Green Lake

by S. K. Epperson

  Madeleine's throat and mouth were dry as she picked up the phone and called the police. She would make a complaint. That was doing something.

  The police were understanding and concerned, and they told her to keep her doors and windows locked. When Madeleine hung up she felt better, but only minimally. She went back to bed and lay shivering under the covers despite the warmth of the air. Already she missed Eris.

  Ronnie Lyman sat behind the wheel of his green Grand Prix and wondered what else he could do to Eris Renard. Following him, spying on him, and scaring his girlfriend wasn't enough. Renard hadn't led him to Sheila, as he had hoped. He knew the do-good sonofabitch knew where she was. He had to; Sheila had told him everything else.

  His teeth clenched as he thought of what he would do to her when he found her. He had a hell of a time convincing the cops the whole scheme had been her idea to begin with. He asked them to watch the television tapes so he could show how she had been the one to do most of the talking. There was no way he could have coached her.

  Despite his argument, Ronnie was taken into custody again. He wasn't put under arrest, but the same judge he had seen before demanded his presence, and he told Ronnie he was so disgusted he wanted to order a brain scan to see if there was any activity in Ronnie's head.

  “How could you do that to your own little girl?” the judge had asked, his eyes stained red and bloodshot. “Don't you know that by perpetrating that hoax, you're just as guilty as the man who molested and murdered her? You delivered her into his hands, Mr. Lyman. How does that make you feel?”

  “Pretty shitty, sir,” Ronnie had said. “But I keep telling you people it wasn't my idea. My wife, Sheila, got crazy when we lost our house. She said we had to do something, anything, to get some money. So she cooked up this scheme to—”

  “You couldn't dissuade her from it?”

  Ronnie stared, confused. “What?”

  “You couldn't change her mind? This woman you nearly strangled at your little girl's funeral? You couldn't sit down and talk her out of it?”

  There was no reply. Ronnie knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  The judge finally let him go. But he was on probation for three years, and he had to find a job. Otherwise, he was going back to jail.

  Thanks to Sheila and Renard.

  Sheila he couldn't do anything about, not right now anyway, but he could make life difficult for Renard until he found a job. Or until Renard led him to Sheila.

  He was so good at following people he considered going into the collection business. Renard never once saw him as he went about his daily routine. Of course, Ronnie hung way, way back on the dusty dirt roads, but he never lost Renard once. After one day he was bored stiff, though, so he decided to watch what Renard did after he came home. That was a little more interesting, considering the pretty blonde who lived in the log cabin. Ronnie got the name from the mailbox then called his Dad’s secretary to get him a phone number.

  Easy.

  Still, there had to be something else he could do. Some way to make Renard see what a man felt like to be cut off from his family and set adrift in a hostile environment. Let him know exactly what kind of mistake he had made by messing with Ronald James Lyman.

  It was something Ronnie would have to think about. He started his car and drove away from Diamond Bay. His headlights picked up the huge blood stain in the road and he stopped to look at it and wonder. Then he drove on, slowly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Eris swallowed uncomfortably as he stood at a gate in Mid-Continent Airport and watched people leave the plane. He knew his mother the moment he saw her. She was the only Indian on board. She was tall, like Eris, and slender, wearing a billowing blouse, a long skirt, boots, and a colorful beaded belt at her waist. Her black hair was held back by a beaded band that matched her belt. Her eyes, when they landed on him, registered shock. She strode quickly toward him and Eris stood where he was, his palms sweating.

  “I didn't expect you to be so tall,” she said. “Don't ask me why.”

  Then she put her arms around him. Eris swallowed again as he inhaled her scent. He gave her back a cursory pat.

  She leaned away and looked into his face. After a moment, she said, “You look like him.”

  Eris cleared his throat. “Do I?”

  “Yes.” She released him and stood back. “I can tell you're uncomfortable with this, with me. I won't touch you again until we know each other better. Forgive me if I seem to stare. You don't look anything like I expected.”

  “Neither do you,” he said. She looked too young to be his mother. She was too attractive, with her dark eyes and appealing smile. She was too vital, too warm, too much like nothing he had ever imagined when he imagined what his birth mother would look like. His resentment of her increased tenfold in those first moments.

  “Let's get my bags,” she suggested, and she waited for him to lead the way.

  At the baggage claim he watched her as she stepped up among the other passengers. He watched the way people looked at her, and the way she ignored them, as if she were used to admiring glances and dismissed them as her due.

  Eris was still having trouble believing he had actually sprung from that lithe body. He wanted to ask where his real mother was, the one who was

  round and gray and cried every time she thought of the baby she had given away. He wanted that mother of his imagination, with the plump, comforting arms and a soft sentimental bosom. Not this woman, who looked like an ad out of Southwestern Art.

  She had brought three bags with her, and Eris lifted a brow when he saw their size and wondered exactly how long she was planning on staying with him.

  “Don't worry,” she said when she saw his expression. “I'm not moving in. I just like to be prepared for anything when I go somewhere.”

  Eris lifted two of the bags and carried them out of the airport. At his truck he loaded the bags into the back and threw a tarpaulin over them before unlocking the passenger door for her to climb inside the cab.

  When he slid behind the wheel, she said, “The people you work for don't mind your hair?”

  “No.” No one had ever said a word to him about it.

  “That's good. I'm glad to see it long. Have you always kept it that way?”

  “No. Not always.” He started the truck and eased out of the parking lot. He felt her looking at him.

  “Who adopted you, Eris?”

  ”A military man and his wife.”

  “White?”

  ‘Yes.”

  “I had hoped otherwise,” she said, and before she could go on, Renard asked his question.

  “Who is my father?”

  “Was. He died in an accident on an aircraft carrier somewhere off the coast of Africa. His name was Daniel Birdcatcher. He was twelve years older than me. I lied to him and told him I was eighteen. He never knew about you. I never told him. He died before you were born.”

  “Your parents made you put me up for adoption?”

  “No,” she said, looking at him again. “They wanted to keep you. It was my decision to give you up.”

  “Why?” he asked, his throat dry.

  “I was fourteen and had my whole life ahead of me. If I had kept you I would've had responsibilities no fourteen-year-old should have. I was young and stupid and I knew if I kept you my parents would end up raising you, and they were too old by that time. We were also incredibly poor, and I wanted better for you than what I could give. There was no access to abortion, but I wouldn't have had one anyway. I was too much in love with the idea of giving birth to Daniel Birdcatcher's baby. The idea became even more romantic after his death. I was carrying his seed.” She paused then. “If all I'm saying sounds trite, then try putting yourself in the shoes of a frightened fourteen-year-old whose only knowledge of babies came from a government-sponsored film shown at school.”

  “Government-sponsored?” Eris repeated.

  “Everything at an Indian school was government sponsored. It was a
way of life. For many, it still is.”

  ‘‘You lived on the reservation?” Eris asked.

  “Until I left. When my parents found out I signed the adoption papers they asked me to go. An older friend was heading for New Mexico, so I went with her. I've been there ever since, waiting tables, working in bars, selling jewelry and finally making a name for myself as an artist.”

  “Did you have any other children?”

  “You have a brother who just turned twenty-one. His name is Clint.”

  “You're married?”

  “Divorced. I was married for eleven years to a man who owns a ranch just south of Santa Fe. We were too different.”

  “Was he white?”

  Sara Bent Horn laughed. “Never.” Then she sobered as she looked at her son. “The white people who adopted you, were they good to you?”

  “For a time, yes. Then things changed. I left them when I was very young.”

  “And did what?”

  “Went looking for you.”

  His mother turned to gaze out the windshield. “I'm sorry, Eris. I'm sorry for being so young and so stupid.”

  There was silence in the cab for several minutes and then Eris asked about his father again. “What was Daniel Birdcatcher like?”

  “As tall as you, but heavier. I fell in love with him on sight. He was dancing in costume, dressed in feathers and scarves and beads, and he stole my soul at a glance. I was tall, too, of course, so it was easy to fool him into thinking I was older than I was. You have his eyes, Eris, and his mouth. I wish I had a picture of him to show you, but I don't.”

  “Does he have any people still living?”

  “I don't know. I never kept up.”

  “What about your parents, are they still alive?”

  “Oh, no, they died years ago. I have an older sister left, and a few cousins. Other than that, I'm it.” She turned to him again. “Are your adoptive parents here in Kansas?”

  “No. We moved to New Mexico when I was very young.”

  “New Mexico? Really? What made you come back?”

  “I wanted to go to school here.”

  “You graduated college and everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm so proud,” she said, smiling. “My son, the college graduate. Do you enjoy your job?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's wonderful. You look very professional in your uniform. What about your personal life? Are you seeing anyone special?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it serious?”

  He only looked at her.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I'm going too fast again. I'm just trying to learn about you.”

  “We haven't been seeing each other long,” he said. But as far as he was concerned, it was serious.

  “I know half a dozen girls in Santa Fe who would fall all over themselves for you,” said his mother. “Indian women seem to outnumber the men in New Mexico.”

  “Madeleine is white,” said Eris.

  “Is she?” said his mother politely.

  “She's an anthropologist specializing in Native-American languages.”

  “Really.”

  Eris glanced at his mother. Her tone suggested sudden boredom with the subject. A second later she yawned and he told himself she was simply tired.

  “I want you to meet her,” he said, and his mother nodded and said of course she would meet her, and then she asked him about his adoptive parents again.

  They talked for the duration of the drive, and by the time he reached the lake it was after midnight. He glanced at the log cabin as he passed by and saw a light in Madeleine's bedroom. It created a sudden ache in him and an urge to go to her, but he ignored it and removed his mother's luggage from the back of the truck and opened up the house.

  He had purchased a sofa, another chair, a dining room set, a bed and a dresser that day at the furniture store. He didn't recognize his house when he walked inside.

  His mother smiled when she saw the place and said something under her breath about the Spartan way bachelors lived. Eris placed her suitcases in the spare bedroom and asked if he could get her anything to eat or drink. She said no, and asked to be directed to his bathroom. Eris pointed, and while she was inside, he picked up the phone to call Madeleine.

  It rang six times and he was about to hang up when she lifted the receiver and said a cautious hello.

  “It's me,” he said. “Can't sleep?”

  He heard her sigh in relief. “I was reading. Did you just get home?”

  “The plane was late.”

  “How is she? What's she like?”

  He paused, and then said, “Not what I expected. You'll see when you meet her.”

  “I could cook something.”

  “No. Don't do that. I'll call ahead to let you know when we're coming.”

  “Okay. I guess I'll see you soon then.”

  Both hesitated, neither wanting to hang up.

  “I miss you,” she said softly. “It's crazy, I know.”

  “Not crazy,” he said his voice low. Then he heard his mother come out of the bathroom. “I'll see you later.”

  ”Bye,” she said.

  Eris's chest hurt as he hung up. He missed her, too. More than he ever would have believed possible. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and lose himself in her softness until things came clear again. There was a strange person in his house who called herself his mother and he wasn't entirely sure he liked her. A part of him wished he had never written that letter and another part of him was glad he had, because he was used to disappointment in life and this was just one more disappointment he would eventually get past. Still he was drawn to her, out of curiosity if nothing else.

  He wanted to hear more about his father, everything she could tell him. He wanted to hear about his grandparents and their parents and everything he could think to ask from the storehouse of questions he had compiled over the years. He wanted to know where his name came from and why she had made certain he kept it. He wanted to know about Clint, and those cousins she had mentioned, and the older sister.

  She possessed information that had made up the stuff of his private maunderings and most personal thoughts, and he told himself she owed him information if she owed him nothing else. It wasn't asking much.

  She came into the living room and asked Eris what time he awakened in the morning. He told her, and she frowned.

  “I'm sorry. It's biologically impossible for me to rise at that time. What time do you get off work?”

  “Whenever,” he said.

  “Why don't you come by at lunch tomorrow and pick me up?” she suggested. “I can ride with you in the truck while you do whatever it is you do, and it'll give us a chance to talk more. Would that be all right?”

  He wasn't wild about the idea, but neither was he inclined to leave her sitting alone in the house all day. He agreed and told her he would see her the next day. He went to his bedroom, she went to the spare room, and they both closed their doors.

  Eris undressed and got into bed. Restless energy still thrummed through him, but he understood the source. It wasn't every day an adoptee met his birth mother.

  He thought of the shock in her eyes when she first saw him and wondered what she had expected him to look like. He had seen her eyeing the scars on his face, but she said nothing. He was glad.

  His lids grew heavier as his thoughts slowed, and he finally drifted off, wondering what her expression would be when she saw Madeleine.

  The next days passed slowly for Madeleine. She spoke to Eris on the phone several times, but she did not see him. He and his mother were busy becoming acquainted, and Sara was not yet ready to meet anyone else. Madeleine said she understood. On Friday morning she got in the truck and drove down to the swimming beach to look carefully around for any adversaries before taking out her beach umbrella and notebook. For her own entertainment she was making notes about the lives of the lake people, to make comparisons later, with the
lives of people in similar communities centuries ago. Little would have changed, she told herself.

  Gloria Birdy would look right at home in a scarf and apron, swilling ale instead of red beers. Sherman Tanner would still be a digger, only with cruder tools. Madeleine smiled to herself as she wrote, pondering the intricacies of human behavior. In all her years as an anthropologist she had given little true thought to the vagaries of emotion and concentrated solely on development. For the first time she wondered why she had been so determined to avoid the heart of man as a species. The methods he used to learn and teach himself had always fascinated her, but why he felt driven to learn, what motivated him, had never been a true consideration before now.

  She shook her head as she held her pencil and supposed she was entering another stage in her life, one centered on experiencing the very things that interested her now. Now that she felt the way she did about someone who felt the way he did about her. It amazed her how much more alive she felt, how much more aware of every breath, every sensation, every nerve she had become. It was a battle to keep from being swallowed by sensation. To keep herself somehow intact beyond and separate from the relationship.

  She was no giddy teenager about to collapse into the identity of another, but all the emotional trappings and stirrings were being observed by the scholar in Madeleine even as she experienced them. The anxiety. The euphoric sense of elation. The overwhelming joy she experienced just to hear the sound of his voice on the phone when he called. The desperate loneliness she knew without him. The aching and yearning for his physical presence. His touch.

  Perhaps she had never shown any interest in man's emotional side because she herself had never been exposed to emotion at such levels. Perhaps some cautious part of her had avoided it, been leery of the pain involved.

  She sighed and continued writing. She wrote about Shelly Bigelow, and the fate that had befallen her. She wrote about Shelly's father, Bill, and the many friends he appeared to have gained through his generosity with the pontoon boat, including Denise and Tim Lansky. She wrote for two pages on the violent man in the baseball cap, and briefly compared him to Dale Russell. Dale Russell, she believed, would never actually harm anyone or abuse them physically, but the man in the ball cap apparently knew of no other way to salve bruised feelings. He would take what he wanted when he wanted and he would do it with force if he had to. His was learned behavior, Madeleine wrote, and in a sidebar she added what he had said about his father having dinner with the judge.