Tremolo

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  He stopped eating and looked into the distance for a bit, apparently deciding how to begin. “I’m afraid there are still large pockets of people who don’t see a person for what’s inside his heart, Gus. Lots of people still carry fear and bias against anyone who isn’t of their nationality or skin color.”

  He held his strong arm out across the table and turned it in the sunlight, examining his own skin. “I think it would be perfectly wonderful to have nice, copper brown skin.”

  My mother warmed to the subject. “You’d be quite handsome in any color, Mr. LeGarde. But, honey, no matter what you look like, there’s nothing that could change that great big mushy heart of yours.” She took his free hand in hers and looked into his eyes with an expression so full of tenderness that I nearly blushed.

  “You’re just an old softy, André.”

  He grinned back at her and continued with the discussion. “Well, I don’t know about that, Gloria. But to get back to our son’s question about bigotry…” He turned back to me. “That’s what Doctor Martin Luther King is working so hard to stop. He’s in favor of a colorblind America, son, and your grandparents, your mother, and I support him one hundred and ten percent. By fighting for his people, he’s actually fighting for the soul of humanity, the good of the world. That’s why he won the Man of the Year award. Because he’s an incredibly gifted and spiritual person who’s going to turn this world around.”

  My father had a picture of Dr. King on his desk at work, right beside the picture of President Kennedy.

  I sighed and was reminded of the awful dark days of November just after the president was assassinated. The country still hadn’t recovered from the shock.

  “Dad? Wasn’t the President friends with Dr. King?”

  His eyes misted over when he discussed Dr. King and his relationship with President Kennedy. While he expounded on the issues they both had supported, I remembered back to the day it had happened.

  I’d sat on the couch between my father and mother, watching little John-John in shorts waving his flag and kissing his father’s coffin. A pang of sorrow washed over me. I remembered how hard my father had squeezed my hand as we sat silently together on the maroon Naugahyde couch. The solemn occasion had cast a spell over our home for months.

  “I’m glad we’re from the North, then,” I said.

  My father gave me a wry smile. “The problem is worse in the South, but there’s still plenty to overcome up here, Gus.”

  I nodded as if I understood, which I really didn’t, and sat quietly waiting for my mother and father to finish their cones.

  Finally, they stood and dropped their napkins in the trash. We walked back to the ice cream window, asked for extra napkins, and ran them under the water bubbler on the side of the building. I gave my mother a horrified look as she started to wipe my face with a wet napkin.

  “Ma, please. I can do it.” I got most of the stickiness off my hands and face and even dragged my comb out of my back pocket to please her.

  She pulled back a stray wisp of her long brown hair and tucked it behind her ear. Her ponytails usually fell out by dinnertime.

  On the way back to the car, I asked her the most difficult question, the one I’d been putting off since we left the theater. “Mum?”

  She looked at me, smiling gently. “Yes, honey?”

  I compressed my lips, hesitated, and then blurted it out. “What does rape mean?”

  She widened her eyes and exchanged a worried glance with my father. I wondered if she’d palm it off on him, but was pleased to see she handled it herself.

  “Well, honey,” she said. “It’s an act of violence against someone. It has to do with…well, do you remember the talk your dad had with you about the birds and the bees?”

  I nodded, suddenly embarrassed. Oh, geez. Is it about that?

  “When someone forces another person to do what should be only done…” she paused for a minute, trying to find the right words.

  My father nodded and encouraged her.

  “What should only be done between loving adults in a marriage, then that’s called rape, honey. It’s not a very pleasant subject, I’m afraid.”

  I looked at my father for confirmation.

  “Sometimes things happen that are beyond our comprehension, son, beyond our wildest imagination. I’ve never known anyone who was assaulted like that, but it has to be one of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Short of murder, of course,” he added soberly.

  I was quiet all the way home, thinking about poor Tom Robinson and his distraught family. I thought of the acts of which some men were capable. As I pondered these deep and troubling thoughts, one underlying question kept weaving through the tapestry of my consciousness.

  What happened to Sharon Adamski and where in the world was she hiding?

  I decided to tell my parents that I’d seen something in the woods the other day, and that I planned to go back and take another look this afternoon. They doubted if what I’d seen was human, saying that the little girl would surely have come forward to be rescued if she’d seen us. Although I admitted the possibility, I insisted that I needed to keep looking.

  “You know the west end of the lake has been thoroughly searched by now, son. It’s very unlikely that she’s hiding out there.” My father said it gently, trying not to upset me.

  “I know, Dad.” We turned into the Loon Harbor driveway. “But I have to try though, just in case.”

  Chapter 27

  After changing into my bathing suit, tee shirt, and flip-flops, I raced around the camp looking for the twins. I finally spotted them near a couple of other children playing in the sandbox in the fenced play area at the top of the hill. The toddlers’ mothers conversed on a bench nearby.

  I was bursting with the news about Sharon’s uncle and couldn’t wait to get them alone to tell them about the case of mistaken identity.

  Elsbeth busily rubbed something against the surface of the slide.

  Sunlight glinted off the sheet metal and I squinted in the sharp glare. “What are you doing?”

  She turned toward me, bit her lower lip in concentration, then continued rubbing hard against the slide. “I’m polishing it with waxed paper,” she said matter-of-factly. There was a crumpled piece of waxed paper in her hand. She rubbed it hard in one direction, turned it, and rubbed again.

  “Your grandfather said it might make the slide slipperier, Gus,” offered Siegfried from the other side of the lot. He was in the process of dragging a heavy black hose toward the wading pool.

  “Neat,” I said. “Have you tried it yet, Elsbeth?”

  “Nein.” She shook her curls rapidly so they tossed back and forth like a pup shaking off a rainstorm. “But it’s almost ready.”

  I helped Siegfried drag the hose for the last ten feet over pine-needled ground.

  He stuck the nozzle in the pool and then ran back to turn on the spigot. The hose exploded, spraying water wildly in all directions. Laughing, Siegfried ran back and grabbed it, setting it back in the pool.

  “How ‘bout we take the boat out for a while and maybe do some more searching for Sharon?”

  Siegfried nodded enthusiastically and looked over at Elsbeth, who had just climbed up the slide to try it out. She whizzed down the metal surface with her hands held straight up in the air, then beckoned to each of us eagerly. After several turns each, we declared it the slipperiest we’d ever seen.

  A young mother emerged from the small red cabin at the top of the hill and wandered over to the play area with her three children. After explaining about the new improvements, we handed her six-year-old the waxed paper so he could continue polishing.

  With excitement bubbling in my chest, I motioned to the twins and raced them toward the hill leading to the docks. We sailed past the dining room and office, the shower building, five cabins, and finally pounded across the living room porch, taking a sharp right to run along the rooted pathway back toward Wee Castle. The late
afternoon sun glinted from the water’s surface, twinkling on the choppy waves that collided in the afternoon breeze.

  The twins ran to their cabin to ask permission and to grab their towels.

  I stopped short at the second dock, where Grandpa’s skiff bobbed invitingly on the breezy lake. I tossed three orange life vests into the boat, then opened the gas plug on the Evinrude to check the fuel level. It was half full.

  Sig and Elsbeth emerged in their suits and sandals, waving white towels above their heads as they raced toward me. Siegfried carried his waterproof pouch, which I assumed housed the compass and map. Elsbeth carried a bag of apples and bananas. I breathed a sigh of relief that she remembered food for Sharon.

  The twins leapt into the boat and I tossed them each a life vest, buckling myself into mine as a show of good sportsmanship. Although I hated wearing it, I wanted to keep the promise to my grandfather. I didn’t want anything else, including such a major infraction, to keep us off the lake for the rest of the summer.

  Siegfried untied the bowline and I lifted the line from the rear dock post. I shoved against the dock, widening the gap between the boat and its berth. After three tries the Evinrude turned over, chugging and belching smoke, and the satisfactory aroma of gasoline wafted up from the engine. I twisted the throttle gently as the single propeller turned slowly in the water.

  Once we cleared the dock, I warned the twins to hold on and twisted the throttle to full speed. We curved around and headed for the west side of the lake. The boat thumped rhythmically over waves, sending a spray of water across the bow that misted a shimmering rainbow.

  Elsbeth’s dark hair was moistened by the mist and curled tightly as it always did in a humid environment. She looked pretty in her pink swimsuit and laughed as she hung on to her seat. Siegfried turned his bright blue eyes ahead, looking toward the woods with interest.

  In the distance, three boats trolled slowly, towing some sort of apparatus behind them. When we drew closer, my heart sank. I recognized the official insignia of the state police and realized they must be dragging the lake for Sharon. I quickly directed the boat away from the search party, hoping to distract the twins so they wouldn’t notice.

  Siegfried caught sight of them and exchanged worried glances with me. He pointed to a loon taking flight in the opposite direction, successfully diverting Elsbeth’s attention.

  When we reached the deserted shore on the west side of the lake, I cut the engine, waiting for the boat to float onto the beach. After a few seconds, I lifted the prop out of the water and slid into the cool waist-high water. Siegfried tossed over the rope and I towed the skiff in until I’d beached it. The twins hopped out and helped me pull it onto the sand.

  It would stay put until we returned from our hunt for Sharon.

  Siegfried led the way to the boulder. As we hurried through the woods, I finally told the twins about the men at the woolen mill and the shock of meeting Sharon’s real father.

  They stopped and stared with open mouths when I told them what happened. We ran the rest of the way.

  “Oh, mein Gott, Gus. We have to find her. She needs to go home,” Elsbeth said, panting as she ran.

  Siegfried found the rock in record time, using the trail we’d made with the horses and his compass. When we arrived, we stopped and stood still, breathing in the sweet scent of balsam.

  The sandwiches and Twinkies were gone. The blanket had vanished. We stared in disbelief for a few more minutes, and finally with a hollering whoop I jumped up onto the rock and began to yell in joy.

  “She’s alive!” I yelled to the trees around us. “Sharon’s alive.”

  The twins joined me on the rock. We burst with a medley of crazy shouts and joyous songs that reverberated through the forest as we danced around and around together.

  Finally, we were spent and dropped down to the rock, laying side by side, looking up at the clouds.

  “Do you think she got my message?” Elsbeth asked.

  I jumped up and began to prowl around for some sign of the piece of paper and pencil we’d left behind. The area was pristine.

  “Maybe she found it in the dark, and couldn’t see to write a response,” Siegfried offered.

  I warmed to the topic. “Yeah. Maybe she just comes out at night when no one can see her.”

  “Like a ghost?” Elsbeth asked in a timid voice. Fear darted across her face.

  “No, silly,” I said. “Like a girl who’s trying to stay hidden. We have to get to her, though. She has to know we’ll keep her safe until they arrest that crazy uncle of hers, for whatever he did to her. They’ll probably put him in jail, and have a trial, and everything. ”I imagined the courtroom in “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

  “Do you really think so?” Elsbeth asked. Her expression blended relief with admiration.

  I nodded wisely, feeling older than the twins. “You can bet on it.” I picked up a pinecone and started to peel away the layers.

  Siegfried stood on the rock and began to call Sharon’s name. Elsbeth and I joined him, shouting until we decided she was either ignoring us or was too far away to hear.

  “How far is that old shack from here, Sig?” I asked. “Isn’t it over that way?” I lifted a finger sticky with pinesap and pointed roughly in the direction I thought the blueberry farm would be located.

  Siegfried unfolded his map and laid it on the boulder. He studied it for a few minutes. “It’s a couple of miles as the crow flies,” he said, lifting his blond head.

  His hair was getting really long. Envy flooded me, calling attention to my short hair. I shrugged it off and looked into the thick woods. Shivering, I pictured the two men who’d led us to the old cabin the night before.

  “Maybe we should check it out sometime,” I said half-heartedly.

  Elsbeth laid the apples and bananas on the rock and tucked the paper sack into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “At least she’ll have food tonight,” she said solemnly.

  I checked my watch and grimaced. “Oh no. It’s almost five thirty. Come on, I promised my folks I’d be washed up for dinner by six-fifteen.”

  We sprinted back through the path, this time needing very little help from Siegfried.

  Hopping back into the boat, we quickly buckled into our lifejackets. I pushed the motor hard and we arrived back at the dock by ten past six. I secured it to a post, but looked up suddenly when a scream came from the top of the hill.

  William carried Betsy in his arms, running toward the lake. She screeched and wailed and pummeled his chest as he bounded along the dock. When he reached the end of the pier, he tossed the fully clothed, flailing girl into the lake in the traditional Loon Harbor “waitress-dunking.”

  Each waitress suffered the humiliation at least once every summer. Betsy had known full well what was to happen, and whooped and hollered extra loud to make the show better for the guests who gathered at the bottom of the hill.

  Amidst good-natured laughter, she hoisted herself out of the water. Her white nylon uniform clung to her body. With an evil grin, she approached William in her squishy white waitress shoes. He stood with his back to her, taking a bow to the audience on shore.

  With one dripping foot placed strategically on his backside, she shoved the boy over the dock and into the water, laughing so hard she nearly toppled over the dock again and back into the drink.

  Elsbeth laughed the loudest when William popped out of the water with a surprised expression on his face.

  “Well, whaddya know,” he shouted. “We’ve got a women’s libber among us.”

  Betsy smoothed back her hair and sniffed the air dramatically, sashaying up the dock and exaggerating the swing of her hips. A warm feeling of giddy pride crept over me when she winked at me when she passed.

  “‘Bout time someone put you cabin boys in your place,” she laughed.

  We ran along the path to our cabins, and I inwardly laughed about Betsy and her theatrical response to William’s prank. I had a feeling the tides would turn as a resu
lt of her performance, and that a brand new tradition had been established for Loon Harbor.

  Chapter 28

  I still tasted garlic on my breath from the homemade spaghetti and meatballs at dinner. Toasted garlic bread was my favorite, and I’d eaten five pieces. I snuggled into a green leather club chair in the living room, feeling lucky to have snagged one of the best seats tonight. Smoke swirled in the air over the lamps on various side tables. Stroking the neck and back of the stuffed loon laying in my lap, I marveled at the smooth softness of the feathers and studied the red glass beads used to for the eyes. They looked real. As I fingered the sharp black beak with my other hand, I lazily glanced around at the room full of family and guests.

  My grandmother sat beside me in a matching green chair. She held a thick library book on her lap and frequently cast her eyes over the top of the novel to watch my grandfather at the poker table. She’d changed into her cool-weather chino slacks and a thin blue plaid woolen shirt, but still wore the comfortable white shoes that she’d grown to depend on when she had waited tables as a young girl at the camp. Grandpa called them her “nurse shoes,” but she didn’t care and lived in them all summer long.

  She leaned over and poked at the fire blazing on the open grate. Small sparks fluttered up the chimney. The flames transformed from yellow to blue to green and then back to yellow again. Shooting another furtive glance at my grandfather, she settled back to read a few more pages.

  My grandfather hunkered beside four other men from the camp. Cigar smoke spiraled up from the poker table. They grunted, flipped cards onto the table, growled, and laughed uproariously when they won a hand.

  Bottles of Narragansett Beer lay in a tub of chipped ice beside them. I’d filled it with chunks of ice earlier, having mastered the art of ice picking several summers ago. Occasionally, my grandfather would get a strange glint in his eye. He looked unusually excited when he played poker, tossing the red, white, and blue chips around the table. During the ritual of the poker games, he always switched from his pipe to a cigar.

  The soggy thing in the corner of his mouth was always transported to the center of his mouth when he won. He’d tip it up and down victoriously, grinning and raking in the chips.