Red Kayak

by Priscilla Cummings

  “J.T. said—” And it hit me fast. J.T. had made up the story because he didn’t want me over. “I’m confused,” I mumbled, scrambling to figure out why. “I guess I got it mixed up.”

  Ryan was nudging Kate.

  “Yeah, we have to go,” Kate said. “See you, Brady.”

  “See ya,” I said. But as she hobbled away with Ryan, I stood there wondering: Why would J.T. lie to me? And why would Digger not even want to talk to me?

  I needed to get to class. Lockers slammed. Everyone was hustling. Ernie Bodkin knocked my shoulder as he rushed by. But I stood there, staring.

  I didn’t get it.

  The bell rang. I was going to be late. But I didn’t much care because I just didn’t get it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There was a funeral for Ben a couple days later. A friend of the DiAngelos called to invite us. The funeral was out in Leesburg, Virginia, where they’re from. But I didn’t want to go.

  My parents said that was fine. They said they understood if I didn’t want to go. But I think Mom worried about me. The day of the funeral she asked me to drive into Centreville with her to help with the grocery shopping and errands. And she took me to lunch at Pizza Hut, and we almost never eat lunch out.

  I could feel her keeping an eye on me while I played with the straw in my soda. Pushing her salad plate to the side, Mom picked up her coffee and said, “Brady, you need to put this behind you and move forward.”

  Her words echoed Carl’s.

  “I know,” I agreed. But how did you do that? Every day I kept thinking about what had happened on the river, and I couldn’t seem to get the traction I needed for forward motion.

  “Do you want to take the rest home?” Mom asked gently.

  I stared at the uneaten half of my small pizza not caring, but I nodded because we never waste food.

  Across the street, Mom pulled into a parking place at the new shopping center my father hated because it had sprung up in what used to be a cornfield where he went hunting as a kid. I wasn’t particular; in fact, I never minded an excuse to go anywhere outside of our town—if you can call it that. All we have at Bailey’s Wharf is a crossroads near school where there’s a post office and the firehouse, a gas station that sells bait, a video store, and the 7-Eleven.

  “You all right?” Mom asked, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

  “Yeah.”

  She handed me a piece of paper with the things Dad needed from the hardware store and a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour, okay?”

  When I finished buying the clamps and sandpaper Dad needed, I saw that I still had twenty minutes before meeting Mom, so I drifted into the Dollar Store to poke around and remembered I needed batteries for my CD player. Some little kids were in the store, examining the new Spider-Man action figure, seeing what it could do. I thought of Ben, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to imagine what his funeral was like. I had never been to a funeral. Not even Amanda’s. Carl took me up to the National Aquarium in Baltimore the day they buried my sister, and I didn’t know until it was over.

  I’m sure my parents thought they were protecting me, but I always felt cheated. Like it left yet another hole in my life. It irritates me even now when I think of how I rode all those escalators to see a bunch of fancy sea horses and polka-dotted fish when I could have been saying good-bye to Amanda one last time. This is the truth: After that, I never once wanted to go back to that aquarium, not even when fourth grade went there on a field trip. Mom never knew it, but I faked a stomachache that day.

  “Excuse me. Are you okay?” the woman behind the register narrowed her eyes as she peered at me. I must have looked kind of spaced-out.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I mumbled, turning to walk out and forgetting all about the batteries.

  After we got home that day, it started raining again. It rained practically the entire spring vacation.

  During that break, I worked on a term paper for English and hoped that J.T. or Digger would call. They didn’t. At the end of the week, Carl asked me to go with him while he took his mother, my aunt Tracy, who doesn’t drive, down to Richmond so she could stay for a few days and help her dad move into a nursing home. Even though we’re cousins, I had never met Carl’s other grandfather before. He’s real old now and has that disease where you forget. He didn’t even know Carl or my aunt when we walked in. “It’s me, Tracy,” my aunt told him. “Your daughter!” she said, opening her arms for a hug. But Carl’s grandfather didn’t recognize her and even backed away, knocking a chair over.

  For hours, we packed up boxes for Carl’s grandfather. All his sweaters and socks and towels. Even his silverware and his coffee mugs. Carl’s grandfather watched game shows on television the whole time, except when he occasionally got up to tell us we needed to hurry because he was late for work. Afterward, we ordered some Chinese food and spent the night, Aunt Tracy in the guest room, Carl on the couch, and me on a funky futon thing his grandfather had.

  The next morning, other relatives were coming to help. Carl had to get back for his shift, though, so he and I got up early and left. We drove through a Burger King for breakfast, then got right back on Route 301 and drove north.

  “I feel sorry for your mom,” I told Carl. “It’s going to be a hard week for her.”

  “Yeah. But you know Mom, Brady. She wouldn’t be happy if she wasn’t helping someone.”

  True, I thought. My aunt Tracy had a heart of gold. And, if you asked me, so did Carl, the way he was always helping her—and us.

  It started me thinking that maybe there was more I could be doing. Like for the DiAngelos.

  By the time we got back from Richmond, it had stopped raining, and even though we’d only been gone for a day, it seemed as if spring had suddenly moved into Maryland. Clusters of daffodils and pudgy little purple hyacinths had sprouted up all over our yard. The ground was squishy from water, and behind the house, where Mom had started raking out her butterfly garden, the earthy scent of marsh drifted up from the river.

  That evening Mom fried a rockfish and served one of her applesauce cakes for dessert. It was a nice dinner. You could tell we were all trying to make a fresh start and get things back to normal.

  “Anything happen while I was gone?” I asked, digging into my cake.

  “Well, let’s see.” Dad scratched his head. “The locusts are in bloom, so that means the crabs is havin’ their first molt. See, too, that Mr. Hennessey down the road planted his soybean field.”

  Mom smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “Uncle Henry brought me a bag of manure for the garden.”

  I snorted. “Okay. What I meant is did anything exciting happen?”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other.

  “Like did anyone call?” I prodded.

  “Yes!” Mom replied. “Your aunt Janet called from Rhode Island. She wants you to go up and spend a week with them when school gets out.”

  I knew they’d contrived the trip to get my mind off things.

  I half smiled. “Anyone else?”

  Slowly, Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Neither J.T. nor Digger had called, then. I felt my heart dip. The whole week had passed and neither one of them had called.

  “It rained the entire time you were gone,” Mom reminded me. Like maybe that was an excuse. But on rainy days, the three of us had some of our best times down in J.T.’s basement. His family had one of those big-screen TVs and an air-hockey table, too.

  I cut a big forkful of cake and pushed it into my mouth with a lot of resolve behind it. Good friends wouldn’t ignore me like this, I thought. I wasn’t going to let those guys get to me. And in the meantime, I’d show Ben’s family just how sorry I was about what had happened.

  After I swallowed, I announced, “I’m going to offer my help to the DiAngelos.”

  My parents seemed surprised. Dad shrugged. “Great idea,” he said.

  “What kind of help?” Mom wanted to know
.

  “Anything. Rake the yard. Mow the lawn. Whatever they need.”

  Mom appeared thoughtful as she stirred her tea. “I heard from someone at the grocery store that Gina—Mrs. DiAngelo—is over there by herself,” she said. “I’m sure she’d appreciate your offer.”

  “What do you mean? ‘Mrs. DiAngelo is over there by herself.’ Where’s Mr. DiAngelo?” I asked.

  Mom kept stirring her tea. “They have an apartment in northern Virginia. Maybe he’s staying there.”

  I stopped eating. “I don’t get it. Why would she be there alone?”

  It was getting a little tense in our dining room. I looked from Mom to Dad, and back to Mom again.

  She set her spoon down on her saucer. “Sometimes,” she said gingerly, “when there’s been a death, it drives a family apart, instead of together.”

  At first, that didn’t make a lick of sense to me. You’d think people would hold tight after a tragedy like the one with Ben. But then, I only had to think back on what happened to my sister and watch Mom bite her lip to realize it didn’t always work that way.

  My father got up and left. This was way past his comfort level.

  Mom reached over to touch my hand. “They need some time, Brady. And maybe what they need right now is time apart.”

  After I heard Mrs. DiAngelo was over there alone, I was more determined than ever to help her. So the next day, Sunday, I asked Mom for her help, and we made a spinach lasagna and put the ingredients for a spicy Italian bread into the bread machine. I didn’t mind the cooking. I felt as though I was an old hand in the kitchen—ever since those days at the fire station. Even so, I made one heck of a mess spilling flour all over the place, including on Tilly, because she was right under my feet the whole time.

  As soon as the bread machine beeped, I pulled the loaf out, wrapped it in tinfoil, and put it in a cardboard box with the tray of lasagna. Mom had also picked a thick bunch of daffodils, which she put in a coffee can with water and nestled into a corner of the box. On top, I settled a folded note, offering my help. I signed my name and left a phone number and an e-mail address.

  Mom had done so much of the work I wanted her to come, too. But at the last minute she said she couldn’t, and Dad took me.

  The box was warm on my lap. I was proud of what Mom and I had created. Halfway up the DiAngelos’ driveway, though, I had a terrible thought: What if Mrs. DiAngelo didn’t want visitors? And me in particular? What if she closed the door in my face? What if she didn’t know how hard I tried to save Ben?

  The DiAngelos’ driveway is pretty long, winding across the field where J.T., Digger, and I used to shoot tin cans, so there was a lot of time for me to agonize over this. When the DiAngelos’ huge brick house came into view, Dad slowed his pickup and parked behind a new black Saab. The DiAngelos had four cars, including a silver Porsche, that J.T. lusted after. I didn’t see the Porsche though. Maybe Mr. DiAngelo had it, over at that apartment in Virginia.

  We rang the doorbell a few times and waited at least ten minutes, but no one ever came. Disappointed, we set the box by the door and left.

  Dad didn’t say anything on the drive back home. Not that it’s unusual for Dad to be quiet. But I could tell something was eating at him. When we walked into the kitchen, where Mom was unloading the dishwasher, he finally told me.

  “Look, Brady,” he began, “I know it’s been hard. But it’s time to be gettin’ on. I got way too much to do to take on your chores, too.”

  Mom held a stack of plates. The room grew quiet.

  “Either do something with those crab pots tomorrow or pull ’em in,” Dad said.

  I hadn’t thought a lick about crabbing. Not a lick! Even if I didn’t rebait them, I knew I needed to move the pots around. If you don’t—sometimes on Dad’s boat we even hose them off—they’ll gunk up and disintegrate.

  Dad turned the cap in his hands. “One other thing,” he went on. “I know you kids must’ve been in my shop sometime over the past few weeks and took my drill. The cordless one—the one runs on batteries? I can’t find it anywhere, and I need it.”

  “We didn’t take it, Dad. I know we didn’t,” I insisted, hurt because I’m good about putting things back. Especially if it was something from his shop.

  My father let out his breath, like he didn’t believe me. Then he set his cap and truck keys on the counter and left.

  Mom could tell Dad had hurt my feelings. In a soft voice she explained how he’d been under some pressure lately to join the other watermen in a protest against the state’s new crabbing regulations. “They’re talking about petitioning the governor and demonstrating over in Annapolis,” she said.

  “And Dad doesn’t want to do it?”

  She made a face and shrugged. “He’s been kind of funny about it. Like he’s not sure. But I don’t see how he can’t go along with the others. It’s his livelihood, Brady. It’s what puts food on this table.”

  I stood, staring down the hallway after my dad. I hated to let my father down. Hated it. Especially if he was having problems of his own. So I set my alarm for 4 A.M. in order to check my crab pots before school, then laid out my clothes for the morning. I even made two peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches and left them in the refrigerator beside a bottle of Gatorade so I could grab them on my way out the door.

  It was brutal when that buzzer went off. I moaned and pushed the warm covers off. On automatic pilot I got dressed and let Tilly out. Then I shoved the sandwiches in my coat pocket, grabbed the Gatorade, and scooped up the flashlight at the end of the counter.

  The house was silent. Monday was Dad’s day to work in the shop, so he and Mom wouldn’t be up for another two hours.

  Outside the toolshed, I picked up a basket to fill with razor clams from the refrigerator. But even before I opened the door to fetch the bait, I could feel how something had shut down inside of me.

  With the empty basket still in my hand, I walked along the short path to the dock. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the dark. I flicked the flashlight off and stood there, staring out over the creek. Tilly had hopped into my boat and was waiting.

  But I knew I couldn’t go back out on the water. Not because I was afraid, or because I blamed the river for what happened. It was because of an overwhelming sadness that came over me being near the water. In the hazy morning air, all I could see was a red kayak, sunk in the river, and Ben’s half-closed eyes and cold blue lips. Whatever it was inside of me that had shut down curled inward.

  In the kitchen, I left a note for Dad saying my engine was broke, and went back to bed. Tilly seemed to understand and lay quietly on the rug beside me.

  Later that day, when I got home from school, Dad told me two terrapins had drowned in my pots. I wondered how he knew. But walking out back, I could see that my father had pulled every one of my traps and stacked them up, four deep, behind the shed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Mrs. DiAngelo hadn’t sent me that e-mail the next day. Because I was on a downward spiral—no question—and that e-mail changed everything.

  Brady—

  I’m sorry I didn’t thank you earlier for the lasagna and the flowers. I appreciated it so much. It’s been difficult. And I never even thanked you for what you did. It is so generous of you to offer to help. I do need someone to help with the yard. Would you like a summer job?

  Gina DiAngelo

  It was never my intention to get a summer job out of Mrs. DiAngelo. But I went over on Saturday to talk about it. Mom dropped me off. She’d made some cranberry-orange muffins that morning, so I brought a paper plate with six of them covered in plastic wrap.

  When I rang the doorbell and watched my mother drive off, I didn’t even think about being on that porch a few days ago with the lasagna dinner. Instead, I stood there recalling the very first time we’d come as a family, the new neighbors, to the DiAngelos for dinner. This would have been during the holidays, five months earlier, because I rememb
ered the porch banisters all decorated with pine boughs and an enormous, sweet-smelling bayberry wreath that hung on the front door.

  Dad hadn’t been too keen on the dinner idea because, for starters, he’s suspicious of all these rich new people moving onto the shore, buying up our farmland, riprap-ping the waterfront, and building their mansions with three-car garages. Plus he hates “gettin’ fancy.” He’d kept muttering, “I’m not even gonna know which durn fork to use.” But Dad didn’t have any trouble with his forks that night. And he had everybody hooked and laughing at his stories about the good old days.

  Mr. DiAngelo didn’t believe Dad when he told him the underwater grasses were so thick when Dad was a boy that he once dragged a box spring through the creek to clear a channel for his boat. And Mrs. DiAngelo seemed delighted with all of us as she swung her head back and forth, talking to Mom and me across the table and tending to Ben, who sat beside her in his booster seat, smashing peas and potatoes in his face and making one heck of a mess.

  Mom was pretty that night, with her sparkly earrings and her long, sandy-colored hair twisted up on her head. We kept catching each other’s eye, chuckling over the things Ben said. Such as, “This cawwot is a topeedo—watch!” as he made the vegetable plow a path through the gravy on his plate before targeting his mouth.

  After dessert, after I’d picked up every morsel of that delicious key-lime pie with my fork tines, I said to Ben, “Hey. How about showing me that new hamster you got for Christmas?”

  “Oh, Ben! Did you hear that? Brady wants to see Tiny Tim!” Mrs. DiAngelo exclaimed. I could tell she was very appreciative. While she lifted Ben out of his booster seat, Mr. DiAngelo poured more wine for the adults, and I caught a grateful look from my parents as well.

  Ben’s hamster was cute and had an incredible setup with a big cage and all kinds of connecting plastic tubes and hideouts. Plus he had an exercise wheel and a glow ball he could run inside.

  “You got to be kidding me,” I said when Ben explained how the glow ball rolled around on the floor.