Summer at Forsaken Lake

by Michael D. Beil

  “Hey! What are you—” He never finished his question. The bike tilted one way, and when he tried to straighten it, he overcompensated. For a few terrifying (for Nicholas, that is) seconds, the bike wobbled and wiggled along before the front wheel finally turned a little too sharply, and Nicholas and bicycle went flying in opposite directions.

  To her credit, Charlie tried not to laugh, but she just didn’t have the willpower to resist the urge that overcame her as Nicholas lay sprawled across the lawn. “Are you okay?” she managed to ask between giggling fits. “I’m sorry—it was just, the look on your face …” More giggling. Much more.

  Nicholas stood up, rubbing his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact with the ground. Without a word, he turned and started walking toward the road, and home.

  At first, Charlie thought he was kidding around, but when she realized he was serious, she ran after him, stopping right in his path. “Come on, Nicholas. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  He stepped around her without a sound and kept right on walking as she stood there dumbfounded.

  “What about the boat?” she asked. “Both boats. The movie? Nicholas! Come back. I swear I’ll never laugh at you again.”

  But Nicholas just kept walking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nicholas spent the rest of the afternoon alone in the tower room. He told himself that he was there to search for another of his father’s secret hiding places (which he didn’t find), but deep down, he knew that he was the one doing the hiding this time. Charlie had injured his pride, and that hurt a lot more than his banged-up shoulder. At dinner, he barely spoke, and when he finished picking at his food, he went right back upstairs.

  He was staring out the window at Goblin when he heard a knock at the spiral staircase. “What?” he growled.

  “Nothing,” said Nick. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  Nicholas leaped out of bed, feeling guilty. “No, come on up. I’m sorry, I thought it was Hayley and Hetty bugging me again.”

  Nick chuckled. “Not this time. They’re on the phone with your mother. You know, these stairs are getting easier. Maybe I’ll move in here after you go back to New York.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think so. For one thing, Pistol won’t come up here, and in the winter he likes to sleep at the foot of my bed. Keeps my feet warm.” He sat on the edge of the bed and motioned for Nicholas to sit, too. “Awful quiet today. You seem like a young man with something on his mind. Everything okay?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You know, all this talk about your dad—is it making you miss him? Because that would be a pretty natural thing to happen, I think.”

  “No, it’s not that. I mean, I do miss him, but that’s not why I’m …” His voice trailed off into silence.

  “Okay—I don’t want to pry. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. When Charlie gets here in the morning, we’ll give that first coat of paint a light sanding, and then lay on the second. If it’s a nice dry day, we might even get another coat on later in the day.”

  From the look on Nicholas’s face when he mentioned Charlie, Nick knew something had happened.

  “Um, yeah, I don’t know if she’ll be coming over tomorrow,” Nicholas mumbled, mostly to himself.

  “Oh?”

  “Uncle Nick, do you know how to ride a bike?”

  Nick was caught off guard by the question. “A bicycle? Sure. Boy, I didn’t see that one coming. Right out of left field. Can I ask why?”

  “I can’t. Ride a bike. Nobody ever taught me. So today, Charlie was going to, but then I busted, and …” He stopped to compose himself. “Why do girls have to be like that?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled onto one of the great mysteries of the universe, son. Ask me about bikes and boats, or what kind of oil to use in your car, or even how to stuff a turkey, and I’m fine. Women, though, that’s another story. But I think I can help you out with your bicycle problem. Come with me out to the barn.”

  From a spot behind some ancient, rusted farm machinery, Nick wheeled out an old single-speed bicycle—the kind with fat tires, a sturdy frame, and heavy metal fenders. With the sleeve of a long-retired flannel shirt, he wiped away a thick layer of dust and grime, revealing the gleaming red paint with SPEEDSTER emblazoned in gold letters across the top bar of the curvy frame.

  “Wow. Is this an antique?” Nicholas asked.

  “Hmm. Never thought about it, but I suppose it qualifies. Picked it up for ten dollars at a yard sale a few years ago, when my knees were in a little better shape. Put new tires on it, and it was ready to go.” He found an air pump and filled the tires, squeezing them between his finger and thumb until he was satisfied. “There you go. It’s a little late now, but tomorrow morning, we’ll get—” He stopped when he saw the disappointed look on Nicholas’s face. “Oh, right. Well, I suppose we have enough light to get started right now.”

  Nicholas smiled for the first time since leaving Charlie’s yard as Nick wheeled the bike outside and leaned it against the long side of the barn, just a few feet from the painted-on strike zone. Pistol tagged along behind them, his tail wagging in anticipation of excitement and adventure.

  “All right. Here’s what you do. Climb aboard, and let’s get you situated so you’re the right distance from the wall of the barn. When you reach out to your side, you should be able to just touch it.”

  Nicholas lifted his leg over the frame and then stood with the bike between his legs, moving it a few inches farther from the barn. Then, with one hand on the wall and the other on the handlebars, he pushed himself up and onto the seat.

  “Good, good. Now just sit there for a while—as long as you want—getting a feel for the balance.”

  After a few rather shaky moments, Nicholas started to feel more confident. “Okay, now what?”

  “Keep that one hand on the wall like you’ve been doing,” said Nick. “Be careful of splinters, but just start pedaling—nice and easy!—using that hand to help keep your balance. If you feel yourself starting to fall, just stop pedaling. That’s perfect.… Oops!” Nick caught bike and rider before they toppled over onto the grass.

  I can do this. Think of all the seven-year-olds out there who can do it.

  Nicholas took a deep breath and steadied himself for a second attempt. This time, he was determined to make it to the end of the barn. What would he do when he got there?

  I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

  He pedaled away from Nick and Pistol, slowly “riding” down the length of the barn, occasionally reaching out to steady himself with his hand.

  When he got near the end, Nick shouted at him, “Keep going! You’re doing great!”

  Pistol joined in, running after Nicholas and barking his encouragement.

  That was just what Nicholas needed. He grabbed the handlebars with both hands and kept right on pedaling across the front yard—aimed directly at a hundred-year-old oak tree!

  “Turn! Turn!” shouted Nick.

  “I’m trying!” said Nicholas. He jerked to the right, then left, then right again, finally flopping over onto his side just inches from the immense tree trunk.

  Nick hurried over to him and was relieved to see Nicholas smiling. Laughing, even. “That was cool!” he said. “I want to do it again!” He jumped to his feet and pushed the bike back to the barn.

  “This time, when you turn, take it nice and easy,” Nick advised.

  “Got it.”

  And he was off. He touched the wall only once after starting, sailing past the end of the barn and sweeping around the oak tree in a semi-controlled turn. “How do I stop?” he said, laughing.

  “Stop pedaling and then push backward—gently!—on the pedals.”

  Nicholas stopped pedaling and promptly fell over onto a rosebush with only a handful of pink roses, but countless prickly thorns.

  “Or you can just fall over,” Nick teased
. “You all right?”

  But Nicholas was already on his feet, grinning as he wiped away the blood from a series of scratches on his arms and legs. “Fine. It’s just a couple of scratches.”

  On his next attempt, he wobbled and wavered, but each time, he caught himself before falling, and then swept past the barn, the oak tree, and the rosebushes in a sweeping arc that was as wide as his smile.

  “Bravo. My work here is done,” Nick said, applauding. “I’m going inside.”

  “Is it okay if I stay out here for a while?” a beaming Nicholas asked. “Oh, and Uncle Nick—uh, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Just don’t stay out too late. Don’t go out on the main road. Oh, and Nicholas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch out for trees.”

  Nicholas stayed outside for almost two hours, and when he raced up the stairs to the tower room that night, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He dug through the collection of postcards from the drugstore until he found one that pictured a boy riding a bicycle across Deming’s town square. With a fine-point marker, he drew an arrow pointing right at the rider and wrote across the front of the card:

  THAT’S ME!

  After addressing the postcard to his father, he stared at the back for a few minutes before finally deciding not to add another word. As he set it on the bedside table and switched the light off, he wondered if his dad even knew that he couldn’t ride a bike.

  Until now, that is.

  * * *

  Nick made himself a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs, toast, and coffee and sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a few minutes of quiet before the three children would clamber down the stairs in search of orange juice and cereal. He had just turned to the sports section of the newspaper when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red fly past the kitchen window. A cardinal? A low-flying airplane? Superman? He stood up to get a better look.

  “Son of a gun,” he said. It was Nicholas, already circling the yard and drive on the red Speedster, which he had polished to a glossy sheen that Nick wouldn’t have believed possible.

  “Hey, Uncle Nick,” he said nonchalantly as he came to a smooth stop just outside the window. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “How do you like your eggs?”

  Nicholas pondered the question for a second or two. “Scrambled. Do you have any bacon? That sounds really good to me.”

  “Scrambled eggs and bacon, coming right up,” said Nick. “Why don’t you get the twins up, too. We can all start the day with a good breakfast. That old bike looks good, by the way.”

  “I used some of your car wax. Hope that was okay.”

  “Sure. Maybe I’ll give ol’ Betty a little of the old spit and polish later on. She looks like she could use it. Say, why don’t you ride over to Charlie’s and see if she wants to join us for breakfast. I’ve got an extra dozen eggs.”

  Forgetting momentarily that he was mad at Charlie, Nicholas took off down the road. When he reached her driveway, it all came back to him, and he considered turning his bike around and hightailing it back to Nick’s.

  What if she’s already seen me? If I turn back now, I will look like such a loser.

  He parked the bike in the yard, turning around to admire it one last time before knocking on the screen door.

  Franny bounded down the steps, dressed for work and in a hurry. “Oh, hi, Nicholas. Come on in, make yourself at home. Charlie’s awake, but she hasn’t made it downstairs yet. Sorry, I have to run—late for work!” And she was gone.

  He sat at the kitchen table, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and waited for Charlie, who padded down the stairs a few seconds later. She gasped and stopped suddenly when she saw him, her hand flying to her chest.

  “Oh my God! Nicholas! You scared me to death! What are you doing here? I come downstairs and there’s somebody sitting there.” She sat down to collect herself.

  “Your mom let me in. I just kind of figured that you heard her talking to me. Sorry.”

  “What if I’d come down here, you know, naked or something?”

  “Do you do that often?” He felt himself blushing.

  “No! But that’s not the point.” She waved her hands around wildly, embarrassed by the direction the conversation had taken. “Besides, I thought you were mad at me—not that I blame you.”

  “Yeah, w-well, I—I, uh,” he stammered. “Uncle Nick kind of helped me out last night. And I realized that I, um, you know …”

  Charlie went to the front door and looked out at the lawn.

  “No way! You rode that here? That is the coolest bike ever! Where did you get it? Can I ride it? When did you learn how to ride?”

  “It’s Uncle Nick’s old bike. He taught me how last night. Had a few minor crashes along the way.” He pointed out the scrapes and scratches from his run-in with the rosebush.

  “Ouch. Look, Nicholas, about yesterday. I’m really—I mean, I didn’t mean to hurt …”

  Nicholas felt himself blushing; he was embarrassed by the way he’d acted. He waved off the rest of her apology. “Let’s just forget it ever happened, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  After breakfast at Nick’s, Charlie led the way across the two-mile-long causeway that spanned the lake. Nicholas, determined to keep up with her despite his lack of experience, pedaled as hard as he was able. He was breathing hard and his heart was pounding as they swung their bikes into the parking lot of Tressler’s Marine and RV Center, which was completely empty of cars. They rode right up to the entrance of the showroom, where a hand-printed sign had been taped to the glass door: FAMALY AMERGANCY CLOZED TIL NEXT WENSDAY. CALL KEN IF YOU NEDE TO GET YER BOTE OUT. HE GOT THE KEY.

  “Nice spelling,” Nicholas said. “And I guess we’re just supposed to know Ken’s phone number.”

  Charlie scoffed at the sign. “Well, we’re not waiting until next Wednesday, that’s for sure. Come on, let’s check it out. Bring your bike over here.”

  They wheeled their bikes around the side of the building and hid them behind an old shed. A six-foot-high chain-link fence separated the building from the back of the property, which consisted of a weed-covered gravel lot filled with a motley collection of rundown boats and even sadder-looking rust-stained campers.

  “The boat must be behind that,” said Charlie, pointing at a large unpainted barn. “Nick said it was behind the barn.”

  “So, what are we supposed to do now?” Nicholas asked.

  Charlie grabbed the fence and stuck a toe between the links. “We go in and take a look.” When she reached the top, she swung her feet over and jumped down to the ground.

  “Um, isn’t that trespassing?”

  “Only if we get caught. Don’t worry—nobody’s going to see us.”

  That’s what they always say right before the FBI swoops in and arrests them.

  Nicholas looked around, half expecting to see police helicopters hovering overhead and a SWAT team racing toward him with guns drawn. But this was Deming, Ohio, on a quiet Tuesday morning; in all likelihood, there wasn’t a helicopter within fifty miles as he mimicked Charlie’s climbing technique and dropped onto the gravel on the other side of the fence. They were in.

  Just in case someone was watching, they ran to the back of the barn. There were three old sailboats sitting in wooden cradles, but it didn’t take a detective to determine which was the one they were looking for: it was the one with the big hole in the bottom.

  Charlie whistled. “Boy, when your dad wrecks a boat, he does it right.”

  “Man. No kidding,” Nicholas added, reaching up inside the boat with his hand.

  The hole was big enough for them to crawl through, and even more of the fiberglass around the keel was crushed and broken where it had landed on the sharp rocks outside the marina. The rudder, which should have been perfectly vertical, was heavily damaged and bent at a crazy angle; it looked like it belonged on a submarine. Above the waterline, one side of
the hull had escaped unscathed, but the other had obviously pounded on the rocks and the marina seawall for some time.

  “Let’s take a peek inside,” Charlie said, looking around for a way up onto the deck.

  They found a ladder on the ground behind one of the other sailboats, and soon they were on the deck, peering into the cabin through one of the portholes.

  “Looks pretty nasty in there,” Nicholas said. “But it’s dry, at least. I guess the one good thing about having a two-foot hole in your boat is that water drains right out.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Charlie admitted with a smile. “I wonder if there’s anything living in there. Guess we’ll find out.” She gave the main hatch a good push forward with her foot and braced for a frontal attack by an angry raccoon.

  “You’re crazy,” Nicholas said, marveling at this strange creature who seemed to fear nothing.

  But Charlie was already on her way into the cramped, empty cabin, so Nicholas followed once more. The cushions had all been removed, as had the lines, sails, and every other piece of sailing equipment.

  “What are we looking for?” Nicholas asked.

  “First, I want to see how the steering wheel works—I mean, what connects it to the rudder? On Nick’s boat, and on the Heron, it’s simple: the tiller just connects directly to the rudder.” She lay where one of the berths had been, and began to crawl toward the stern of the boat along the wood box that enclosed the inboard engine. Behind that was a small compartment—too small, in fact, to fit her head inside. After a little experimenting, though, she found that if she turned her head just so, she could see inside. And what she saw definitely got her attention.

  “Nicholas! You have to see this. Come back here. On the other side.”

  He wiggled his way back, finally arriving at the point directly opposite Charlie. Their heads were separated by only eighteen inches or so.

  “Where am I supposed to be looking?” Nicholas asked.

  “Turn your head so you can look behind this … thingie. Can you see the pulleys?”

  “Pulleys? No. No, wait, I see them.”