Before we went to bed, Fran gave us our final orders. "Ada, get that rope out to the woods first thing tomorrow before anyone's around to see you do it. Mattie, make sure you feed that dog well," she said.
I told her I would, and I did. I stuffed him to the gills. I gave him his usual breakfast, plus two biscuits, four slices of bacon, and a fried egg left over from the help's meal. Afterward, he nearly pulled my arm off trying to get to his fern patch, and once there he did himself proud.
When breakfast was over, the three of us raced upstairs and changed. The woolen swimming costumes were awful things. They were baggy and scratchy, with sleeves that went down past our elbows and leggings that covered our ankles and skirts that came down past our knees. As soon as we got them fastened, we tied our hair up in scarves, then ran down the back stairs and out the kitchen door before Mike Bouchard or Weaver could see us and laugh.
"Do you think he'll come?" Ada asked me breathlessly as we ran through the woods.
"He's bound to. Fran made eyes at him at breakfast and she left him that note."
"If you show, I won't tell," it said. "Meet me at the far cottage after breakfast."
We arrived at the fern parch sweating and panting. It was only ten o'clock or so, but it was already hot and muggy.
"Where'd you put the rope?" I asked, looking at the ground around us.
"Right here," Ada said, pulling it out from under a stand of spruce trees.
"Where can we tie it?"
"Around that pine?"
"Its trunk is too bare. He'll see it."
Ada bit her lip, looking all around.
"How about that balsam over there? Its branches go down nearly to the ground."
We tied the rope around the tree, but then discovered it was too short. It needed to snake along the ground from the balsam tree past the front of the fern patch and into the bushy stand of spruce trees where we planned to hide ourselves, but it didn't quite reach.
"What are we going to do, Mattie? They're going to be here soon," Ada fretted, looking back toward the hotel.
"We'll have to tie it to the pine after all and just hope he doesn't see it," I said. "Come on, we've got to hurry."
I quickly unknotted the rope and retied it tightly around the trunk of the pine tree, about six inches up from the ground. Then I walked back to the stand of spruces, letting the rope play out along the ground. Ada followed me, carefully covering it with pine needles, leaves, and dirt.
"Cripes, but it stinks. Won't he know?"
"He'll be too intent on other things. Here ... look, Ada, we made it. With plenty left to spare."
Ada glanced at me and I showed her that we had about an extra yard of rope to hold on to in the spruces.
"Good," she said. "Help me with the covering, will you?"
We buried the rope completely, then stepped back to survey our work. It wasn't perfect, but we decided that if you weren't looking for it—and table six wouldn't be—you'd never see it. The only problem was the pine tree. The loop and knot at the end of the rope showed too starkly against its bark.
"Here I am! This way!" a voice trilled from the distance.
It was Fran.
"Jeezum, Matt, they're coming!" Ada squeaked. "What are we going to do?"
I looked around wildly. My eyes lighted on the fern patch. I ran to it and broke off a few fronds. I scratched a small hole in the dirt in front of the pine tree with my fingers, stuck the stems in, then tamped the dirt back around them. They looked like a young fern plant and covered the rope completely.
We heard Fran giggle. She was much closer.
"Come on! Quick!" Ada hissed. She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the spruce trees. The branches bobbed and shook. We frantically tried to still them.
"This way! Over here! Aren't you coming?" Fran sang.
Ada crouched and peered through the branches. I knelt down on the ground and wound the end of the rope around my hand.
"He's coming. Get ready, Matt." It was Ada's job to say when and my job to pull. "He's about ten yards away now."
I peered through the branches, wincing as a needle poked me in the eye. I had a good view of the fern patch to my right but could see nothing to my left.
"I can't find you!" a man's voice shouted. It was table six. My insides shriveled like bacon in a pan. Our plan had seemed so simple, but now I didn't see how it could work and wished to god we hadn't allowed our anger to make us so bold. Fran had to be in just the right place, and table six did, too, and the rope ... had we buried it too close to the ferns? Or not close enough?
"I'm right here! Come on!" Fran called. She giggled fetchingly, I saw a blur of black fabric and white skin as she skirted around the fern patch and then she was behind it.
"Where?" he called out.
"Right over here!"
"Five yards," Ada said, in a whisper so small, I barely heard it.
Fran broke off a feathery frond and held it in front of her face, then she flicked it away and blew a kiss. She waved her pretty hand and toyed with buttons on her swimming costume. She was a revelation. Nonpareils my word of the day. It means peerless, and that's what she was. Neither Lillie Langtry, nor the great Sarah Bernhardt herself, could have done as well. Her gestures were bold and coy all at once, and they had the same effect on table six that a red rag has on a bull. I still couldn't see him, but I could hear him. He took a running start and came barreling straight at the fern patch.
"Now, Mattie!" Ada hissed.
I pulled on the rope just as hard as I could, but nothing happened. We've put it in the wrong place, I thought. We've messed the whole thing up. Oh Lord. Oh no. He'll get hold of Fran and then...
...And then there was a hard twang on the rope that I both felt and heard, and the force of it jerked me forward, just as if I'd caught a big fish, and I gasped out loud as the coils bit into my hand and then there was another sound ... the sound of table six hollering at the top of his lungs in surprise, and then shock, and then horror, as he tripped and tumbled headfirst through the air, and landed with a thick, wet thud in a heaping pile of dog shit.
A cloud of black flies swarmed up over the ferns, upset at being disturbed. Fran stood stock-still. Her mouth was hanging open. Mine was, too. I stumbled out from my hiding place and quickly uncoiled the rope from my hand. Ada came out after me. None of us made a sound. All we could hear was the angry buzzing of the flies and the high-pitched "Oh! Oh!" of a man in great distress.
Table six's head popped out of the ferns. His eyeglasses were hanging from his left ear. Fran looked at him and burst into laughter. Ada and I did, too. He got to his knees, stood up, and looked with disbelief at his brown palms. Hamlet's handiwork was smeared across them. It was everywhere else, too—on his tie, and all down the front of his white suit jacket.
Fran's laughter turned into helpless, rolling peals. "Now you look just as dirty as you are!" she hooted at him.
His eyes widened. "Why, you ... you little bitch!" he sputtered. "You did this on purpose! I'll have your job! I'll have all your jobs!"
Fran wasn't cowed. "You'll keep your mouth shut and your pizzle in your pants, mister, or I'll tell my pa what you've been up to and you'll get even worse!" she said. She wouldn't do any such thing, but table six didn't know it.
She turned and ran off toward the lake and Ada and I ran after her, laughing and crowing the whole way. I glanced back over my shoulder once and saw table six stumbling back to camp. I wished I could see his arrival. Mrs. Morrison would never let him inside the Glenmore like that. She'd tell him to go jump in the lake first. Literally.
When she got to the shore, Fran whipped her head scarf off and tossed it on the sand. She shook out her blazing red curls, then dove into the lake and came up a few seconds later, still laughing. She sucked in a mouthful of water and spouted it out like a fountain. Ada and I did the same, and then we all swam out as far as we dared and treaded water in a circle, reliving our victory. Ada and I kept saying how brave Fran was, and Fran kep
t saying how she never would have dared to do any of it if it wasn't for us and that we were clever as foxes for hiding the rope so well and pulling on it at just the right time.
We swam some more, and splashed each other, and played like otters. I lifted my face to the sun. I knew I shouldn't—Mamma had told me a million times that sunning myself would only make my freckles worse—but I didn't care. I felt happy and more than happy. I felt triumphant. We'd fixed table six.
We floated on our backs for a bit, letting the lake cool us, before we got out to dry off. The water weighed our swimming costumes down and made them baggier than ever. The crotch on Fran's was hanging so low when she got out of the water that she looked like a penguin. We told her so and she started waddling around with her feet jutting out, which made us laugh some more. We finally collapsed in a heap in the sand, shook our hair out and spread it over our shoulders to dry. We were all quiet for a while, listening to the locusts singing in the trees. The scent of the balsams was so strong in the heat, it made us drowsy. We watched as a family of ducks came to see whether we had something for them to eat—but still, no one spoke.
I was the one who finally broke the silence. "We better think about heading back," I said. "Cook will skin us if we're late to supper."
"Oh, Matt, I don't want to go back," Ada said. "It's so nice and peaceful here. So calm."
"It's the calm before the storm," Fran said. "Cook told me we've got a hundred and five coming for dinner. And ninety for supper."
Ada and I groaned.
Fran gave us a wicked smile. "Who's going to wait on table six today?" she asked. "Me!" I said.
"No, I want to!" Ada said.
"Let's race for it," Fran said. "First one to the back steps!"
Ada won the race, but she didn't get to serve table six. After we'd changed and come back downstairs, Cook told us that one of the guests, a Mr. Maxwell, had had some sort of mishap in the woods and was so upset by it that he'd retired to his room for the evening with a hot-water bottle and a rum toddy. She said Mrs. Morrison would be seating a family of four at his table—table six.
It was all I could do to hold the giggles in as she told us. Ada, too. I glanced at her and saw that she was biting her lip.
Not Fran, though. She was as cool as a cucumber. "He must've been quite upset, Mrs. Hennessey," she said.
"Yes, he was," Cook said. "I asked him would he at least come down for dinner—I thought he should eat something—but he wouldn't hear of it. I just don't understand it. I've got fried chicken on the menu and he's very partial to it. Why, I even fixed his favorite dessert, but when I told him I had, he went all green around the gills."
"Really? What is it?" Fran asked.
"Chocolate pudding. I made it with extra eggs and nice fresh milk and ... and ... Fran? Frances Hill, you stop that right now! What the devil's got into you? Ada, you should be ashamed! Braying like a mule, you are! And you, Mattie Gokey ... would you like to tell me what could possibly be so funny?"
do • lor
Our happy state of mind persisted for two whole days, then disappeared instantly, as birds will right before it rains, when my father came into the Glenmore at the end of the dinner service on a beautiful afternoon to tell us that Weaver's mamma's house had burned down.
Weaver raced out of the hotel right then and there. Cook made the rest of us—myself, Ada, Fran, and Mike—wait until dinner was over and the dining room readied for supper, and then John Denio drove us down in his buckboard.
During the ride, I thought about my words and their meanings, as I do when I'm anxious or scared, as a way of taking my mind off things. My word of the day was doughnut, a silly word at the best of times. I decided dolor, a word I'd seen as I'd paged back from doughnut, would be a better choice, given what had happened. It means grief, distress, or anguish. There was a piece of it in doleful and condolence, too.
We'd talked amongst ourselves on the way down the hill, never doubting that the fire was an accident. We figured an oil lamp had tipped over. Or maybe sparks from the wash-pot fire had flown up and landed on the roof, though Weaver's mamma is always careful to build her fire a good ways from the house. But as soon as we saw Lincoln, the hinny, lying in the road with blood soaked into the dust all around him, and dead chickens everywhere, and the pigsty smashed apart, we knew different.
My father was standing by the smoking ruins with Mr. Loomis and Mr. Pulling. Mr. Sperry, Mr. Higby, and a handful of neighbors from Fourth Lake were there, too. I ran up to them. "Pa, what happened?" I asked.
"Mattie, what are you doing here? This ain't for you to see."
"I had to come, Pa. I had to see Weaver's mamma. Is she all right?"
"She's across the road at the Hubbards'."
I started to run toward Emmie's.
"Mattie, wait..."
"What, Pa?"
"You know anything about those men who beat Weaver?"
"Only that they were trappers. And that Mr. Higby put them in jail. Why?"
"They must've just got out. Weaver's mamma says they're the ones did this. Killed the hinny and most every chicken she owned. Pig got away, at least. Ran off across the field into the woods. Got the Loomis boys out after her."
I couldn't believe what he was telling me. "Pa, no," I said.
"She says they were mad as blazes about the jail time. She says they set fire to the house, then took off into the woods, heading north. At least that's what I think she said. She ain't making much sense right now. She's bad off, Mattie. She fought with them. One broke her arm."
I pressed my palms to my cheeks and shook my head.
"You listen to me now, Matt. No one knows for sure where those men got to. I don't want you outside the hotel after dark. Not till they're found. You keep Weaver in, too. You hear?"
I nodded, then bolted off to Emmie's.
Cook was already inside, trying to find some coffee or tea and muttering about the state of the place. Mrs. Burnap and Mrs. Crego were there. Dr. Wallace, too. And Weaver. Most of the Hubbard kids were huddled wide-eyed on a worn settee or sitting on the floor in front of it. Lucius was playing in a pile of dirty clothing.
"Come on, Mamma, you've got to let the doctor see to your arm," Weaver said.
Weaver's mamma shook her head no. She was sitting on Emmie's bed, cradling her right arm with her left and rocking back and forth. Emmie was sitting next to her, her arm around her, crooning to her, shushing her, telling her everything would be all right. Weaver's mamma didn't seem to hear her, though. She didn't hear anyone. Her head was bowed. She kept saying, "It's gone, it's all gone! Oh, Jesus, help me—it's gone!"
Weaver knelt down in front of her. "Mamma, please," he said.
"Mrs. Smith, I need to take a look at that arm," Dr. Wallace said.
Emmie shooed him away. "Leave her set and rock for a bit, she'll come round. I always do," she said.
"She's got a bad fracture. I can tell by the angle of it."
"Oh, it ain't goin' nowhere. You can see to it in a minute. Whyn't you set yourself down for a spell and stop worryin' everyone?"
Dr. Wallace gritted his teeth, but he sat. Weaver stood up and paced the small room.
"Sip of my bitter hops syrup will put her to rights," Mrs. Crego said, reaching into her basket.
"There's no need," Dr. Wallace said briskly. "It'll only interfere with the laudanum I'm going to give her."
Mrs. Crego glowered at him. He glowered back. Cook found some chicory in a tin. Lucius gurgled in the dirty clothes. Mrs. Burnap picked him up and made a face when she discovered his diaper was full. And all the while, Weaver's mamma kept rocking and keening.
I walked over to Weaver and took his hand. "What is it? Why is she doing that? Is it the house?"
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe it's the animals ... or her things. She had photographs and such. Or maybe it is the house—"
"The devil take the house!" Mrs. Smith suddenly cried. "You think I give a damn about an old shack?" She lifted her face. He
r ancient eyes were bloodshot from tears and smoke. "They found your college money, Weaver," she said. "They took it all. Every last nickel. It's gone, it's gone. Lord Jesus, it's all gone."
lep • o • rine
"Where's Weaver? Where is he?" Cook asked me. "He's always trying to wheedle a slice of coconut cream pie out of me. Now I've got one for him and he's disappeared. Mattie, go find him, will you?"
It wasn't like Cook to save slices of pie for anyone, but she was concerned about Weaver. We all were. I had an idea where he might be and I soon found him. He was sitting on the dock. He had his trouser legs rolled up and his feet in the water.
"Why isn't real life like book life?" I asked, sitting down next to him. "Why aren't people plain and uncomplicated? Why don't they do what you expect them to do, like characters in a novel?" I took my shoes and stockings off" and dangled my feet in the water, too.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Bill Sikes is bad. So's Fagin. Just plain bad. Oliver and Mr. Brownlow are good. So's Pip. And Dorrit."
Weaver thought about this, then said, "Heathcliff is both. He's more than both. So's Rochester. You never know what they're going to do." He looked at me. "This is about Emmie, isn't it? You don't know what to make of her now."
"No, I don't."
Emmie Hubbard had us all puzzled. She had taken Weaver's mamma in and refused to even hear of her going to Mrs. Loomis's or Mrs. Burnap's or anywhere else. She'd tucked her up in her own bed and tended to her. She'd even had the presence of mind, on the day the Smiths' house burned, to make her kids pluck and clean all the chickens the trappers had killed, right away. She made stew out of a few, fried a few more, and sold the rest to the Eagle Bay Hotel before they went bad. She used the money she got from them to pay Dr. Wallace for setting Weaver's mamma's arm.
"I can't figure it out, Weaver," I said. "I saw my pa this morning when he was delivering. He said the Hubbard kids haven't been over for breakfast since the fire."
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