“Good.” Kate smiled. “Okay, good night, guys.” She waved quickly.
“Bye,” Sara said softly, speaking for the first and last time, and she stepped out ahead of her mother.
Dad and I both said good night in clumsy unison. Then the two of them were out the door and walking quietly on the pine needles in the dark, their whispers fading.
Most of the awkwardness left with them and we got right to our steaks without much excess dinner conversation. Still, a certain feeling hung in the air, as did the smell of the fresh cake that we took turns eyeing and thinking about, and about who had brought it as we went on eating our steaks in silence.
After dinner we tried the cake. It was yellow cake with a very heavy chocolate frosting. Thank You! was scrolled in large letters across the top in bright food coloring. It was good cake, just a little rough-looking compared with those fancy cakes you buy in stores.
“They did a damned fine job with that little kitchen to work with,” Dad proclaimed between mouthfuls.
“Yeah,” I agreed, shoveling it in. Damned fine.
We ate a large portion of the cake each, and then once the kitchen was in reasonable order we migrated to the living room. The Red Sox were playing on NESN and we settled in to watch the game, Dad in his recliner, me flopped on the couch, both of us full and happy. Within an hour the old man was snoring.
On the porch I attempted to read by the light through the windows. I was reading The Nick Adams Stories, and I tried to get into one of the stories as I usually could, reading slowly and waiting for it to take me off so that I’d see and feel like I was there. After some time it became clear that the trick wasn’t working that night. Too many distractions. I set down the book and went quietly outside.
It was dark just away from the house. My eyes adjusted and I walked by the dull glow of the lake and the stars shining overhead. It was a nice night, cool but not cold. After some stargazing I stepped in the side door of the shop. The fluorescent light hummed to life overhead, dull at first, and then slowly warmed and brightened the space.
The shop was actually a two-car garage that we never used for a garage. It had long ago been taken over by tools and supplies, even before my arrival on the scene, and somewhere along the way acquired the title of shop. It smelled firstly of the pine logs, then of sawdust and stacked lumber, cold metal tools and sometimes-damp fishing gear. Many hours I’d spent on the stool by the bench, doing nothing but thinking, sometimes messing with Dad’s tools and working on projects of some sort, building what I could out of scrap wood, old nails, and rusted screws kept in a box on the bench. But now I’d grown away from that play and was only interested in the real deal of building. The problem was that I was still too young to be any real use at it. Where I’d much prefer to be an equal, I was primarily an overgrown helper.
I sat down at the bench, opened my tackle box, and started looking through the compartments, through the hooks and sinkers and the collection of odd-looking lures. Most of them I’d never even used, yet somehow I found it a comfort to own them, to organize and rearrange them, in the very off chance I might someday need or want one. Mostly I used night crawlers from a white Styrofoam container, kept full from a plastic pail of moist dirt stored under the bench. The tackle box itself had been a gift from my old man.
Sometimes, alone at night, you think you hear things. Right then I thought I heard something. I sat perfectly still, listening carefully. A few seconds passed and I heard it again. I got up and stepped out of the shop for a look around. There was no wind, only the crickets and the usual quiet night sounds. A moment later there was a loon calling far off down the lake. Along with the loon, I heard what sounded like a startled breath nearby and a small rustling from the lilacs. I turned that way, shading out the shop lights with my hand to see in the dark. The light through the bay-door windows made eight square blocks on the dark driveway. Beyond the blocks of lights, in the shadows at the far corner of the shop, I detected pink and blonde movements.
4
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Sara said weakly, stepping out into the light. Her hands were drawn up into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. In the dark, the large whites of her eyes caught and reflected the light from the windows, and her light hair made a frame around her otherwise shadowed face.
“Are you scared of me or something?”
“I’m not scared of you,” she flashed. And then, softer, “What was that noise?”
“You mean the loon?”
“What’s a loon?”
“You don’t know what a loon is?”
“Obviously not.”
“It’s a water bird. Sort of like a duck.”
“Oh, I like ducks.”
“Okay, picture that.”
“Like a duck, but not a duck?”
“No, it’s different.”
“A type of duck?”
“No, it’s a loon.”
“Well how would I know that?” She smiled. “I’ve never lived by a lake before.”
“Anyway,” I exhaled. “What’re you doing?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged “I saw the light and was curious.”
“Just snooping?”
“I wasn’t snooping.”
“What do you call it?” I laughed.
“You don’t have to flip out. I looked in the window to see if it was your dad, okay?”
“Why?”
“I thought I might talk to him if he was out here, that’s all.” Her voice softened further. “I like talking to him.”
“Oh,” I said, the way people do after they’ve made a mountain of a molehill, and I stood there with my hands in my pockets while Sara looked steadily at me. Her head was tilted down somewhat, but she kept her eyes kept level, like she was looking over glasses.
“Did he like the cake?” she asked.
“Yeah, he liked it.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.”
“I helped make it.”
“It’s good cake,” I admitted.
“Actually, it’s more like Mom helped me. I pretty much did everything myself.”
“It’s good.” I nodded like I was agreeing with a group consensus.
“Yay,” Sara said softly in a high tone. She raised her hands, clapping them lightly together through the cuffs of her sweatshirt, while the rest of her appeared to bounce subtly in unison.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just ignore her. “For the record,” I said, “my dad likes you guys too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“He said that?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Sara nodded.
“But you better not break any of those lilac bushes,” I told her. “That’ll piss him off quick.”
Sara inched away from the nearest tips of the lilacs, staring steadily.
“My mother planted them,” I explained. “Dad’s touchy about them. That’s why they’re so big. They never get cut.”
She inched a little farther, moving closer to me. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I lowered my eyes a bit. “It’s okay.”
After she was done inching she had nothing to do but start fidgeting again, as I’d seen her earlier in the kitchen, but more so now without her mother to cling to. She swung her arms and turned her head, touched her hair and transferred her weight from one foot to another. It was unnerving just to watch her, and something about the way she looked—uncomfortably solitary standing alone like that—sort of got to me. It was like finding a tiny mouse stuck at the bottom of an empty trash can. You want it gone, but once you’ve watched it for a minute with its wiggly-nosed, toothy face and fast-scratching little arms trying to climb, you can’t just kill it.
“Where is she now?” Sara asked. “Your mother, I mean.”
I didn’t answer right away. She kept her eyes on me while she waited me out. Her steady gaze felt like she was boring tw
o eye-shaped holes into me.
“She died,” I told her, and just as I said it I heard her startle.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. There was genuine feeling in her tone. “I thought they were just divorced or something.”
“No.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yeah.”
“It must be hard to talk about.”
“You think?”
“Sorry,” she whispered, and finally her eyes lowered.
I took a deep breath. Within two seconds of snapping at her, I was right back to feeling bad for her again. Mad at myself and sorry for her. How the fiddle had she managed that?
“What were you doing in there?” she asked next. I felt the eyes return again. Apparently she had good, speedy refresh rate.
“Nothing interesting,” I said. “Just getting my tackle box ready for morning.”
“Can I see what it’s like in there?”
“Couldn’t you see through the window?”
“Not as well as if I went in,” she smiled.
She had a nice smile, shy but bright, with no appearance of being forced. It really wasn’t fair. She sprang forward when I motioned her to follow. I stepped into the shop and stood aside as she passed, closing the door behind her to keep the moths from the lights. She walked around with her head turning, eyes scanning over the tools and equipment and various stacks of lumber that mostly filled the place. She stopped by the fishing gear.
“Ever been fishing?” I asked stupidly.
“I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been.”
“These are poles with plain reels.” I pointed proudly like I’d invented them. “And these in the cases are fly rods. A little harder way to catch them, but it can be a lot of fun once you get the hang of it. My old man’s an expert with a fly rod.”
“Maybe you could teach me,” she said. Her voice went hopefully higher in pitch with each word.
My mind froze instantly. I looked around and then down at my feet, feeling the steady stare of her eyes boring deeper in. I kept scratching an imaginary itch on the back of my head.
“Fishing,” she said, as if I hadn’t understood her. “Maybe not the fly thingy, but I’d like to try the easier ones, if you’ll show me how.”
I shifted my weight from foot to foot and laughed nervously, only half able to look at her. “I don’t know, Sara.”
“What?”
“It’s just funny.”
“What is?”
“You wouldn’t even talk to me earlier. Now you want fishing lessons?”
“You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, a little.”
“It’s sort of a guy thing, don’t you think?”
“There must be some girls that fish.”
“Well, yeah, but me and Dad go out pretty early.”
“I can get up early.”
“The season’s pretty much over now anyway. And you’d have to know how to be in a boat safely. And when you’re out there, you have to keep as quiet as possible, so the fish don’t get scared off. It’s not as simple as people think.”
“I could do all that.”
“Yeah,” I stammered, searchingly. “Honestly, Sara, it’s really something that me and Dad do together.”
She stared on at me, unfazed. I might as well have been speaking French. The fluorescent light overhead seemed to be humming louder by the second.
“Anyway,” I said, “I should get in now and get to bed.”
“Can I go if I’m up early?”
I was faking a good yawn and tried to ignore her.
“I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
“I’m pretty tired” was all I could muster after the yawn.
“Jake …”
“I need to get to bed, Sara. It’s late.”
“Please?”
“So should you.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, I don’t know what else to say.”
“Jake, why can’t I go?”
“I’m pretty tired,” I said, and went to the door. I opened it and put my hand by the light switch.
“You can’t tell me what to do!” she burst.
“Okay,” I laughed. “Do what you want, but I’m going in now.”
“Why don’t you like me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Liar,” she muttered.
“Good night, Sara.”
She brushed by me as she ran out. I stepped out in time to see a pink-blonde blur disappear around the lilacs, her steps barely noticeable over the crickets. I waited until I figured she’d had time enough to get inside before I switched off the shop light. It was very dark after being under the lights.
Quietly I made my way inside, taking my book and going up the stairs on my toes. In bed I tried to sleep. I tossed and turned for a while before I sat up and clicked the light on. I read more Nick Adams. Nick knew about the excitement of the night before fishing and of the distractions that can keep you awake. I forced myself to focus on the story, and after a while found that I was also thinking about my own story. Morning would be here quickly, I knew, once I went to sleep, and then nothing else would matter but the boat rocking in the water, the cool air, stiff muscles loosening as we rowed, the sounds and the smells and the hope to catch at least one good trout up the lake in the dark inlets. Soon I was in a haze, partly sleeping, thinking and dreaming of the two stories. I woke a while later with the book on my chest, cold. I set the book on the bed stand, leaned over, and clicked off the light. I pulled my covers up to my face and was warm. I breathed in deeply and then felt everything going away.
5
At dawn I turned over in bed. I could hear my old man downstairs. I knew he was making coffee and then sandwiches for lunch in the boat. I could smell the coffee. I got up and stretched. The pine floor creaked under my feet. I dressed in layers, shorts under sweatpants and a T-shirt under a flannel shirt. It was cold now, but later when the sun was high it would be hot. I went downstairs and found Dad sipping his coffee and finishing up the sandwiches.
“Morning,” I said in my early voice.
“Morning.”
At the fridge I took four big brown eggs from a carton and placed them wobbly on the counter. With a whisk I scrambled the eggs in a big bowl, poured them while the buttered pan heated, and put four slices of bread in the toaster and waited, leaning tiredly over the stove. Soon the eggs began to sputter. I stirred the fluffy eggs with a rubber spatula until the toast popped. I dropped the hot toast on the plates, divided the eggs equally over the toast, and then brought the plates to the table. A cup of coffee with sugar and cream sat waiting in my spot. I took a slow sip before salting and peppering the hot food, steaming as the moisture of the eggs softened the crisp toast. We ate fast without conversation, as was usual when we were anxious to get going.
“Sure you want to go out?” Dad asked after finishing. It was a sort of game we played sometimes, an ongoing joke. I could see the twinkle in his eyes as he held back a smile. “Probably won’t catch much today.”
“I’m sure,” I said, and downed the last swallow of coffee.
“It’s a little cool this morning. Almost raw.”
“You can stay here and knit a sweater,” I smiled.
“I just might.”
“You don’t need me showing you up, anyway,” I said, standing.
He stood up with me. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get out there.”
Outside I headed straight to the shop. In passing I saw a thin mist rising from the lake. My heart was beating nicely. I gathered the fishing gear while Dad turned over the boat and put the floats in place before the seats. I was cold but warm inside and very excited, hurrying to the point where I was getting clumsy in my cold-fingered excitement.
I stepped out the side door of the shop with my hands full of gear and my head full of early-morning promise. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Sara was there. She’d gotte
n to my old man while I was inside. I hadn’t heard her over the commotion, but there she was, sure as hell, with my father helping her fasten a life vest over a yellow sweatshirt. I watched for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths.
“Hi, Jake,” she said as I neared them, smiling in bright-eyed, tight-lipped triumph. Her hood was up with the strings drawn, and her head was partially immobilized due to the bulky, ugly orange life vest.
I said nothing and dropped the poles and tackle box into the center of the boat. The tackle box gave a semi-satisfying thud against the bottom. Sara jumped slightly.
“Here,” Dad said, ignoring me. Leaning before her, he pulled the hood strings a little snugger. “You don’t want that cold wind in your ears, where you’re not used to it. Once it warms up, you won’t need it anymore.”
“Thanks,” Sara said, smiling very big.
“We don’t have another pole,” I said. “The reel on the spare is broken.”
“She’ll use mine,” Dad said.
I climbed into the bow and took my seat facing forward. At the time I would’ve bet a thousand bucks that she was making faces behind my back. Ha-ha, I won!
“You’re positive your mother will be okay with this?” Dad said to Sara.
“Positive,” she returned. “How do I get in without tipping?”
“You’ve never been in a boat before?”
“Nope.”
I watched over my shoulder. My old man took her hand as she tried to climb in over the back. She was wearing flip-flop sandals like a true amateur, and worried about getting her feet wet. Finally, Dad scooped her up like a toy and set her in. She sat down on the center bench, smiling after the ride.
“Thank you.”
“You got it,” Dad said. “All right, let’s get out there.”
He gave the boat a push and climbed into the stern, settling us heavily. We both pushed off out of the sand using the oars. Then we paddled canoe-style, alternating sides as we entered the light mist under the growing light.
For years I’ve had a habit of dipping my hand in the water soon after we push off. Though cold, the water feels deceptively warm compared with the cold morning air. Nick Adams had done this once, as a boy when he imagined himself never to die, and I had done it on purpose ever since I’d read it, somehow enjoying it more than the times before I’d heard of Nick and felt the strange connection of shared experience. I wiped my hand dry on my shirt after taking it from the water and took up my oar again, paddling in smooth but firm strokes, in rhythm with my old man.
All Things Different Page 3