Early in the spring the days would be warmer after still-cold nights, the maple trees would be flowing with sap, and we would see the sap collectors out many afternoons loading up the fresh barrels along the roads where they ran their lines, tree to tree along the old stone walls, the walls visible again as the snow melted, and later on rainy days, with the last of the snow-banks melting and the ground a dirty brown before the year’s new green, in passing we’d see the smoke rising from the chimneys of the sugar houses. The sap collectors tapped our maples near the road, so when we saw the smoke rising we pictured them in the sugarhouse, stirring the boiling sap amid the steam and filling the heavy plastic jugs with that dark amber syrup, so thick it could almost be chewed, and it was all we could do to wait for that first jug of finished syrup to be left on our porch steps.
Although each season had its own appeal, for us, the summer was always where our real life was, and that summer, by August we had moved along better than ever. The Adirondack place we were building a few miles up the lake was right on schedule, and in the long process I’d been learning very much. Each day there’d been the feeling of progress that came in both small strides and longer leaps, depending on the weather and the stage we were at in the build. With that type of work, a sense of daily accomplishment that you can see when you leave is the best you can hope for, and even the smaller daily successes made each night more satisfying, and let the day to follow come easier in our minds.
Late in the days we might stop at Chef’s Place or the Star Diner if we were terribly hungry, but most times we were too tired or too hot and would drive straight home for a swim and a simple dinner cooked on the grill. In the shade of the screen porch surrounded by the fading light of a hot summer day, we were content to sit quietly as the sun sank away, feeling the change as the cooler night air came in on our sunburned skin. Sometimes we would talk about this and that, but most often we preferred listening quietly to the sounds of the lake country at nighttime, watching it, feeling it change as we changed with it, settling calmly to the small waves lapping on the sandy shore, the rustle of light wind moving through the trees, and then the distant crying of the loons that came rolling through the darkness like sad songs skimming across the surface of the water.
Summer fronts would blow through most often during the night—cool, dry Canadian air colliding violently with the summer heat in a beautiful show over the water. In the dark it was like holiday fireworks, but afterward everything was fresh and cool with no smell of gunpowder. I remember waking in the night storms when I was young, afraid with the windows open, feeling I was in the middle of it as it shook. In the flashes I saw the curtains blowing in and the room lighted white, felt the earth rumbling like a beast, the air rushing in as its breath, the hard rain on the metal roof its attack. But then I felt the weight of my covers holding me and knew that it was all outside in the other world. Safe inside, nothing from outside could touch me. Sleep would soon retake me, and come morning all would be pleasantly light.
Mornings were always cool on the water, even at the height of summer. Through my open window there would be great silence and cold air before sunup, and then all at once there would be an awakening just before first light when every bird and small creature would burst into action and sharp chatter. Sometimes, lying half-awake in my bed, warm under the covers with the cool air on my face, I would think that early morning was my favorite part of the day. Warm in bed you were safe. You could have your thoughts and dreams and have your comfort and none of it could be pierced until the morning grew too bright to let you remain. But then, rising in the growing light and preparing for whatever the new day held, it always became clear that whatever magic the morning held was too short-lived. Once the light worked all the way in, everything held in the dark would be unreal until it was dark once more. And closing your eyes did no good once it was light. It was a natural occurrence, and could not be preserved unnaturally. Morning held only a promise; the delivery would come later with the longer, deeper satisfaction of evening.
Most mornings I would take the boat and row across the lake to get the day going. Often the fish were rising, feeding, and sometimes I would spot an otter or a row of ducks or the loons going about their own morning routines. There were gulls flying and always many other birds, more heard than seen, and if I was very lucky I would see an eagle or a hawk circling high over us all. Rarely, I saw an eagle take a fish—streamlined in its steep dive, talons spreading just before the sharp dip and pluck, and then climbing away slowly with sweeping, laden wing beats, the fish shining and dripping, the trailing water drops glaring in the early sun like falling sparks—but that was extremely rare and so held as very special. Normally I was content to watch the quieter life around me while my breath returned from the row, feeling chilled by the morning air but loving the invigoration of it and the strange way it transitioned me from the lull of night into the sharpness of day. After the break I would row back to our beach and pull the boat from the water, flipping it upside down in the sand in case of rain.
Most summer Saturdays my old man would head off to the job without me and only work half a day. Other times we might work around the house or the yard on whatever chores required attention. Either way it made little difference, because as long as we were productive in some manner we were always satisfied, and feeling accomplished from the work always deepened our appreciation of the evening to come.
So summer was our season, and summer Sundays were always most special of the days, set aside for ourselves regardless of work progress or anything else. We pushed toward Sunday all week as we pushed for the evening each day, and for all those years it was ours alone and we would fish whenever the weather was agreeable, rowing out early and heading up to the smaller inlets by the less populated shorelines, where the trout fishing was best, occasionally beaching the boat, stretching our legs, and hiking up along a stream to catch the smaller native brook trout. Many times we caught our limit early in the year, and as the summer wore it was typical to catch less. Our limit or none, it was always good to simply be on the water and think of nothing other than the fish we imagined swimming below in the dark, eyeing the bait as it moved, while above we sat in a quiet hope for that first tug that sent a chill of excitement through us as the fight began.
But nothing ever lasts, and summer always ends too soon. The leaves always turn first near the water, and each year when we saw them start we were always a little bit sad. It meant school for me and less time with my old man doing what I loved, and all we could do was watch helplessly as our favorite season passed on by. Almost overnight the colors would ignite and we loved that part very much, sometimes driving aimlessly on back roads or rowing across the lake just to be lost in the reds, the oranges, the yellows, and the countless variations between, all reflecting on the water so beautifully but still a little sadly. Then, later, with all the colors fading the autumn rains would fall heavy, weighing the dulled leaves and dropping them along the roads, on the lake and into streams and rivers where they floated and piled into clumps of the dying colors. The wind would scatter many through the woods, the foothills, and the fields, leaving the trees bare-limbed and the browning countryside littered with the dulled orange-brown leaves, while others met their end with less sanctimony after being raked from lawns and burned in piles as the rains fell on raw autumn days, the strong smoke and glowing embers drifting up through the bare limbs of the diminished-looking trees, and it was always very pretty and always a little bit sad for us to see. We hated that it had to die.
2
When I first saw her, the pines were shedding their dead-browned needles, and the wind blowing in cool off the lake sent the weightless, slow-falling needles raining around her in swirly, light-fluttering squalls. From a distance, what stood out foremost about her was the prominence of her hair, held back from her face by sunglasses serving as a headband. She was smiling, laughing, and leaning with her head tipped under the gold-brown storm, as though she were cringing under a
pelting rain, combing her fingers through her hair in long sweeps to free the needles tangling in its lengths.
It was a late-August Saturday and my old man was standing with her on the far side of the drive, his back to me where I leaned against a post in the shade of the porch, watching the invasion through the dark screening. I was sun-and-wind-burned-tired after hours on the lake, had dozed off in a chair upon returning home and then woke later to the sound of voices. Through the wind gusts and by the distance, I could not comprehend their words.
“What’s her name again?” I asked when my old man finally made it to the screen door.
“Sara,” he said without energy. The springy screen door slapped shut, and he sank down into his rocking chair with his legs stretched out before him. The old chair creaked under his weight. Then his arms went up and his hands closed behind his head. “And it’s a done deal now.”
“Right,” I said, leaning with my shoulder against the corner post of the porch with my arms crossed. I was half looking at the girl, Sara, and half at my old man. To me it seemed she was loitering unnecessarily in the open area off the corner of the shop under the falling needles of the massive pine where the driveway split, looking over at us and, by all appearances, trying to appear that she was not.
“So how many trips did it take?” I asked.
“One, carefully packed.”
“Not bad.”
“They don’t have a lot.”
I stared over at my old man. His eyes were closed, resting.
“No, that’s not a guilt trip.”
I bit my lip and said nothing.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “They shouldn’t be any trouble to you.”
I looked back to the girl again. It was hardly a cool day, but she wore a loose hooded sweatshirt that radiated pink against the darker green-brown of the woods beyond. Her hair was gold-white blonde, airy light and mostly straight. In the wind it was wild and the slant of the late-afternoon sun glared it like daylight glaring through curtains; between the wind squalls the longest tips hung down near her waist. It seemed to me that she would be more at home in a shampoo commercial, not my driveway picking pine needles.
After a few seconds she disappeared beyond the lilacs toward my grandfather’s old fishing camp—briefly my grandparents’ retirement place, before the nursing home—now the rental place. I went over and sat down in the wicker chair across from my old man, where I could be near him and still keep an eye on the drive.
“She’s bursting with excitement,” he told me. “Absolutely loves the little place.”
“Great,” I said.
“Give her a chance, she’s a sweet kid.”
“I’m sure.”
“Wound up tighter than a fiddle string, though. A little tough to get away from her, once she gets a mind to talking.”
“Perfect.”
“C’mon, kid.”
“Yeah, yeah. How old is she?”
“Thirteen, I think. Maybe fourteen. I’ve lost track with all that she’s told me.”
“So she won’t be in any of my classes.”
“God, no,” he said, and I think he was smiling a little. It wasn’t funny to me.
“Do we need the money or what?” I jabbed in return.
“Jake,” he said in a little stronger tone, “we’ve been over this enough.”
I tipped back in my chair a little. My arms were crossed tight. One serious disagreement with my father in sixteen years, and now my mind kept circling around it. “What’s the mother’s name again?”
“Kate Davisson. But Sara’s last name is Harper.”
“Lovely.”
“That’s how it goes these days.”
“Buck knows her, right?”
“Right.”
Buck was another contractor, younger than my dad and a good friend of ours, but he was sure no saint and didn’t exactly go with folks of great reputation. We called him Buck because he hated the name Bartholomew, after his grandfather, and he refused to respond to it. He might even sock you on the chin for calling him that, if he really didn’t like you.
“Harper,” I thought aloud. “Isn’t that the guy Bucky fought with over at the tavern that time?”
“Small world, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I remember you went to bail him out that night.”
My old man laughed low. “Someone had to.”
“I was mad because you wouldn’t let me go with you.”
“It was a mess you didn’t need to be involved with.”
“I’d take Buck’s side,” I said quite surely.
“Don’t bring it up. With any of them.”
“You said they were no trouble.”
“These two aren’t the trouble.”
“For Buck to say someone’s no good, he must really be an a—”
“Leave it, boy. It’s done.”
I left it. It was done, and we were quiet. He was fine with everything and completely relaxed. Probably it was only in my head, but I kept thinking I heard noises from the old camp. For the majority of my life it had been silent, muted in time like a museum.
“The lawn looks good,” my old man said after a while. “Nice to come home to.”
“No big deal.”
“You go out today?”
“All day,” I said. “Never got a bite.”
“How far up?”
“Stopped at my favorite boulder island for a swim and lunch. By then I’d given up on the fish.”
“Maybe we’ll have some luck in the morning.”
“Maybe.”
“We’ll go way up to the north end, see what’s biting.”
“It’s worth a shot,” I said, but really, I didn’t think so. I was sunburned-tired, preoccupied with the thought of long blonde hair and, anyway, I was always a bit moody with the passing of summer.
3
The last light of day was fading when we heard their sudden laughter. Dad had finished the steaks and shut off the grill but had been too distracted to notice them approaching. I was watching him with the plate, grunting his hungry Tool Man grunts as he entered the kitchen, and walking on the springy fresh layer of pine needles, the girls had made little sound approaching, so it surprised us when they were suddenly laughing just outside the screen door.
Dad set the steaks on the kitchen table, took a few long strides to the porch, and invited them in, holding the door as they passed. Kate was first into the kitchen, smiling nervously and holding something I could not yet distinguish. Sara followed, wide-eyed and curious-looking, but hanging back close to her mother.
This was the first I’d seen of Kate. She was beyond good-looking, tallish with long legs in her shorts and slight arms holding what appeared to be a rectangular pan. Her relation to Sara was unmistakable, their age not so greatly separated. Both had nearly the same hair and face, Kate’s hair being a little shorter, Sara’s complexion being a touch fairer. Both had blonde, sharp-ended brows high over large, light eyes, matching little points to their noses, and not overly large mouths but large smiles behind straight lips. They were pretty, I thought, the same way a small bird is pretty, and seemed about as jumpy nervous.
“Everything all right?” my old man asked. He wore a funny smile and stood with his big thumbs through his belt loops like an old gunfighter.
“Fine, fine,” Kate said. “We just wanted to bring this over for you,” and she stepped forward as she spoke, placing a rectangular cake pan on the table beside the steaks.
From where I sat surveying at the table, Kate only got better-looking the closer she came. Plus, she had food. It was difficult not to look at her, but at the same time, I couldn’t look directly at her for too long.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Dad said, sort of sheepishly.
“I know, I know,” Kate said. Now that her hands were empty, her arms waved when she spoke. “We just felt we should do something to thank you.”
My old man continued smiling as he looked at her and then
again at the cake. It was great fun for me watching the old boss looking so abnormally uneasy. We weren’t exactly the type of guys that often had cakes brought to us by newly acquainted women.
“You’re about to eat so we’ll go,” Kate said quickly.
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Dad said, and he turned toward me. “This is my boy, Jake, I was telling you about.”
I said hi in their direction when I felt all their attention turn to me. I didn’t stand up and offer a handshake or anything like that. The situation was awkward enough as it was.
“Hi, Jake,” Kate said, pushing her daughter in front of her. “This is Sara.”
I said, “Hey, Sara,” looking from Kate to the girl. I watched her for a moment, expecting a response, but she only stood there looking back at me from across the kitchen, chewing her lip and clinging close to her mother, fidgeting. After a second her eyes left me. Still she said nothing, and her eyes moved around the room without fixing steadily on anything.
And that was our grand introduction.
“She’s quiet at first,” Kate explained, without pressing the girl further.
I nodded and sort of shrugged a little in acknowledgement. I didn’t know what else to do.
“That’s quite all right,” Dad said in his still-deep-but-somehow-friendlier manner, to which Sara quickly looked up, smiling at him. “Will you have some cake with us?”
“Oh, no, we have dinner waiting,” Kate answered for both, “and plenty of organizing left to do. We just wanted to bring it over before it got too late.”
My old man passed his hand over his stomach. “A little cake before dinner never hurt anyone that I know of.”
Kate shook her head. “We just wanted to say thanks again.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“All right,” Dad said, still with that sheepish look. “We’ll take good care of it.”
All Things Different Page 2