he leaned over to kiss me on the forehead, and then casually walked into the kitchen for his coffee.

  “Dad!” I hissed, mortified someone might have seen.

  I spun toward the door to be sure no one was walking past the cabin. The front door to the Marggranders’ cabin was closed and the shade was drawn, which meant Elsbeth and Siegfried were still in bed. Relieved, I turned back to my breakfast and devoured it.

  Casting a furtive glance toward the kitchen to be certain my parents weren’t watching, I laid my plate on the ground. Shadow licked the buttery remains, his tail wagging madly.

  I leaned over to pick it up just in time to see Oscar Stone knocking on the screen door.

  He raised one scraggly blond eyebrow in surprise as he watched Shadow slurping the dinner plate, chastising me with his eyes. “Good morning, everyone,” he said as he worked his way into the kitchen and sat down for his usual cup of coffee.

  Feeling guilty, I followed him and put my plate in the sink, shaking some Borax powder on it. I used a sponge to scrub it extra clean and rinsed it with hot water from the teapot.

  Oscar noticed and gave a slight nod of approval.

  My mother sat down beside him. “Is Millie still in bed, Oscar?”

  Oscar glanced at me, apparently unwilling to share the difficulties of caring for his wife in front of a kid. The Stones had been family friends since before I was born and frequently joined the Marggrander family and ours for their summer vacation at Loon Harbor. Millie suffered from advanced rheumatoid arthritis. William, their fifteen-year-old son, worked as a cabin boy during the day. He slept in the bunkhouse at the top of the hill next to the Icehouse.

  I couldn’t wait for the day when I was old enough to hold the job myself and was seriously envious of his pine-walled bunkroom.

  Oscar lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid so. The poor dear had trouble sleeping last night, so she’s resting.” He hesitated, then went on. “Thought I’d come by to see if you’d heard.”

  My father put down his white china mug. “Heard? Heard what?”

  Oscar shot me a glance.

  I knew in an instant he meant, “This is adult talk. Vamoose.” I ambled back into the living room and plopped on the end of the couch next to Shadow, who’d curled into a ball in the corner. Running my hands down his smooth coat, I listened closely.

  “I wondered if you’d heard about that ten-year-old girl who went missing at Black Bear Point.”

  I bolted straight up.

  My father said, “What happened?”

  Oscar glanced sideways at me, still reluctant to speak.

  I rose from the couch and moved out of sight around the corner. In spite of the fact that Oscar whispered, his words were still clear.

  “Name’s Sharon Adamski. Her father called the police station last night around midnight. Folks have been searching since dawn. They need more volunteers, which is why I came to get you, André.”

  I drifted back into the kitchen. “That’s the girl…” Nobody heard me.

  “Dear Lord!” my mother said. One hand shot to her mouth.

  My father scraped his chair back on the linoleum, suddenly all business. “Of course, I’ll help.” He took a final swig of coffee and reached for his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  I raised my eyes to his. “But...”

  “Sorry, son. We'll talk later, okay? This is important.”

  They strode purposefully out the door, leaving me behind to consider the ungodly possibilities of Sharon’s fate.

  Was she still hiding in the woods? Did the drunken man find her and beat her? I shuddered. Heavy-hearted, I pressed my nose to the screen and watched Oscar and my father disappear over the hill.

  Chapter 4

  I stood frozen at the door.

  “Sweetie? Are you okay?” My mother leaned down and kissed my cheek.

  This time, I didn’t care. I stared up at her, full of concern. “We saw her last night, Mum. We saw the girl Oscar was talking about. Sharon.”

  She squeezed my shoulders. “Oh, honey.” Smoothing my hair, she sank to her haunches, pale blue eyes level with mine. “I’m sure they’ll find her. Try not to think about it, okay?” Her worried eyes searched mine. “Why don’t you run up and see if you can help your grandparents?”

  I nodded, glancing over at the Marggranders’ cabin. “Okay. I guess the twins aren’t up yet, anyway.”

  “Okay. That’s a good boy.” My mother ruffled my hair and leaned down to kiss my cheek.

  I whistled to Shadow. He sped to my side and tap-danced beside me, ready to rocket out the door.

  “C’mon boy. Let’s go.”

  Pushing out the screen door, I leapt from the porch onto the pine needle pathway.

  “Don’t slam the door!” my mother called just as the door swung shut and banged against the house.

  I called over my shoulder. “Sorry, Mum.”

  Racing across the dirt pathway with Shadow close behind, I passed the Marggranders’ cabin and bounded up the stairs onto the boardwalk that fronted the lakeside cabins. My feet thumped rhythmically on the gray painted boards. I passed three docks, waving to fishermen who were motoring in from their dawn expeditions.

  A hand-made railing edged the porch. I leaned against it to catch my breath, and then peeled off a strip of stringy bark from the pine sapling. I rolled it into a small ball with my fi
ngers. The scent was clean and strong.

  Mr. Baker’s boat bumped against the dock.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Baker. Catch anything?”

  He brandished a string of glistening pickerel. “Ayah! Some good ‘uns.”

  “Congratulations. See ya later,” I flew across the front porch of the communal living room, around the corner, past the Coke machine and the water dispenser. The porch was empty at this hour of the morning and my footsteps echoed as I galloped over the floorboards.

  Shadow stayed close behind. I skidded around the Ping-Pong table and bounded up the sandy pathway, leaping over the buried logs. I swooped past the cabins under the aromatic pines, past the shower building, and up onto the porch of the office, where I finally stopped to catch my breath.

  The long, one story building was sided with white clapboards with cheerful red shutters on the windows. One end housed a small office. The other end featured the cavernous kitchen where my grandfather and the waitresses briskly prepared breakfast for twenty-five Loon Harbor guests. The knotty-pine paneled dining area took up the middle section of the building where the guests ate three hearty meals a day.

  “Gus? Is that you?” My grandmother opened the office screen door and peered at me over her bifocals, and then leaned down to give me a warm hug. “I’m glad you’re okay, honey. We heard about the boat capsizing.”

  “Yeah. I felt awful about Gramp’s boat.” I jumped onto the porch.

  “Honey, we’re just glad you three children didn’t get seriously injured. Boats don’t matter. Kids do.” She ruffled my hair like all the adults seemed to do these days. “So, would you like to call our guests for breakfast?”

  “You bet.” I followed her into the office, watching her take down a heavy brass bell from the shelf.

  She handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  I grabbed the wooden handle and walked out to the top of the pathway to summon the guests. Standing with my feet planted firmly apart, I grasped the handle with both hands. Raising it high over my head, I let gravity take it down toward the earth, repeating the swinging action over and over again until the wonderful sound of ringing filled the woods.

  Da-Ding… Da-Ding… Da-Ding…

  The tone of the bell was loud and clear, and I continued to ring until my grandmother poked her head out the door again.

  “Thank-you, Gustave. That’ll do it.”

  I climbed back onto the porch and returned it to her. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, honey.” She buried her head in her papers on the desk. “The Johnsons are leaving this morning. Will you help us see them off around ten o’clock?”

  “Sure thing, Gram.” I scanned the main parking area filled with two-hundred-year-old pines. “I can’t wait.”

  Partway down the hill, the Johnsons’ car was parked beside their cabin. The trunk lid was up and there were already several suitcases and hatboxes jammed inside.

  I jumped when the office phone rang, but my grandmother in her ever-calm demeanor answered it using her musical phone-voice.

  “Loon Harbor Resort, Odette LeGarde speaking. How may I help you?”

  Shadow found a scent and began running in circles with his snout to the ground. His white-tipped tail wagged furiously.

  “Looks like that little hound of yours is onto something.” My grandfather smiled behind the dining room screen door, adjusting his tall white chef’s hat. He reached down and retied a white apron around his waist.

  Shadow bayed and ran into the woods with his nose pressed to the ground.

  “Ayah, he’s got a scent,” he said.

  I ran to my grandfather and threw my arms around him. “Hey, Gramps. I’m sorry about the boat.”

  “Well, my goodness.” He squeezed me to him, nearly knocking the air from my lungs. “Sounds like you had quite a time yesterday. I’m just glad you’re okay and that you had your seat cushions to use as life preservers. You did the right thing, son.”

  I inhaled the scent of fresh starched linen and waffles, then stepped back and smiled up at him. “Thanks. It was scary. And we saw this—”

  Before I could finish, our guests began to straggle in from all directions, looking hungry.

  “We can talk about it later, sport.” He smiled at me. “But now, wanna help in the kitchen?”

  It was the least I could do after wrecking his boat. “Sure, Gramps.”

  Together, we walked through the dining room into the kitchen.

  Chapter 5

  I followed my grandfather into the noisy kitchen smelling of toast and warm soapy water. The waitresses hovered over the black and white enamel table, giggling and sighing over the latest issue of Teen Scene magazine. It featured a full-page spread of Paul McCartney.

  “Oh, I could just die. Look at those long lashes. Isn’t he dreamy?” Annabel sighed, feigning a swoon. June and Betsy held each other’s shoulders and jumped up and down, singing the refrain from “A Hard Day’s Night.”

  Betsy spotted me standing beside my grandfather and smiled. She grabbed a frilly apron, placed it against her midriff, and spun around. “Gus, honey? Would you please tie my apron?”

  She looked over her shoulder at me with a glance that melted my insides. My heart flip-flopped and turned to soft taffy. I accepted the silky ties with trembling hands. Carefully, I made a tight bow.

  She turned around and brushed her lips against my cheek, smelling of Jean Naté bath powder. Her ponytail whispered against my face. “Thank you, sweetie pie.”

  I blushed and looked at my sneakers.

  My grandfather clapped his hands and walked to the massive black stove that spanned an entire wall with multiple gas burners and two huge grills with overhead vents. “Leave the boy alone, Betsy. We’ve got work to do! Come on, now. Let’s take orders.”

  The kitchen staff snapped to attention. For the next hour, I helped butter stacks of toast, mix pancake batter, and pour juice into small glasses. Later, when the last of the satisfied diners strolled back to their cabins, I joined in and cleared dishes with the waitresses, carrying heavy loads of china to the sink. June washed the china in the arm deep metal sink. Annabel dried. I hauled trays of wet silverware to the table, where Betsy buffed fistfuls of spoons with a linen dishtowel.

  I watched her as she worked, joking with her friends while her fingers flew rapidly over the silver. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Something had happened to me over the past few weeks, and it knocked me for a loop. I was besotted.

  When she leaned over to deposit a handful of forks into the drawer, a giddy feeling washed over me. My mouth dropped open and my heart beat rapidly. Her uniform rustled when she bent over the table. My eyes locked onto her every move. I blanched each time she tossed a glance in my direction. It was painful and embarrassing.

  Yet, I longed for her company.

  She turned to me. “So, who’s your favorite Beatle, little man?”

  I stammered for a moment. To my horror, my voice cracked. “John,” I said. “He’s a card.”

  She nodded, ignoring my embarrassing vocal anomaly. “Yeah. He’s really funny. But I’m stuck on Paul.”

  June walked over and passed her hand in front of Betsy’s eyes as if to bring her back to earth. “Betsy’s gonna marry Paul. She’s got it all planned out.”

  The girls laughed and joked as Grandpa took off his chef’s hat and laid it on the table with a look of finality. He squeezed my shoulders and turned to address the girls.

  “Well, Betsy, you’d better wait ‘til fall to marry that long-haired renegade. I need you here in the kitchen this summer.” He winked at me, and then issued further instructions. “Okay. Why don’t you girls skeedaddle? We’ve got cabins to clean.” He turned to June. “I need you down in Number Fifteen. Spruce it up real good, now, okay? We’ve got a special guest arriving later today.” He swiveled toward the other girls. “Annabel and Betsy, please see Mrs. LeGarde. She’ll have the schedule for you. The Johnsons are leaving at ten, so be ready to join u
s for a big send-off, okay?”

  The girls nodded obediently and skittered out of the kitchen.

  I looked expectantly at my grandfather, watching him untie his apron and throw it in the dirty linen basket.

  He reached inside his shirt pocket for his pipe and tobacco and began to pack the bowl. Slowly and purposefully, he grabbed a stick match from the black dispenser on the wall. He struck it twice before it flared into an orange-blue ball. Lifting it to the bowl, he puffed on the stem.

  I kept an eager expression on my face, following his movements faithfully.

  Finally, he slid the pipe over to the corner of his mouth, puffed a few times, and glanced down at me. “Okay. Go ahead, Sport. You earned it.”

  I beamed and trotted into the storage room, kneeling down beside the shelves loaded with oversized jars of food. The jar of maraschino cherries sat on the bottom shelf. I heaved the two-gallon jar up onto the counter. Unscrewing the lid, I rolled up my sleeve, plunged my fingers into the red syrup, and pulled up a handful of plump cherries. The nectar ran down to my elbow as I popped the cherries, one by one, into my mouth. I sucked on the stems to be sure I’d gotten every bit of sweetness from them, then screwed the lid back on and tossed the stems into the garbage. Wiping my face with the back of my sleeve, I returned to the kitchen. “Thanks, Gramps.”

  “You’re welcome, Gus,” he chuckled. “Just don’t tell your grandmother.”

  Chapter 6

  William Stone lifted a heavy bag into the Johnsons’ trunk. I darted over and helped rearrange the suitcases so the last bag would fit.

  “Thanks, squirt.” Like everyone else, he leaned over and ruffled my hair.

  I smiled at him, basking in the attention.

  William was tall and lanky for fifteen. He scratched the top of his beak-like nose with one finger, waiting for the Johnsons to come out of the cabin and deliver his anticipated two-week tip.

  I eyed the bowie knife on his belt, purchased courtesy of the tip he’d received from the Murphys last week. He’d practiced throwing the knife just like Daniel Boone and was getting quite good at hitting the same spot on the target on the Icehouse wall.