The Lake, the River & the Other Lake Read online

  76

  JANEY PULLED UP in front of his cottage while he was loading the pickup with boxes of his jerky. He had the temporary magnet signs with his brand name, Schmatzna-Gaskiwag®, slapped on the doors. It was time to make a few store deliveries. He’d sort of let orders slip in the past weeks, distracted by his war with the jet-skis. They were still out there, a few of them, buzzing around behind him in the white heat shafting off the lake, but he had other things he needed to focus on, too: the jerky business, this promise he had to fulfill up in Grayling, the fact that he might actually have the beginnings of a girlfriend . . .

  “Can I get your autograph?” he called as she approached. She slapped him on the ass as she stepped up on the tailgate to give him a hand. He liked that she was the roll-up-your-sleeves type, pitching in. “Hey.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her down to his level for a second. “Big kiss for the local hero,” he said and gave her one. He began lifting the cardboard boxes to the tailgate and she slid each one forward, securing it against the cab. “So. Media darling? I see where the official report you filed claims that the two of them were just swimming? On a dare, from the shore to the point?”

  “You don’t have a TV,” she said, concentrating on the boxes.

  “The special edition the Identifier put out?”

  “All Glenn Meeker. I just answered a few questions and gave him a copy of my official report.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I did speak to him, though, as you suggested. About maybe writing a humor column.”

  “Good. So the lighthouse just happened to collapse in the winds when they reached the point?”

  She only grunted, rearranging the boxes.

  “That was a cute little tale, I thought. Some of your creative writing?”

  She looked up now, frowning. “I don’t get your meaning. I just reported what happened.”

  “Really. So it just fell on them. They weren’t up inside it, shaking it down.” It was hard not to smile—something he had been doing a lot of lately. “Please. Who are you kidding?”

  She shrugged. “I figure, I’ve got to live here, you know? Get along with everyone. Even the summer people. That’s my job.”

  He didn’t say so, but he was glad to hear it. She sounded much more focused than the other night when she spoke of David Letterman and running off to New York.

  Then she changed the subject: “You think it means anything, two important men in my life both sell homemade meat?”

  She was of course speaking of old Don, his SloffBrauts. He knew they were close, like father-daughter almost, and he was kind of surprised to be lumped in with such company. It wasn’t bad, it just took a moment to sink in. Important, huh? He should be flattered. He came around to the side and tossed the tie-down to her. She straightened the boxes and secured the line and he cinched it tight. “Things don’t always mean something,” he said. “You see much of him lately?”

  “He wants me to run. Next time, the regular election.”

  “Good.” All in all, Sloff hadn’t been a bad sheriff, for a white man.

  “Said he’ll support me. Advise me and stuff.”

  Roger could picture the campaign slogans now, if Sloff advised: Try Not To Be A Jackass. Vote for STRUSKA.

  That was all of the boxes. As she started to hop off, he reached up and helped her down, even though she clearly didn’t need it. “What’s ‘shmatzna’ mean again?” she asked.

  Roger had always thought she also was part Polish. “Delicious.” He kissed her quick, a wet smack, as if to help with the definition.

  “Oh, right.” She seemed to be remembering. “Schmatzna.” They slammed the tailgate shut together and then she turned and punched him lightly, playfully, just under the ribs. “Hey. All this hubbub over the lighthouse collapse—you make fun, but notice how it sort of overshadowed much of the interest in what happened out here that night? The jet-ski alien abduction?”

  “Not aliens, I decided. The ‘gami-manitous.’”

  “Lake spirits,” she said.

  He had noticed, of course. It was great timing. Really took the heat off. But he knew to say nothing else about it, just put his hands back on her solid hips and pull her in, a little closer.

  77

  THE COFFEE was still cooling inside—he’d told her it was his turn; he’d try his hand at this batch—and they were out on the lawn again, in the blazing midday sun, and he was telling her what he’d heard about the latest saucer sightings and how, with so many folks this summer proclaiming they had “open minds,” you’d think church attendance would be up. And though she looked, physically, as if the sun had her complete attention, as if she were listening intently to the bright heavens, she was chuckling, really seeming to get it in a way that made her appear older, as if there’d been a mistake with her birthday, some sort of chronological slipup and she really had to be at least in grad school. Her head was lolled back in a way that exposed her neck and tipped her chin up at him, her mouth drowsily parted in a half-grin, half-stupor from the sun. Her skin glowed with the sweat that collected across her lazy-looking mouth.

  It was all too much. He told her he had to go inside and do a little work.

  She didn’t question this, though what work she might think he had Gene could hardly imagine. It wasn’t as if he would ever again be asked to compose a sermon. But he had become suddenly terrified that she would catch him looking at her in that way—at her neck, at her mouth, that mole on her clavicle like a lost chocolate chip, that silver cupcake topping in her tiny belly—and it would ruin everything between them. So he checked first on the coffee cooling in the sink, with a slight vapor of steam still rising, and looked out the window and snuck another peek. Even from that distance, he could see her lips were dry, the way she rolled them together like the sun was making her thirsty.

  Stop it, he told himself, and retreated to the den and booted up the computer. He looked at the picture of Mary up on the shelf, nineteen years old, and tried to imagine a time when he was more turned on than right at this moment.

  Lord, he prayed silently. Please, Lord. What burdens are you giving me? What tests are these?

  He got online and went right to Ultrateen.com. The pictures emerged one after another like bullets from a Gatling gun; like magic boxes, all in a row, taunting him. He got up and closed the door and unzipped his fly.

  He went through several rows of these pictures, clicking on each and waiting for them to download, stroking himself the whole time. This is better, he told himself, than hovering around out there and gawking like a pathetic old man. That’s not what our friendship is and I refuse to make it that.

  But these images just weren’t doing it. He couldn’t help it: he wanted to see the other ones, the ones that still haunted him from a few weeks back that looked so much like Kimberly. With a sense of defeat, he clicked on the history folder and sifted through it till he found that string of shots that could almost have been her, the head tipped back, mouth open like a baby bird feeding.

  He went faster, more out of a desire to finish and be done with it than pure passion. But it wasn’t working. It just wouldn’t do when he knew she was right out there; that he could step into the other room and see her through the kitchen window. So finally, he did—fly still unzipped, bent slightly at the waist, stepping quickly and cautiously, like a catburglar, into the kitchen. He moved over to the window and stood to one side, hoping to remain hidden if she looked over at the house. But she was still resting, head tipped back, her neck exposed, her legs in front of her rubbing slightly together at the ankles, the toes fidgeting. Perhaps she was asleep now, perhaps her throat and lips were dry, but she seemed to be swallowing slightly, the movement there along her neck, and she was biting at her lips, her mouth slightly parted.

  And as he stared at her out there, a single thought began to take hold of him, a strangely conceptual fascination: how far was it, exactly, from where he stood on the foam dishwashing mat with the birdhouse print in front of the
kitchen sink, and that point out on the lawn where she was stretched out on her chair? It had to be less than a hundred feet, more like fifty, and the narrow divide terrified him. To think that only fifty feet separated him from a despicable, illegal and immoral connection made his fingers tremble with fear.

  Still, he thought about it. He thought how there had to be a way to shorten the distance, to make the connection, the contact, without going to jail or hell or having her ever know.

  He continued to tug at himself, knowing he couldn’t safely do this for much longer. Glancing down at the sink again, he saw there was no longer any steam rising from the coffee. Soon she’d hop up and come in to check on how he was faring with the drinks. He looked out at her again, checking, and then down again at the pitcher of coffee cooling in the sink and saw there was a way. There was a way to connect.

  Besides, he was so close, his breath catching, head swimming. He could do it. Right now he could do it.

  With his left hand, he grasped the pitcher by the handle and lifted it out of the sink. It was full and heavy and he tried not to spill it as he lowered it to his fly. He focused on the line of her neck, the way she breathed through her mouth, her lips slightly parted. And then he was doing it, the back of his skull tingling, his breath raspy, the release, the dizziness, his lungs huffing, the sway and wobble as he tried to stay on his feet and oh dear Lord . . .

  With the remorse already seeping in like poison, it was all he could do to sneak a peek, but he did, and he saw he’d done it, hit it dead-on. Three distinct white blobs, still afloat but sinking into the coffee. He set it back down in the sink and retreated to the bathroom, hobble-footed—his fly still open, pants slipping down—and cleaned himself up. The bathroom fan roared overhead as he went through the motions—washing his hands, straightening his pants. He inspected his flushed cheeks in the mirror; tried not to look himself in the eye. Returning to the kitchen, he stood over the sink, staring down at the pitcher of coffee, considering. Don’t overthink it, he told himself. Act. Stop prolonging this and act and maybe then it will be over and you can get back to normal.

  So he got the nondairy creamer from the fridge and poured it in, stirring it well, the murky black liquid turning beige. And he added another handful of ice and opened the cupboard and took down a tall glass, holding it up to the window to make sure it was clean—a habit of Mary’s, to double-check anything that a guest would be putting their mouth on. He poured a glassful, holding it up to the light again to see if he could see anything out of the ordinary in it, then picked up the pitcher in the other hand and carried them to the mudroom door and put his back to it, pushing out. The light, blinding, almost caused him to lose his footing as he forced a smile and said, “Here you go. Service with a smile.”

  With her hair up in barrettes, he could see the muscles at the back of her neck as she sat up and swiveled, looking up at him over her sunglasses. There was that smile, the teeth, the lips, the intake of air flaring her nostrils and she slipped off the sunglasses and wiped her face with a towel and turned and reached for the glass, all in one motion, twisting in the chair. He brought it closer, held it out for her and she said thank you and brought it directly to her face. He watched the tipping of her hand, the frosty glass cloudy where she touched it with her sun-warmed fingers, and the creamy liquid tilted, the plane of it angled back, her lips parting at the edge of the glass, open. Her head was raised up, her neck bent in that exact position that had become, in this short time, just this summer, so familiar to him.

  She drank it. She swallowed. He was inside her.

  Her eyes closed just for a second in a gesture of appreciation. Her lips were slightly foamy and so she wiped them with the back of her hand. “Pretty good!” she said. “You’re learning all kinds of new tricks!”

  The whole yard—the line of trees, the swing set, the riverbank beyond—all shimmered with light, like August heat rising on asphalt. Everything was swimming—he felt a shiver climb his spine, up to the top of his scalp, tingling, flaring out along his shoulder blades, the back of his knees. He tried to brace himself against it, to stiffen himself, but that only seemed to spread the effect through his entire nervous system—heart attack, he thought, stroke. Seizure. I’ve been stung by a hornet—zinging through him like the shot they gave him the day Mary died.

  “You’re shivering,” she said. “You feeling all right?” She reached out and touched him, grabbed him by the leg as if he were about to fall. “Gosh, maybe I should be waiting on you, huh? Here!” Hopping up, she motioned for him to take her place on the chair. “You think you’re sick? Maybe we should make you a hot beverage instead?”

  He wanted to say no, no, he was all right, he was just fine, but the words wouldn’t come and, rather than collapsing, he just sat down where she’d indicated, and made little waving motions with his hand.

  HE WAS LYING down in his bedroom when she stuck her head in to say goodbye. He raised his hand but stayed flat on the bed. The dizzy feeling had passed, but he couldn’t face her now.

  Shadows filled the yard outside the window and then the sun was gone, setting unseen on the other side of the house, out toward Lake Michigan. He lay there, looking out at the growing dim, and wondered how long he would have to lie there to starve to death. Would anyone come for him? How soon would his kids become concerned and phone someone to look in on him?

  James 1:15, he thought, James 1:15 . . . Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it’s full grown, brings forth death.

  The girl would check on him. She’d be there tomorrow. But of course.

  She’d said something about pasta salad in the fridge, but he had no interest in food. He remembered there were actually some of the cupcakes from his birthday still left, too, and he regretted now not going for the birthday kiss that day. Perhaps that would have resolved the situation; satisfied his need to connect with her.

  What finally roused him from bed was the memory of a very old bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream, in the cabinet under the hi-fi. It wasn’t actually a bar; it seemed unseemly to have an actual bar in the parsonage, even though it was built in the late fifties, at a time when everyone had a bar in their home. In those days it was like having a TV, or now a smoke detector or a computer. During the cocktail party heyday, they’d served a drink or two but had kept the supply modest and didn’t outfit the cabinet with a lot of paraphernalia like lemon squeezers and shakers and silver ice tongs. It was just the bare bones, meager enough to be considered Amish. This bottle, for example, had barely been opened. It still had a gift tag, tied with ribbons around the neck, that said Merry Xmas from the Meehans. The Meehans were divorced the year the Challenger exploded—whenever that was. Dust had caked up on the sticky neck of the bottle to form a sort of gum that made it impossible to open. He took it over to the sink and ran it under the hot water and still couldn’t twist it off. But when he looked down in the sink and thought again what he’d done with the iced coffee, the shame gave him a burst of strength to finally wrench it off, the cap skittering around in the sink.

  It smelled like syrup. He didn’t bother with a glass but shoved the neck in his mouth and tipped.

  He’d only been really drunk once in his life, when he was fifteen and, on a dare, snuck three or four nips off his father’s stash of Tanqueray. He’d felt remorse after and prayed and, rather than cover his tracks by topping off the bottle with a little Lavoris, blubbered his confession to his mother.

  Now he took the bottle into the den and turned on the computer. He needed to send an e-mail to the kids.

  Dear Ben and Abbey

  This is my last email. Sorry. This sins’t working out.

  In Christ’s love,

  your father

  He did it the way Kimberly had shown him, adding both names to the address line. He hit Send, then closed out of there and hit SHUT DOWN. As usual, the box came up that said What would you like the computer to do? and listed several options. He stared at it, thinking th
at what he really wanted it to do wasn’t listed there and so he just confirmed the one that again said SHUT DOWN. He stood there, wobbling, waiting for it to do what it said it would, then unplugged it from the power source and lugged it out into the yard and heaved it into the river.

  It made a great splash, but as soon as he did it and the night breeze hit him in the face, he thought again about his sermon, about what he’d said about the Devil in the box and blaming the box and he realized he hadn’t accomplished anything at all. The computer wasn’t the problem. And all he’d done was pollute the Oh-John.

  “Sorry,” he said, and then louder, in the hope that someone might be out there and actually hear him, “Sorry. Really, really sorry.”

  78

  THIS WAS WHERE he’d come with Mary, the first time, years ago. This very beach. It was years before they moved here, before the position with First Pres. Before they were married, in fact.

  It was 1957. He was twenty-four, still in seminary school and attending a youth retreat at something called the Cliffhead Fellowship as a chaperone and group leader. Mary was assigned to his group, a high school junior from down in New Buffalo. She was seventeen.

  And just as he was tonight, he heard, that night, too, James 1:12 repeating like a stuck LP in his head: “Blessed is the man who endures temptation . . .”

  Looking back, it was easy to see how it happened. They were together all day for two weeks. It was something that evolved slowly, that eased into being. It wasn’t a tawdry, soulless thing, sudden or careless. Inevitable, is how it felt afterward.

  They snuck away the penultimate night of the retreat, down the path of terraced flagstone that traced the stone wall, zigzagging down to the beach. They swam, he remembered. In their underwear. It was the first time he’d ever seen a woman’s slip, outside of the Sears catalogue or the painted kind on that pinup girl card deck he had back then. They swam out in the breakers and laughed hysterically, out of nervousness and the chill, out of a fear that they shouldn’t laugh, that they had to keep it down or lights would appear up on the cliff and they’d be sent home, both of them, in shame.