by Sally Derby
“Down in a minute,” I called. I gave Mom a quick kiss on the top of the head and started up to the cottage. Thinking about the money I’d be earning, I began to whistle. It looked like maybe we could save the cottage after all. Just like I’d thought.
* * *
A little later I was standing in the lake. Josh was standing in front of me, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. “You have to put your face in the water,” I told him for the hundredth time. He’d just showed me how far he could already “swim.” “If you try to hold your neck up like that all the time, you’ll get tired. You want to be able to swim a long way and a long time.”
“Like Dad did?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he really swim all the way across the lake?”
“Yep. Mom rowed the boat alongside him in case he needed to stop, but he didn’t.”
Josh turned his head to look out across the lake. His eyes narrowed. “Did he swim fast so no fish could bite him?”
“Fish in this lake don’t bite people.”
“Sharks bite.”
“But there aren’t any sharks.”
“There might be, and you just don’t know.”
“Sharks live in salt water. We have bass and bluegills and perch and pike and catfish—like that.”
“And turtles.”
“Yeah, and turtles.”
“Turtles bite. A snapping turtle could bite off your toes.”
I had an inspiration. “That’s why you need to put your face in the water—so you can see what’s around you.”
He thought about that, then said, “Okay,” kind of doubtfully. He uncrossed his arms, bent his neck, then stopped. “Kyle?”
“What now?”
“What if I swallow some water?”
“You swallow water every day.”
“But this water might have stuff in it.”
“Like what?”
“Fish poop.”
I worked hard to keep my face straight. I didn’t want him to see me laugh. “Fish don’t poop around here,” I told him. “They go out to the middle to do that.”
Okay, so I was making that up, but I didn’t know what else to say, and it seemed to satisfy him. He ducked his head down, and after a bit he got the hang of duck-breathe-duck. But later the sun disappeared, and when he stood I could see goose bumps on his shoulders, and his lips were blue. “Time to get out,” I said. “Race you to shore.”
I didn’t let him win, of course, but I let him come close. That’s what Dad used to do with me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN I AWOKE IT TOOK ME a minute or so to figure out what I was hearing. Then I realized. It was the plip-plop of raindrops falling on the wooden shutters outside the screens. Crud! Mr. Butler probably wouldn’t want to go out in the rain. What time was it? I didn’t hear any birds, and it wasn’t quite light out. I’d set our little alarm clock just in case, though I’d been pretty sure I wouldn’t need it. It hadn’t gone off yet. Couldn’t be too late. I rolled over to look. Quarter till five. I thought of going back to sleep. It was nice and warm under the covers. But I was wide awake. I decided to go ahead and get up. I’d go down to Mr. Butler’s, see if he was out, and if he wasn’t, I’d take our rowboat and go by myself. It didn’t sound like much of a rain.
A little later, crunching my way up Mr. Butler’s gravel driveway, I was glad I’d gotten up. He stepped out the door like he’d been waiting. Like me, he had a raincoat on. At home I wouldn’t be caught dead in a raincoat, but up here I liked wearing Gram’s old yellow one. She’d called it her slicker. It was made out of some heavy, shiny material, and it had a hat that stuck out over your eyes to keep the rain out of your face, with a long flap on back to keep your neck dry.
“Morning,” I said.
He grunted and handed me his tackle box. I carried the box and my pole in my right hand and a can of worms in my left. We made our way down the hill in silence. At the bottom of the hill, he motioned for me to go on out to the boat. He had eight or ten cane poles standing up against a small shed, and he kind of looked them over before he picked out one and brought it to the boat, which I’d already untied from the pier.
I held up my hand to steady him as he stepped down in, but he ignored it. The boat rocked only a little; he had good balance. He settled himself in the stern and I poled us out to deeper water, then put the oars into the oarlocks and began rowing. It was a lot harder with him in the boat, let me tell you. When I was out from between piers, I asked him, “Where to?”
“Let’s anchor off shore down by Johnson’s Point. I hear the bluegills are biting.”
The shore was a dim outline on my left as I pulled steadily at the oars. The mist was heavy this morning, and the raindrops made little bull’s-eyes in the water. A few other boats were setting out, too, most of them outboards, of course. Hooded figures waved as they emerged from the mist and then passed on into it again, the motors dwindling into the distance. In the stern, Mr. Butler sat still, his legs spread wide to accommodate his overhanging stomach, his hands on his thighs.
“Right about here,” he said in a bit, and I shipped the oars and we let down the anchors. We were maybe twenty-five feet out from the reeds. There was a drop-off on our right, I knew, and I wondered whether he planned to fish shallow in by the reeds or deeper on the other side. I didn’t wait to see what he would do. I’d already made up my mind to fish just in from the reeds. But shortly after my bobber hit the water, his splashed down only a little ways off. It felt good to see that his choice was the same as mine.
I don’t want to brag, but I’m a pretty good fisherman. I learned from Gram. From Dad, too, but Gram was the best. I guess once when I was little, I told a friend that everyone had to do what Gram said because she was the Boss of the Lake. Since she really could be kind of bossy, that became a family joke.
“I know this lake like I know my own backyard,” she’d say. “Been fishing it for sixty years.” Dad had taught me how to bait my hook and set my bobber and handle my pole, but Gram had taught me about fish. She taught me that perch like to hide in the underwater grasses near shore, that bass go deeper as the morning passes, that the bigger the bluegill, the more boldly he takes the bait, and that when you’re fishing shallow you don’t yank at every little dip of your bobber—you wait for a rapid downward plunge.
We anchored there by the reeds for an hour or so, while the rain fell gently and the sky lightened. Then at about six, when the sun was just rising over the far end of the lake and a mother duck led a line of ducklings into the water down near the lily pads, the fish began to bite. I caught the first, a good-size sunfish, and then Mr. Butler caught two bluegills. I was freshening my bait when I saw his bobber suddenly disappear. Whatever had his bait, it wasn’t fooling around. He didn’t act excited at all, just stretched one leg out to brace himself and began pulling. I watched, intent. The line wasn’t circling, it went straight out from the boat. His pole was bent.
“What do you think it is?” I asked.
“Turtle,” he said, disgusted. “And a big one. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t break my line.” Sure enough, in a few minutes I saw the broad greenish back of the turtle, just as the line snapped and Tom’s pole sprang upward.
“Waste of good bait,” he grumbled. “I woulda liked to get the hook out of him.”
The rain stopped about then, and the sun turned the horizon all pinkish gold. I love the way morning happens. One minute everything around you is gray—sky, water, shoreline, trees. Next thing you know, like magic, all the color is back—deep blue water, green and brown cattails, orange life jackets in a heap on a white pier, and you didn’t see it happen. Too bad Andrea wasn’t here. I’ll bet if she had been, she could have shown me. She’d have said, “Look, Kyle. Morning’s happening,” and I’d look up just in time to see it, see everything change.
The fish stopped biting. We pulled up anchor and I rowed us over to the west side of the island, where it drops off pretty steep, and we c
aught a couple perch there. We’d taken off our raincoats by then, and the sun was beginning to feel hot on my neck. Mr. Butler’s stomach grumbled. I could hear it clear down at the other end of the boat. “Time for breakfast,” he said, and pulled in his line.
I stared at him. Breakfast? He’d been eating ever since we came out. From one raincoat pocket, he’d pulled a thermos of coffee; from the other, a couple of bologna sandwiches and a bag of cookies. He’d offered me a cookie, but I’d shaken my head, and he hadn’t offered again. He’d eaten the whole bag, and I mean a whole bag like you buy at the grocery. There must’ve been two dozen cookies in there. He’d finished his thermos of coffee, too.
Dad and I never ate in the boat. We’d fish till we were famished—lake air will do that to you—then we’d go in, clean a couple perch or some bluegills, and take them up to the cottage. If we hadn’t caught anything that morning, we could get something out of the live-box. Between the two of us, we kept it full. Dad would fry the fish in cornmeal till they were brown and crispy on the outside, white and flaky inside. They were the best! We’d eat until we were full, then push back our plates and just sit and talk until the others woke up. Well, I was famished again today, but I didn’t see how Tom could be. And he sure wasn’t going to sit and talk to anyone.
I wrapped the line around my pole, pulled up anchor, and began to row toward home. About halfway across the lake, he said, “Glad to see you use a pole. Any fool can catch a fish with a rod and reel.”
It was the last thing he said to me that morning. We finished the ride in silence, and when we got to shore, he climbed out without a word and left me to tie the boat up as he mounted the hill to his cottage.
I went home happy, knowing I was five dollars richer. He’d said he would pay me by the week, and that was okay with me. I carried my pole and my bait can and my raincoat, and I just kind of jogged along, I felt so good. I had no way of knowing what had happened at the cottage while I was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
NO ONE WAS INSIDE WHEN I got back. The breakfast dishes had been done and were drying in the dish rack. I went through the main room to the porch and looked down toward the lake. Vicki was sitting in the shade, reading (big surprise), and Andrea’s head was bent over her sketchbook. Josh was climbing around on the hill, probably looking for another toad, but I didn’t see Mom at all.
I decided to get something to eat, then go down and see if Josh wanted me to take him out for a boat ride. I might even let him try to row a little. I planned to make another trip to the island this afternoon. I’d wear swim trunks, anchor the boat up close, and wade around it as far as I could. I knew that on our side of the island the bottom was stony and the water was shallow, but I wasn’t sure about the far side. Whistling a little tune (I’ve got a pretty good whistle, and I like to keep in practice), I got out the bread and the peanut butter jar. Peanut butter toast is one of my all-time favorite snacks. I made two pieces, and after I ate the first, I decided I’d probably want more. I’d just stuck two new slices under the broiler when Mom came in the kitchen door.
“Where were you? I didn’t see you down by the lake,” I said.
“I was over at the Morleys’, taking a telephone call.”
“Oh,” I said, chewing. “Who called?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Kyle. It was Dave Becker.”
“The Realtor? He’s not going to bring someone else to see the cottage, is he?”
“No, he doesn’t have anyone else who wants to see it.” She had her back to me when she said that, getting a cup out of the cupboard.
“That’s good.” I pulled the broiler drawer wider and flipped the toast. When I looked again, Mom was still facing the cupboard, the cup in her hand.
I had a funny feeling. Had her voice sounded strange? “Mom? If he didn’t have anyone who wants to come see the cottage, why’d he call?”
“The Thompsons have made an offer on the cottage, Kyle. They want to buy it.”
“Wha—No!” I sputtered. “They wouldn’t! They didn’t like it at all. I heard them say so.”
“They don’t like it,” she said. “They want to buy it for the lot. Then they’ll tear it down and build something else.”
“Tear it down? No!” My stomach felt as if I were going to be sick. “They can’t do that, can they?”
“If they buy it and have the money, they can.”
“But you won’t let them, will you, Mom? That would be awful.”
“I don’t know, Kyle. I’ll have to think. Dave Becker says he doubts we’ll get anyone else willing to pay the asking price. People expect cottages to be a little more up-to-date these days.”
“You can’t think about it, Mom. Just tell them no. I’ll never forgive you if you let them do it, never! It would be bad enough if someone bought it to live in, but to tear it down … Besides—”
“Besides what? Get your toast, honey—it’s burning.”
I pulled out blackened slices of bread that scorched my fingertips before I could drop them on the plate. After I’d turned off the broiler, I finished my thought. “Besides, maybe we won’t have to sell. Maybe something will happen.”
Out on the lake this morning, I’d come up with a plan. I was pretty sure that between Tom Butler and my worm sales, I could raise two hundred dollars this summer. And once we got back home, Vicki and Andrea could probably earn something too—babysitting, or whatever. I was counting on them for one hundred each. That would take care of the fall bill. We’d deal with spring later. I wanted to tell Mom now, but I hadn’t talked to Vicki or Andrea yet. What if they couldn’t save that much? What if they didn’t want to? I should have talked to them before. I had kind of relaxed when I found out the Thompsons didn’t like the cottage, and no one else had come around looking.
Now I felt myself getting desperate. “Please, Mom? Say you won’t let them tear it down.”
I gave her my most pleading look, but she looked away. “I have to think, Kyle,” she repeated stubbornly.
I can be stubborn, too. “Remember what I said about not forgiving you. Think about that. Think hard,” I said. “I’m going down to the lake.”
Ordinarily I wouldn’t talk to Mom like that. Ordinarily she wouldn’t let me. But she was upset, and she must have known I was, too, because she just pressed her lips tight and let me go.
Down at the lake, things went wrong at first. Andrea hadn’t heard me coming, but when my shadow fell over her sketchbook, she looked up and slammed the book shut.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” she said.
“I wasn’t sneaking up. You were just wrapped up in what you were drawing. What was it anyway?”
“Nothing,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face.
What was bugging her? I never looked in her sketchbook unless she wanted me to. She sat hugging it to her chest like she thought I’d take it out of her arms. “Well, then, be like that,” I said. “Who wants to see your old drawings anyway? We have more important things to think about.”
She didn’t answer, just sat there glaring at me.
“Vicki?” I said. “Hey, Vicki, put your book down and listen to me.”
“Can’t a person have a little time to herself around here? I want to finish this before lunch.”
“Finish later,” I told her. “This is important.”
“Oh, all right. What’s up? How was the fishing?”
“The fishing was fine, but everything else is lousy. Mom got an offer on the cottage.”
“She did? From the people who came yesterday?” Now Andrea looked concerned. “Is she going to take it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you said they didn’t like the cottage.”
“They don’t. They want to tear it down and build a new one on the lot.”
They stared at me. Andrea’s face got so pale her freckles looked like wet sand sprinkled over her cheeks and nose. “Tear it down?” she whispered.
Vicki clo
sed her book without bothering to mark her place. “We need a way to stop them. There’s got to be something we can do,” she fumed.
“There is,” I said eagerly. “I’ve been thinking.”
“I knew you’d have an idea!” Andrea exclaimed.
As I outlined my plan, I could tell they weren’t exactly enthusiastic. I tried to be persuasive. I talked about the good times we’d always had here. I pointed out that Josh was just getting to the age when he could really enjoy it. Andrea twirled a lock of hair around her finger, the way she does when she’s thinking. Vicki looked out at the lake without any expression at all. I almost wondered if she was even listening to me.
“A hundred dollars is a lot of money,” Andrea said finally. “How soon would I have to have it?”
Good old Andrea. I knew I could count on her. “Sometime in the fall,” I said. “Could you get it by then?”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I can’t earn much babysitting after school, and even if I persuade Mom to let me sit in the evenings, too, Vicki will get most of the jobs. But I do have some money in my savings account.”
“That’s for college!” Vicki told her. “Mom would never let you spend that!”
“Well, if you don’t think we can do it …” I heard my voice trail off. I was getting depressed. What had made me think we could raise four hundred dollars?
“Wait a minute, Kyle,” Vicki said. “If Andrea can’t save a whole hundred, maybe I could save the rest of her share as well as mine.”
“Would you really, Vick? I was afraid … I mean, I know you didn’t want to come this summer.”
“That’s different from not being able to come when I do want to. Maybe next year I’ll really want to come back.”
“Brad and Jeff Marshall just arrived,” Andrea told me with a wink. The Marshalls lived a few cottages down. “Their braces are off, and they both grew a foot over the winter.”