The Lake and the Lost Girl

by Jacquelyn Vincenta

  Jack considered suggesting that Frank do some interviewing around town, that no investigative reporter would do any less. But instead, Jack walked away, down the hall and out the front door without further words. That was four years ago, and Frank had never contacted him. In his disgust, Jack had worked up a good, solid determination that he would never again attempt to speak about the past as he knew it from his grandfather—those things Robert Kenilworth had seen with his own eyes and felt with his own hands and heart. After all, promises had been made, and in order for Jack to be a proper caretaker of those intimacies, they should not be released to the public.

  As fate would have it, however, Jack and Frank were reintroduced a couple of years later by a mutual acquaintance at an Elks fund-raiser. The lummox was more congenial and feigned a jolly uncertainty about whether or not they had met. Since the Elks event was being hosted to raise funds to buy canoes for the city park, Jack had been asked ahead of time to speak briefly about the joy of being on the water, but after leaving half a dozen phone messages at his house that he chose not to answer, the organizers had apparently asked Frank Carroll to speak instead.

  He spoke eloquently, of course, integrating a handful of verses by various poets into his text, as was his specialty. The last was a mysterious phrase about the mingling of light and water, by Mary Stone Walker. Stuck in Frank’s vicinity again after the speeches were all made and the fried-chicken dinner consumed, Jack could not resist prodding him.

  “Don’t you wonder about that last day?” Jack asked Frank in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Beg your pardon?” Frank asked him, his gaze hardening as he focused on Jack’s face.

  “Mary Walker. She stood at the edge of that very lake she wrote about—you know, in the verse you read up there—and then she just”—Jack sent his hand out flat into the air—“disappeared. Ended her life as a writer, for all intents and purposes. Right? No more Lake Michigan verses.”

  Frank looked to the plate he held in his hand and pushed a strawberry and a square of cake around with his forefinger. “I think we may have a difference of opinion on that, Mr. Kenilworth.” His eyes were cold when he aimed them at Jack. “I do recall our other meeting now. You wanted to share some information with me. Is that right?”

  Jack nodded. “I’d still be willing to talk to you.”

  “That’s kind.” Frank placed the berry in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully as he let his eyes rove over the crowd in the Elks’ fluorescent-lit meeting hall. “But unless you’ve found her body, or—it was your grandfather, if I’m not mistaken?—unless he was her doctor and saw her die or something, there isn’t anything new to say about her fate.” A smile played around Frank’s mouth, and then he shrugged. “It’s all speculation.”

  Jack had gazed at the floor, considering the best response to this comment. When he raised his head to reply, Frank had turned his back and moved away to speak with someone else.

  Subsequent encounters in public had been comprised of terse acknowledgment and avoidance, but Jack’s conscience was clear. He’d made two overtures, direct invitations to speak with the man, and those offers had been rejected. Because Frank Carroll was the individual most passionate about the girl—as far as Jack knew, he was the only scholar still hoping to find documents written after 1939—Jack felt the unspoken could be left that way. Perhaps in time Frank would ask for Jack’s thoughts, and if he did, well, Jack could consider it if that happened. Any reasonable person would have let that unsupported theory fade away by now, and Jack assumed all men eventually conceded to reasonableness when enough reality was heaped before them.

  But now, in 1999, the fool was still ripping up furniture in his futile—and no doubt expensive—little hobby. Jack was fuming at his worktable when Dolly and Lydia entered the barn.

  “I’m going to see what I can do with this,” Dolly said to Jack with a significant look as she passed him. Dolly was a good soul who was probably going to try to help Lydia out of this crisis. Fine, but the destructive effects of Frank Carroll’s fantasy couldn’t be shoved under the rug forever. Jack turned around to look at Lydia and smiled at her.

  The poor girl looked like someone had killed Santa Claus. He’d seen that same look on Nicholas’s face. They were clearly regular victims of Frank’s misguided energies. The son of a bitch didn’t deserve either one of them.

  “So, Lydia,” Jack said impulsively, deciding to attempt to cheer her up in the only way he knew how: through work. “You’re curious about boats. Maybe you’d like to see one of my works in progress.”

  “Why, sure.” She nodded.

  “Right this way.”

  The construction room, which was how he referred to the portion of the barn full of sawhorses, uncut lumber, tools, and working plans, had grown full over the last fifteen years as his reputation had become secured.

  “Now this,” Jack described as they approached a nearly completed kayak, “is eighteen feet of light, sturdy mahogany that will give a hell of a ride.”

  He pulled two sheets of sandpaper from a nearby shelf and offered one to Lydia. “Why don’t you help me out for a few minutes? You’ll get an idea of what the wood feels like. At this stage, you have to get every imperfection out, or it will be magnified by the varnish.”

  “How do I do it without screwing up your boat?”

  “You just…do it.” Jack smiled and started sanding. “Work with me on this side, and just do what I do for a few minutes.”

  After a minute or two, Lydia seemed to be genuinely concentrating on the sanding. Sawdust misted the barn with a pungent scent that was the only thing Jack liked about sanding. The work grew tedious quickly, and even a kayak grew enormous if he didn’t focus on each inch without thought to the whole.

  They worked silently for fifteen or twenty minutes, then Lydia stood up and said, “Boy, it’s harder than it looks.”

  Jack smiled. “Unfortunately, it’s also more important than it looks. People get their boats new, and let me tell you, they notice things like scratches, even when they have no idea if the thing will keep them safe in the water. Then when they’re out in the water, they forget all about the surface and knock into every damn thing.”

  “That must be sort of sad for you.”

  “No, not at all. That’s the life of boats.” He kept sanding. “It’s the same with people, isn’t it? They come out all new, and you’re examining every detail. By the time they’re eighteen, you just hope they survive.”

  Lydia laughed.

  Jack set down his sandpaper and turned to flip on the radio. “You’ve got yourself a new dining room set, I gather?” he said, immediately regretting the words.

  Lydia frowned but kept sanding. “It’s a boondoggle, if you want to know the truth. I feel bad that I said it’s an investment. It’s just another fucking mess.”

  Jack started to laugh but took one look at her face and stepped back to gaze at the area she was sanding instead.

  “My husband was searching through the seats for hidden documents, and…well, the whole set looks like that seat.”

  “I see.” Jack decided to feign ignorance. “Hidden documents. An academic quest?”

  “That’s certainly what he would say.”

  “Not what you would say?” It wasn’t like him to quiz someone like this, and he caught himself. “None of my business. I apologize.”

  “Doesn’t everyone know about Frank’s endless treasure hunt?” Lydia’s tone was bitter.

  Jack felt her looking at him, so he met her gaze and shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I don’t know much, just that he’s a very determined scholar who believes in…” But words failed him.

  “Believes in…?” Lydia watched him, and he shrugged again.

  “Well, to be honest, I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “He would say he is trying to right a wrong. To elevate Mary Stone Walker’s place in
history from that of a semi-memorable regional female poet to one of the great, immortal American poets. By finding more of her work and getting it out there for people to read. But it isn’t just that; his own ego is tangled up in it. He’s gambled many years of his life’s work on her literary value and the prospect of increasing it. So I guess that’s how he keeps believing. He just…has to.”

  Jack smiled at her candor, and Lydia went on.

  “He expects to find significant literature that he is theorizing she wrote while hiding somewhere for years, work of higher quality than anything she ever published. But do you think that’s possible at this point? Quite a few pieces were found decades ago, but it’s been so long now.”

  Jack had not expected to be questioned in return, and he wasn’t about to be so open in a discussion of someone else’s spouse. “You mean, would I keep trying to do something that had never panned out?” She gave a sort of nod, and he said, “Maybe.”

  “But it isn’t just that it hasn’t panned out. From the start, it was a long shot requiring a great deal of luck. I was once a huge fan of the idea myself, and plenty of other people have been, too, but Frank has based his whole career on it.” She gave a shake of her head and clammed up then, as if maybe she was afraid of betraying her husband.

  “What would he do if he weren’t doing that?”

  Lydia’s gazed wandered. “That’s almost impossible for me to imagine. He has literally been on this quest for as long as we’ve been married, sadly enough.”

  “Why is that sad? It could have worked out. Maybe it will yet.”

  “I don’t think I’ve said this out loud, but…I’m pretty sure he loves his idea of Mary Stone Walker more than he loves anything in his actual life. Including Nicholas. And me.”

  “Now that is sad. If it’s true, it’s not just sad. It’s a crime.”

  Lydia’s mouth turned down in a small, shaky frown. He was doing a marvelous job of distracting her and lightening her heart, he observed. Apparently, that was not what he’d wanted from this encounter.

  “Well, you might be able to guess what my prescription is for anyone who wants to brighten up their life.”

  “A boat.”

  “You are as smart as I remember! And I have the perfect one for you. A Swedish folkboat I’ve been given because she’s so far gone someone’s going to have to put hundreds of hours into her repair before she’s seaworthy.”

  “Hmm…sounds like an adventure for sure. But look who you’re talking to, Jack.”

  “I am looking. Anyone’s life can be improved by a boat, and anyone can not only learn to sail, paddle, and navigate, but also learn to do the repairs.”

  “You really think so?”

  Jack thought he saw interest in her face.

  “I do. Furthermore, I would help you every step of the way.” He paused, picturing it. “The trickiest part might be learning to want it in the first place.”

  Lydia’s gaze shot to Jack’s, and for a moment their eyes locked. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, looked back at the boat’s hull, and told himself to cut the talk and stop imagining that she could be part of his life. The fact was that while a boat might or might not change the life of a beautiful writer, there was no doubt whatsoever that a beautiful writer could change the life of a boatman.

  19

  Carson Woods, Michigan—April 1937

  I have wandered over the fruitful earth,

  But I never came here before.

  Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

  ~ Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861–1907), “The Witch”

  Light snow began to fall in the dunes when Mary was halfway to the fisherman’s land. Against her chest, she braced the jar of maple syrup for him in her damaged left hand, while her right hand held the flashlight. The sweet-smelling pines were dense and the path narrow, but she had visited him three times before, so she was sure now of the way. All that mattered was that she get there. She would feel peaceful then. He would speak of the lake, whitefish and sturgeon, the lingering winter ice, and he would listen to whatever she wanted to say of simple things. He would look at her with that amused, gentle focus and laugh. Robert always laughed as if he understood the mercurial nature of life, and every tragic or absurd thing that he heard only confirmed it.

  She couldn’t analyze what she felt for him—it was unlike any other sentiment she had ever experienced. The first moment she saw him still lived in her heart as a turning point. Standing in the cemetery for the funeral of young Hattie Barber a couple of years before, she had suddenly spotted a handsome man across the grave. He was several years older than she was, someone she had never seen before, and he was looking directly at her. Their eyes met, and warmth shot through her entire body. But it didn’t feel like sexual desire or the sort of common thrill she got when she knew she was stirring a man’s interest. No, it was strange; it felt more like…recognition.

  She tried several times to catch his eye again, but he was focused on the prayer book, the hymnal, the older woman on one side of him who was perhaps his mother, or the pregnant woman on the other side who was clearly his wife. Yearning lit in Mary’s heart and stayed there. He seemed as dignified and intelligent as Bernard was reckless and rude. “To have someone like that,” she had murmured out loud under her breath. To have someone like that. It was a wish, a prayer, and it became something that never completely left her mind. Her life would be safer if she had someone like that. To have someone like that in her life would mean this world, and even her marriage, would feel less bleak.

  The day after the funeral she had visited the herbalist, Ethel Van Zant, specifically to ask if she had seen the pregnant woman with the blue cape at the funeral, and did she know who she was? Ethel had looked at her in that way she had that made Mary feel understood beyond her words and accepted nevertheless.

  “Yes,” she’d said, settling into her rocking chair to watch Mary’s face. “That’s Robert Kenilworth’s wife. He’s a fisherman. Good man.”

  Mary had nodded, asking nothing more, and Ethel had chuckled. “Don’t you want to know her name? The woman you asked about?”

  Mary had given her a half smile, slowly closed her eyes, and said nothing.

  No, she didn’t want to know the name of the woman. She didn’t know what she wanted. But Robert Kenilworth had something to do with it.

  Now as she approached the top of the hill, Mary could see light from Robert’s lantern falling from the fishing shanty into the gray afternoon woods. Snowflakes drifted like tiny moths through the lantern’s glow at the window. She saw his hands at work on a net, and she was suddenly embarrassed to be interrupting him again with another trivial gift. Uncertain, she stood outside the shanty waiting for her courage to return, but he must have sensed her presence or heard her steps, because he stopped what he was doing, looked up, and then opened the door.

  “Mary Walker,” he said, gazing at her, and he said no more.

  Hand gripping the door, he waited, not inviting her in, but not stepping out into the cold spring air. Mary saw a woodstove burning inside and longed to be part of the warmth of his space, but his stillness froze her thoughts, and she stared at him, mouth open to speak but speechless. He looked to the jar in her hands. She held it toward him.

  “For you. Hello, Robert.”

  “For me?” He stepped forward, removing the jar from her hands carefully, as if to avoid touching her. His expression was studious. “I can’t imagine why I deserve another gift from your kitchen.”

  Her face reddened, and she could not lift her eyes from the jar.

  “But, ah… This is maple syrup, isn’t it?” he said kindly.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I tapped three trees this year. I just…” Her eyes sought his and found them resting on her without judgment. “I just wanted you to have some. I imagined you enjoying it.”

 
Again there was silence, and as Mary allowed herself to return Robert’s gaze, she realized that it was ridiculous to try to pretend this was an ordinary, neighborly gesture. What she had vaguely considered might be inappropriate behavior was, in fact, just that. And Robert Kenilworth was not only completely aware of that but unwilling to pretend not to be.

  “Mr. Kenilworth, I know that it seems odd. Well, that it is odd. For me to visit you alone. Again.” The only reason Mary could think to offer was the truth, but to be so honest was risky. “I’m sorry for any discomfort I’m causing you.”

  Although it was April, the ground was cold enough that snowflakes didn’t melt, and they began to collect around the soles of her boots where her gaze was fixed. She knew she should not stay; he had almost said as much. She heard a shuffle, then the thump of the jar being set down on a table in the shanty, and she raised her eyes. The fisherman stooped in front of the woodstove to add another log to the fire. Then he walked back to the threshold and leaned against the doorframe.

  “Mrs. Evans.”

  “My name is Walker. Not Evans.”

  “Miss Walker.”

  “Yes.”

  “First of all…I think it would be simpler”—he paused, appearing to assess something he saw in her—“if you call me Robert. And I call you Mary.”

  She smiled and felt her muscles begin to relax. “I agree, yes.”

  “I must tell you that my wife, Elizabeth, and I have enjoyed your gifts very much. But I think you should explain why you are bringing them to me.”

  She turned her face toward the icy lake and after several seconds of silence felt a shiver begin at her core.

  “Forgive me,” Robert said. “It was rude of me not to suggest you come inside where it’s warmer. Please come in, Mary. Just for a few minutes.”

  She hesitated but, with a flash of resolution, stood where she was and looked straight into his eyes.