by Sally Derby
“That’s true,” Mom admitted. “Why does his eating bother you so much?”
“Because—” I stopped. How could I explain that Tom acted like he never had enough, he was never full. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got up and ate in the middle of the night. And when I thought that, suddenly I could almost see him sitting in his pajama bottoms and undershirt, a full plate in front of him, the kitchen all dark except for the lamp shining down on his bald head, his fork moving steadily back and forth, back and forth. I couldn’t really see that, of course, but for a minute the image was so clear it was almost real, and so sad I blinked my eyes to chase it away.
I started over. “I just think people should take care of their health,” I said, looking at the pack of cigarettes lying beside Mom on the table. “Besides, it’s gross, how much he eats. He should have a little self-control.”
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” she murmured.
When Mom starts quoting the Bible to you, you might as well give up.
To change the subject, I asked her, “Where are Andrea and Vicki?”
“I think they’re taking a walk,” she said. “They shouldn’t be gone long.”
“They might have waited for me. They knew I’d be home soon,” I grumbled. “They’re always off by themselves these days.”
“They’re probably just talking girl talk and think you’ll be bored,” Mom said.
I wasn’t buying that. She just didn’t want me to be mad. Well, if Andrea and Vicki wanted to keep to themselves, they could go ahead and do it. I didn’t care.
Besides, I had other things to think about. I needed a day off. It was almost July already, and I still hadn’t explored the island. What I wanted to do was go out early one morning and stay till I had covered every inch of it. But the only days I didn’t go out with Tom Butler were Saturdays and Sundays. Neither one of us liked to fish over the weekend. Too many people opened up their cottages for those two days, and they went tearing around the lake in their big speedboats, pulling water-skiers and being loud and obnoxious. So a Saturday or Sunday wouldn’t be a good day to explore the island either. I didn’t want anyone else to see me and get the same idea. I thought about asking Mr. Butler if I could skip a day. The only thing is, I didn’t know what I’d say if he asked why. “I want to explore the island” sounded stupid, like a little kid’s plan. I knew there probably wasn’t anything there, but a stubborn voice in my mind kept insisting, “Maybe there is.”
Well, I’d think of a way to ask when the time came. Monday, I told myself. Monday I’d ask for a day off. That would be my Island Exploration Day. I could hardly wait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS IT TURNED OUT, I DIDN’T have to ask for a day off. Saturday morning at about eleven, I was reading in the rocker on the porch when I heard someone knock on the screen door to the kitchen. “Come on in,” Mom called from the main room, where she was working on a jigsaw puzzle. I heard her get up and go to the kitchen.
“Why, Tom,” she said, “what a nice surprise. Come in and sit down. Have a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” came Tom Butler’s deep voice. “How’re things, Dorrie?”
“Well, you know …” Mom sounded a little embarrassed, I thought.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry you have to sell the place. It’ll be strange, not having it in the Cook family any more.”
“We’ll all miss it,” Mom said. “Especially Kyle.”
“Fine boy you got there, must be proud of him.”
“I am. Did you come to see him? I know he’s around here someplace.”
“That’s okay. Just give him a message. I won’t be fishing Monday. Got to run into Elkhart.”
“I’ll tell him. Now, how about a couple of chocolate-chip cookies to go with that coffee? Andrea and Vicki made them, and they’re pretty good.”
“My Mary Ann always made good cookies.”
“Yes, she did. I remember. What do you hear from Lou?”
“She called last night. Said everything’s fine.”
I had been listening in silent amazement. I never heard Tom Butler talk that much to anyone. After answering about his daughter, though, he fell silent, and Mom didn’t say anything either. I pictured them sitting together at the table, sipping their coffee, eating their cookies, not talking. I wondered if his silence made Mom feel fidgety. I felt that way the first few times I went out with him, but not anymore. It was just Tom’s way.
I heard his chair push back, heard his grunt as he rose. “Guess your younger boy will be glad to have Kyle home on Monday, hmm?”
“Oh, yes,” Mom said with a laugh. “Josh doesn’t know what to do with himself when Kyle’s gone.”
I was startled. I hadn’t thought it made any difference to Josh. He was usually still in his pajamas when I got back from Tom’s.
“Tell Kyle to bring the kid along sometime if he likes. Can’t learn fishing too young.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” said Mom, laughing again. I nodded in agreement, although they couldn’t see me.
I heard the screen door open, and then he was gone. “Imagine that!” Mom said to herself. “Who’d believe he’d ask Josh to go fishing?”
“You wouldn’t let him go, would you, Mom?” I called.
“Kyle? Are you on the porch? Why didn’t you come in and say hello to Mr. Butler?”
“I thought maybe talking to two people at a time might be too much for him.”
“Oh, Kyle. Actually, we had quite a nice conversation.”
“I know. I heard.”
“Then you heard about Monday? Maybe you and Josh can go fishing Monday morning, just the two of you. He’d love it.”
“Not Monday! Please, Mom, I’ve been wanting a day to myself, a whole day to do anything I want. Monday’s my chance.”
“If not Monday, then when?”
“Tuesday,” I promised. “I’ll take him out Tuesday afternoon, after the sun cools down.”
“I don’t want you to take him too far.”
I walked into the main room. Mom had sat back down by her jigsaw. “How far is too far?” I teased her. “You don’t make any sense sometimes, you know.”
She laughed. “Don’t get smart, young man. Mothers don’t need to make sense.”
The front door banged as Josh came up from the lake. “Vicki and Andrea won’t do anything,” he complained. “They just want to sit and talk.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “You can walk down to Clyde’s with me if you want. Sell your crickets yourself this time.”
Mom gave me her oh-that’s-nice smile and Josh beamed. “I’ll go get them!” he said. “Don’t go without me.” He dashed out the back door toward the cricket cage.
As I turned to follow him down the hill, Mom said, “Hold on a minute, Kyle.” She walked over to the can where we kept the grocery money and took out a dollar. “Here, get two Cokes, one for you and one for Josh. Save your own money.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I answered. I wondered how she could be so understanding about some things and yet not understand how miserable I was going to be if she sold the cottage. Tom understood. I’d heard it in his voice. Would Dad? Probably, I thought. He’d understand, but he probably wouldn’t care.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I WOKE BEFORE THE SUN DID on Monday morning. Outside the screens the night was still black; inside, the air was stay-in-bed cold. I tried turning over and going back to sleep, but I was too excited. I felt like all the adventure stories I had ever read—Treasure Island, Robin Hood, The Last of the Mohicans—were about to come true. Ever since I was a little boy, I’d seen the island’s tree-covered banks rising from the water, still and mysterious, and dreamed about the day I’d explore them.
Finally that day was today. I made myself stay in bed until the woodpecker who was my personal alarm clock began his rat-a-tat-tat in one of the trees on the hill and a little gray light outlined the screens. Then I threw off the blankets, shivering while I pulle
d on my jeans and sweatshirt. Once the sun came up, the day would probably be warm enough for shorts or swimming trunks, but I’d need to be well covered if I was going to push my way through the island’s heavy brush.
I tiptoed through the main room. Everyone else was asleep, all of them breathing deeply and peacefully as I went by. In the kitchen I opened the fridge to see what I could take along for lunch. To my surprise, a brown paper bag on the top shelf had my name on it in Andrea’s handwriting. I opened it up. Two peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, a Coke, and some cookies! She must have made lunch for me after I’d gone to bed. I owed her one for that.
There was leftover homemade pizza in the fridge, too, and I scarfed down three pieces with a glass of milk. That should hold me until lunchtime. Closing the door quietly, I stepped out into the gray morning. I gave my teeth a quick once-over at the pump and headed around the cottage. At the top of the steps, I just stood for a minute, looking down at the lake. The morning was clear, and the island looked large and black on the surface of the gray water. Behind the cottage somewhere the woodpecker was busy tapping for his breakfast. I took a deep breath. This was it!
Out on the pier, I buckled on my life jacket and stepped into the boat. I used the old towel I’d brought to wipe the condensation off the seats. I untied the boat and shoved off.
A light wind was blowing as I rowed across the lake, but that was okay because the rowing was warming me. The sun was rising off to my left; a crow called now and then; only one other boat was out on the lake with me—the whole morning was as perfect as it could be.
Even though I knew where I was going to pull in, I rowed all the way along the southern shore, as close as I could, just looking things over. Now that I was actually ready to land, I almost didn’t want to. The feeling of anticipation was so great I was afraid nothing could equal it. But finally I decided. I rowed a little farther in until I felt the bottom scrape the rocks, then I dropped the anchor over and shipped the oars. I jumped from the bow onto the shore of the island. Two steps and I was surrounded by trees. A few more and I lost sight of the water.
How do you explore when you can’t see ahead more than two or three feet? If I hadn’t brought my compass along, I might have been afraid of getting lost. It was so quiet! That was the first thing that struck me. If there were birds around, my coming had silenced them. Here in the midst of the trees, the light was dim. I took a reading from the compass. Wondering how long it would take me to cross the island, I decided to head straight north. I pushed my way through the bushes, and as I got farther from the shore, I could feel the upward thrust of the island in the calves of my legs.
I’m not a naturalist. I can’t say what all I saw. I only know that the bushes were waist- to head-high and prickly. Some of the little plants on the ground were in bloom, but mostly they were just variously shaped and different shades of green. Here and there I saw mushrooms, or what Dad always called shelf fungi, on the sides of trees. Two or three times I spotted holes in the dirt. Some of them were crayfish holes—I recognized them by the mud crust that made them look like little volcanoes—but some were bigger, and I figured they belonged to either snakes or muskrats.
It was probably more than an hour later when I reached the northern shore. I stood on the bank and wiped the perspiration off my forehead. Out of the trees, the breeze felt cool and refreshing. I was glad to be in the open again, with the lake stretching wide before me, but I felt a faint disappointment. I guessed Dad was right. There was nothing on the island.
Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. I pushed along the shore, although every other minute or so my way would be blocked and I’d have to cut inland for a while. Finally I reached what I was pretty sure was the westernmost edge of the island. Okay, I thought, this is the plan. I’ll cross the island from west to east; that should take me to lunchtime. When I get to the other side, I’ll head back to the boat and plan what to do next while I eat.
I was almost reluctant to leave the shore behind me again. I hadn’t expected to feel so weird when the trees closed in. Even though I was sure I was the only living thing there, except for the birds and maybe a small animal or two (which I hadn’t seen or heard), I still felt kind of claustrophobic in there, as if the canopy of branches were cutting off my air.
About a half hour later, I decided I was getting good and tired of pushing bushes away, and about the same minute I noticed that the bushes were becoming sparser. It was almost as if the area I was walking in now had been thinned out at some time. The trees were farther apart, too, and occasionally I’d see a stump that looked a lot like its tree had been sawed off instead of having fallen. Those puzzled me. Maybe there was no one on the island now, but I was beginning to think somebody had been once. I pushed on. I was getting excited again, like I had been on the boat this morning. I was almost willing to bet that this area had been cleared. It couldn’t have happened naturally.
Suddenly, ahead of me, I saw something dark and solid. What was it? It was too far away to see clearly, but it sure was big. It looked like a wall. I frowned. A wall, here? The closer I got, the surer I was. It really was a wall, but not just a single wall; it was the side of a small log cabin!
I moved faster, and soon I was stepping into a clearing. At its center the cabin stood straight and sturdy. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet square, I estimated. I circled it, admiring the work that had gone into it. The door to the cabin faced south, and there was a window on the east side. There was no fireplace, no chimney. Along one wall two stout cane poles hung from brackets set in between logs. When I got to the window, I peered in. A cot stretched along the far wall. I could see a rocking chair in one corner and several large wooden crates stacked against another wall. That was all.
I walked around to the door. It had a hook-and-eye closing on the outside. Would I be trespassing if I went in? I guessed so, but I also guessed it wouldn’t matter. Clearly no one had been here in a long time, maybe years. The hook and eye were rusted, and I had some trouble separating them. The door squeaked as I pushed it back. I hesitated on the doorsill. The interior of the cottage was dim and musty-smelling. I’d just take a quick look around, I decided. I thought of Goldilocks and had to smile, but I left the door open wide behind me.
I went over to the cot first. At its foot a heavy blanket lay neatly folded. I touched it, and it felt stiff and scratchy. Still, it would be warm. A thinnish pillow without a pillow case lay at the head of the bed. In a corner of the room stood a broom, an ax, and a spade. Tools, cot, rocker, crates—a man’s place, for sure. The wooden crates intrigued me. I went over and looked at them. The tops weren’t nailed down, so I lifted one off. The crate was full of cans. I took one out, blew on its lid, read the faded label. Pork and Beans in Tomato Sauce. Another can held fruit cocktail. One after the other, I lifted them out. They were all food of one sort or another. Looked like someone planned to spend quite some time here. I checked the other crates. The first just held more cans of food. The last held a can opener, a tin of matches, some candles, some empty cans, some hooks and bobbers in a cardboard box, and some old paper sacks. Looking at the matches gave me a thought. I replaced everything carefully and went outside. Sure enough, near the eastern side of the cabin, where it would be protected from the wind, a circle of stones marked the place where someone had probably once had a campfire.
I sat down on the ground and leaned my back against the cabin. Who had built it here? And when? It must have been before Dad started coming to the lake. He’d told me over and over again that there was nothing here, and he’d had no reason to lie about it.
Well, whoever built it had wanted to be sure he’d have enough provisions to stay for two or three weeks. Was it a fishing camp? Maybe.
A rumble from my stomach reminded me to take a look at the sky. I was surprised to find that the sun was already inching over to the west. Reluctantly I stood up and went over to the door, hooking it shut again. I started back into the trees in the direction of the boat,
my mind full of questions and plans. The most important question was, would Mom let me spend the night here sometime? And if she would, was I brave enough to sleep out here alone, beyond calling distance? Maybe a walkie-talkie, or Gram’s bell, if I had something like that …
The hike back to the boat felt short—I guess because I was so preoccupied. When I got there, I sat in the boat and ate my lunch. I’d put my Coke in the water earlier, so it was nice and cold. It was a knockout lunch. I made a mental note to thank Andrea.
After lunch I just waded around for a while, getting my jeans all wet, of course. When I got tired of that, I climbed back into the boat and pulled up the anchor. I’d planned to spend the whole day on the island, but now that I’d found the cabin, I was satisfied. I’d go back to the cottage now and maybe take Josh out for a little fishing just beyond the end of the pier.
As I rowed back to shore, the thought of the cabin was like a little sunlit place in my mind. I knew I’d have to tell the others about it soon. It was too fantastic a discovery to keep a secret. But maybe I wouldn’t tell them right away. Maybe it could be my private place, just for a while anyway. Let Andrea and Vicki have their private “girl talk.” Men could have secrets, too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BACK AT THE COTTAGE I tied up the boat, trying to decide if I really wanted to take Josh fishing now. Afternoon fishing isn’t my favorite. I could see Vicki and Andrea over at Marshalls’ float. Vicki was sitting on the float talking to Brad. I don’t think she even noticed I was back—she was slathering lotion on Brad’s shoulders. I wondered what Mom would think if she saw that. Andrea saw me, though, and called over, “I’m coming in soon.” I waved to her and started up the hill.
After the brightness outside, the inside of the cottage was so dim it took my eyes a minute to adjust. When they did, I saw a note on the kitchen table. “Josh and I are at grocery. Be home soon. Love, Mom.” I was tired. I drank a glass of milk and then went into the main room and flopped down on the daybed. Something under the cover had a sharp corner, so I fished it out. It was Andrea’s sketchbook, and it was open. She had been working on a drawing of the wicker rocker on the porch, the one we all fought over. Underneath it was written, “This is the rocker where Mom sat and rocked you two when you were babies. I used to climb up and join you, and Mom would say, “Careful, you’ll squish them! Sometimes I thought that might be a good idea.” It was Vicki’s writing; she had taken calligraphy lessons, and her writing was a work of art. What was she doing, writing in Andrea’s sketchbook?