The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  From somewhere he heard his name being called out, ever so faint and ever so softly.

  Then he blinked.

  The voice was real. His father was calling up from the first floor. He hurried and replaced the Bible, closed the lid, slipped out of his secret room, snapped off the light, and replaced the plywood door.

  “Chase? Do you hear me?” his father said in an agitated tone.

  “Yeah, Dad?” he called back. Chase flumped into the overstuffed chair under his window, switched on the light, and grabbed one of the books in the pile by the chair. He flipped it right-side up and opened it halfway.

  He heard the weary moans of the wooden stairs as his father climbed them. Fourth step squeal, seventh step creak.

  “I was calling you. You didn’t answer.” His father now stood in his bedroom doorway. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I was just looking at the moon,” he replied. “I might have dozed off. Who won the game?”

  “The Pirates—6 to 5.”

  Chase smiled. “Good. Well, I think I’m going to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  The steps squealed and groaned in the same manner once again but this time in reverse. That meant his dad had forgotten to check the locks on the front door.

  Ethan stepped onto the front porch and looked up into the sky. There was no moon. Only the gray darkness of the clouds.

  Forgiveness is the answer

  to the child’s dream of a miracle

  by which what is broken is made whole again,

  what is soiled is made clean again.

  —Dag Hammarskjöld

  CHAPTER THREE

  LAKE TIONESTA WASN’T THE biggest lake in the area, or the closest. But if Ethan had been asked, he would have said it was his favorite. The campground at the lake lay at the foot of a steep bluff, layered with pines and oaks. The lake was quiet. Three years earlier, the state had banned all powerboats, citing environmental damage. There would be no sawing and whining of big Evinrudes at the tail of a Bassmaster boat. There would be no chopping complaint of Jet Skis clamoring about in the waves. Just the soft lapping of the water on the rocky shore. Just the gentle hiss of the wind in the surrounding pines.

  After a week amid power tools, Ethan loved the chance to hear nothing.

  It must have been a busy week for Chase as well, since he fell asleep as soon as they left Franklin and slept for over an hour—virtually the entire trip. Ethan walked quietly as he unloaded the tent and canoe. He had brought the big tent. Gray clouds filled the sky, and Ethan wanted a dry spot to sit if the rains did come. In only a few minutes, the tent was erect. He tossed the sleeping bags inside and set up the two collapsible chairs. He hung the lantern on one of the tent supports.

  He slid the canoe from the truck and hoisted it to his shoulders, wobbling down to the lakeshore. He wedged it firmly on the shore. The calm wind produced no waves, and the leaves remained motionless in the graying afternoon. He turned back to the campsite and saw Chase sitting up in the truck, stretching, his right arm extending through the open window.

  Chase had grown tall in the first year of his teens, losing all vestiges of his earlier, rounded, youthful look. He now stood two inches taller than his mother had been. His hair was the color of her hair, blond as a field of wheat in September. The afternoon light, fading gold from the west, lit his face in full profile. In the diffused illumination, Ethan saw the profile of his wife imbued in his son. He looked away, then pulled the canoe farther from the water.

  “Dad,” Chase called, “you should have woke me up. I would have helped.” He stepped out of the truck and stretched again.

  “No problem. You looked tired.”

  His son leaned into the bed of the truck and retrieved his tackle box and rod. “Fishing?” he asked. “Live off the land for dinner tonight?”

  Ethan took a deep breath. “Why don’t you try it alone, Chase? I’ll finish setting up and start a fire.”

  “You sure?” Chase replied as he set his rod and tackle box in the canoe.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Ethan helped maneuver the canoe into the water. He stepped on a flat stone just above the surface of the lake and gave the boat a shove. It slipped into the water with a silent rippling. “Put your vest on. I’m too old for a lake rescue.”

  Chase scowled, waited a moment, then grabbed the life vest from the prow of the canoe and put it on. Ethan heard the loud snaps of the plastic buckles as Chase fastened them together.

  As he turned back to the campsite, he heard the ripple of a paddle in the still water.

  Finishing the campsite took only another few minutes. A storm had passed through the area earlier in the week and the ground was littered with branches, some the size of a man’s arm. In five minutes, Ethan had enough wood for cooking for the night, and probably for breakfast as well. Most branches he simply broke in half or fourths by stepping on them in the middle and pulling one end with his hands. He later cut the larger ones with a small folding camp saw.

  He unrolled the sleeping bags in the tent. This was the job his wife had always done. He and Chase would have been in the canoe, and she would have done the final unpacking.

  He placed the grate on the fire circle and set a blackened coffeepot to one side. He no longer tried to make real coffee but used instant instead. Lynne had the knack of knowing just how long to let the flames dance at the bottom of the pot. His always came out either weak as rainwater or thick as native petroleum.

  He set a large pot to the fire and threw in his premixed bag of potatoes and carrots and cold water. Replacing the lid, he nudged the pot toward the center of the flames. Then he took his coffee cup, poured a cup of hot water, then added instant coffee and dry creamer. He pushed his chair closer to the edge of the tarp under the tent and sat down.

  By this time, Chase had rowed nearly a hundred yards out into the lake as the sky cleared. Below the canoe, twenty feet down, lay a jumble of rocks and old trees—a perfect hiding place for bass and perch—in the cold, dark waters of the lake. The two of them had fished that same location often. He knew Chase had triangulated his position, sighting it in relationship to a jetty of rocks to the east and the ranger’s tower to the south.

  Ethan sipped at the coffee and watched his son cast his line into the water, slowly reeling it back in, jerking the line every few seconds, just as Ethan had instructed him so many summers ago. Four casts came back empty. On Chase’s fifth cast, Ethan watched as the end of the rod tipped toward the water. Chase reacted smoothly and yanked the rod to set the hook. He began winding the reel, slowly at first, then more quickly. He reached into the water and pulled the line into the air. At the end was a perch, Ethan thought, though he was too far away to be sure. He thought he saw a lemon yellow flash in the sun reflected off the scales. Chase quickly removed the small fish from the hook and carefully set it back into the water, rinsing his hand off with a splash.

  He looked toward his father and made some gesture, the intent lost on Ethan. He waved and Chase waved back, then cast his line again.

  The sun was now twenty minutes above the western pines, scattering shadows across the far western shore of the lake.

  Ethan stared out across the water, out toward his son. He sat the same way his mother had sat, Ethan realized, with his knees spread in a relaxed slouch. His hat, a Flyers baseball cap, was pulled far to the back, so the bill was nearly vertical. His mother had worn hers much the same, except she would pull her blonde hair through the back of the hat in a long, sweet ponytail.

  He and Lynne had bought the canoe the first year of their marriage. Images of Lynne resting, leaning back against the gunwale, her right hand barely trailing in the water, tracing their progress with her index finger, came rushing to his thoughts.

  He looked back at his son and felt that fami
liar, unwelcome snicking in his chest—a faint, insistent sputter below his heart.

  Chase snagged his rod back with a snap. Whatever took the bait this time felt big. He didn’t like using lures, preferring worms and leeches. He had a tackle box full of bait and spinners and jigs of all descriptions. None were as effective as the real thing.

  But lures were cleaner and easier to use than live bait.

  He wound his reel, feeling the great unseen tug at the line. After a long moment, he saw the golden, liquid flash just below the surface of the water. A bass, perhaps the biggest one he had ever snagged, circled once, then dove under the canoe. He sat up straight and leaned toward the fish, extending his arm to the side.

  “Stay there, stay there,” he said in an urgent whisper.

  He pulled, tugging the fish toward the open waters to his side.

  “Come on, now, come on.”

  The fish darted first toward the surface. Chase could see that one hook of his lure was snagged firmly in the mouth of the fish.

  “I have him,” Chase said firmly and yanked at the rod.

  The fish broke the plane of the water, flipped its tail, and pulled once again away from the canoe. Chase let him have a dozen yards of line, wanting to tire him out. The line was thin and light, to add to the sport of fishing. Anyone could land a fish with a rope, his father said, but it took a sportsman with skill to use a thread.

  Chase kept the line taut. Then all of a sudden it went limp. Instinctively, Chase stood in the canoe, bracing himself as best he could. He had to stand to see the shadowy ripples of the huge fish. He wound the reel fast.

  Then he saw a glimpse of the fish—sleek, gold, green, and white, flashing toward him. He tried to wind as fast as the fish swam, but it would be impossible. A streak in the water, and then the fish dove beneath the canoe. The line went limp, then snapped tight. Chase pulled back hard. As he did, he realized with a thud that the rough, nicked bottom of the canoe would cut the line. As he pulled, the line broke free, and Chase knew in that second that the fish was gone.

  He reeled his line in. The line was empty, and the lure was gone.

  He looked toward the direction the fish had taken. It was free, but it had a lure snagged firmly in its flesh. It would not live long, perhaps a few days—and for that, Chase felt a sudden sadness.

  He stood, watching the placid water.

  At the shore of the lake, he saw his father striding toward the water, his hand raised. Even from this distance, Chase knew he was upset over something.

  Chase leaned toward the land. He heard a shout but couldn’t make out the words. He cupped his hand to his ear.

  “I said sit down!” came his father’s louder shout. “For heaven’s sake, sit down! And come back closer to shore.”

  Chase stared at him for a moment. He knew he was guilty of a breach of canoe safety but did not enjoy being instructed from a distance. He glared back at his father, then sat down, threw his rod to the floor of the canoe, grabbed the paddle, and dug into the still water.

  “Good grief, Chase, what were you thinking? To stand up like that in a canoe. You could have fallen and hit your head and drowned. What if I hadn’t been watching? You would have been gone. Aren’t you thinking anymore?”

  Chase said nothing as he pulled the canoe up onto the rocks. He grabbed his tackle box and rod, yanked them out, and stomped off toward the truck, where he tossed them in the back with an indiscriminant clatter.

  “Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Ethan said, a little bit quieter than a shout.

  Chase turned back and glared. “Okay. I stood up. So shoot me!”

  Ethan took a step toward his son, his lips tight with anger. “Don’t talk to me in that tone, young man.”

  Chase did not shrink back an inch. “Then you don’t talk to me in that tone either!” he shouted back. “I just stood up in the stupid canoe. I forgot, okay? Nobody got killed, okay?”

  Ethan lowered his voice just a bit. “Listen, I don’t want you doing stupid things like that anymore. I may not be around all the time to save you.”

  “Save me?” Chase shouted. “I don’t need saving! And I don’t need you waiting around, waiting for me to screw up.”

  With that, Chase turned on his heels and walked away toward the tent. He slapped the flap open and ducked inside. If it had been a door, it would have been slammed.

  Ethan unclenched his fists and took a deep breath.

  It’s not like it used to be, he thought. Not at all.

  Ethan had the truck packed up by Sunday at noon.

  The two of them had not spoken much since Friday night. Chase’s anger had turned to a sullen quiet.

  They awoke in silence.

  Ethan quietly prepared the meals, they ate in silence, and Ethan cleaned up in silence.

  Chase wandered along the lakeshore most of Saturday afternoon and spent all of Sunday morning casting his line into the shallow waters along the shore. He hadn’t touched the canoe again.

  Ethan had spent the time reading and staring out over the calm waters. It was as if there would be a winner and loser in the “who speaks first” competition. Neither of them wanted to lose.

  Ethan looked at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. He poured another jug of lake water over the fire pit. Chase was a hundred yards away, sitting on the rock jetty, his arms draped about his knees.

  “Chase!” he shouted.

  The boy did not move.

  Ethan shouted again. The pitch of his voice gave away the tension in his heart.

  He knew Chase had heard him the first time. The boy rose, dusted off his jeans, and slowly picked his way among the tumbled rocks, extending one arm and then the other, for balance. He jumped to the shore and walked with great deliberateness toward the truck. He kept his eyes focused on the spot just in front of his father’s feet.

  “You ready to go?” Ethan asked, holding his voice even.

  “Yep,” Chase replied and reached for the door.

  Ethan hesitated, then walked to the driver’s side and slid in. When he started the engine, it sounded so very loud. He reached over and turned on the radio.

  As the truck bounced and rutted its way to the main road, Ethan stepped on the brake and looked both ways. He switched on the blinker, even though he didn’t see any cars around them for miles.

  Ethan caught his son’s odd glare.

  The boy turned away and stared out the open window.

  “Chase?” Ethan’s voice was soft, almost conciliatory, as if asking for a favor following an argument that was lost.

  Chase didn’t turn completely around. His face was set to the road in front of them.

  Ethan thought he saw his son’s chin tremble—but only for the briefest moment.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said in the barest whisper.

  Ethan was certain he knew what his son meant. It wasn’t the canoe or this day he was talking about. It was a long time ago. He had said the same words before—often at the end of arguments just like this one. Ethan could never answer quickly. Instead, he took a deep breath and let a minute sweep by them.

  “I never said it was.”

  He knew his words were as unconvincing as his son’s.

  Then Ethan looked both ways again and pulled out onto the empty road and drove into the afternoon sun, toward home, in silence.

  “You go in,” Ethan said. “I’ll unload the truck.”

  Ethan knew Chase hated packing and unpacking. It must be a teenager thing, he thought. All his friends are the same way—just pick up and leave and never worry about putting things right again.

  “You sure? I don’t mind,” Chase replied, his angry tone softer now, almost even.

  “Yep. I don’t mind. You know how fussy I am about put
ting things in the right places. Everything in order and all that.” Ethan attempted to grin at his son.

  Although Chase didn’t smile in return, his scowl slipped away for a second. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  And with that, he walked slowly toward the back porch and the kitchen door. He let the screen door slam behind him. In another moment, Ethan heard the mumbled sounds of the television. The Pirates were playing on the West Coast. The game must have just started. He sighed and reached into the truck bed for the tent.

  Ethan would never store the tent folded; instead he hung it up on pegs he had installed in the garage. Sleeping bags, likewise, were stored hung, not rolled. He carefully emptied the gas from the camp stove. He hung the rods and reels by the handles so the fiberglass would not affect a permanent bend or flex. He manhandled the canoe upside down onto a pair of sawhorses so it would dry completely. Satisfied, he took a last look around the garage. It was filled with tools and equipment, but everything looked to be in its proper place. Almost out the door, he turned back, took a bottle of clear oil and an old rag, and wiped the bottom of the canoe clean. Regardless of warranties, he wanted to ensure that no metal part, no rivet or seam, would rust.

  He closed the door, hearing the lock snick into place, and took a deep breath.

  Home again. It’s good to be home again.

  He padded up the back porch steps and entered the darkened kitchen. He listened but no longer heard the buzz of any television … or radio either, for that matter. His watch read 6:00. The baseball game was still on, he imagined, unless it was rained out—but how often does it rain in California?

  He opened the door of the refrigerator and peered inside. One of Mrs. Whiting’s covered dishes caught his eye. Ethan lifted the cover. Homemade vegetable soup. At the back of the bottom shelf stood two Rolling Rock beers. He hadn’t bought them. Doug, his lead carpenter, had brought a six-pack two months ago to an impromptu barbecue. Doug drank the four other bottles himself and forgot to take the remaining two home with him. Ethan debated a moment, then reached for a can of diet soda. It was a familiar debate, and the outcome had been the same for the past two months.