“The bridge and the rain.”
“Yeah, he didn’t make it up. God…” Half smiling, Marion leaned on the railing, lost in memory. “I must be suffering from dementia. Or I’m a very superficial person. I haven’t thought about any of this in years.”
“As they say, ‘Get a life,’” Brenda said. “You got one.”
“Anyway, I laid it all on Louis, there on the Alexandre Trois Bridge. Told him we were finished, and that was pretty much it for me. I went back. Started living in New York. I saw all these artists waiting tables like me. Driving limos. I realized being an artist was better as an idea than a life’s pursuit—that’s how I decided on law school. Frankly, I can’t say I’ve thought of the painter or Louis Rohmer more than half a dozen times in the last decade. Usually, when I got something from Albion College asking for money.”
Brenda put her cigarette out in the ashtray fitted to the railing. She looked up into the night sky. “What did you say to him up here?”
“Oh, you know. Boilerplate about job and family. Hell, if he’d ever grown up, we could’ve had a good time tonight. Reminisced. Thank God for the fishing, that shut him down for a couple hours. Just before you got here, I told him it would be better if he didn’t come back. I said he was making me uncomfortable. He was, too, Bren. He knew about Drew and me. Carrie and Jay.”
“Maybe from the alumni magazine?”
“Probably. But it was still creepy.” Marion put out her cigarette. “Louis the Thespian. The magician. “Oh, look—” She grabbed Brenda’s sleeve and pointed up. “Turn out the lights, I’ll get the downstairs.”
She moved to the ladder and started down. Brenda stepped to the upper-deck entrance. She reached inside, clicked off the outside lights, and returned to the railing. Seconds later, the lights below blinked out over the water. There they were now, above the lake, Aurora Borealis. Dim but visible, they seemed to flicker. As Marion came back up the ladder, the lights moved in a sweep. It was as though they traveled themselves, independently, not as reflections.
“See them?”
“Yes.”
Marion stepped next to her. “Tina’s already in bed. Heather said she’s too tired.” Together in silence they watched the night sky. It was another gift. A coda to the day.
“They change,” Marion said. “Look at the colors.”
“It’s like Christmas. They’re festive.”
After a minute, they positioned two chaises to face north, and stretched out. Leaning back, both looked up, cold and captured. “Amazing.” Marion clucked her tongue.
“I thought they’d just blink, but they dodge.”
“They roam.”
“Heather and Tina really should be up for this.”
“Don’t go down, you’ll break the spell. The same way you and Charlie took all the fish to Kettle Falls.” Marion laughed. “Know what Louis said to me? Something just like that. He said he doubted I ever realized he was responsible for my good life.”
“Don’t you love the way men make everything happen?”
“He said he was sure the two of us would’ve been miserable together. Ergo, by going to Europe, he, Louis Rohmer paved the way for a better tomorrow for me.”
“What a fool.”
“Another magic trick. That’s when I told him not to come back.”
They both rode standing, in order to spot the channel markers by moonlight.
Schmidt again saw her on the lookout point. She was saying something. They were doing it next to the falls, impossible to hear. She was laughing.
He smiled, and again focused on the glossy lake in front of the bow. How much time had passed? You are one foolish old fart, he thought.
But he knew that thinking this way—old fart— was a kind of buffer. To keep from thinking that what happened meant anything. To keep it small.
It wasn’t. Every time he saw her kicking out of her pants, spitting into her hand and holding it out to him, he felt himself getting hard. And when they were at it, laughing, slapping at an early hatch of no-see-ums and going like crazy, lost in it but not, looking at each other, there was no joke about it for her, either.
Unless he had it all wrong. Unless he really was an old fart, seeing what he wanted to see.
Rohmer stood beside him, watching for drifting logs or something swimming. She was right about him, and Charlie adjusted the wheel. Louis was fake. Going on about Marion Baxter, using her maiden name. It had made Charlie think of Lillie, giving up her name for his. That was something that didn’t happen much now, women’s lib and the rest of it.
Steering, watching the channel, he felt a pang of betrayal. He saw Lillie in her hospital room, just before he had brought her home for good. He’d felt something like that before, but much less strong. Just a sense of being disloyal, when he had gone out with the two divorcees, last year. But it was not the same this time. First one, then the other had gone to dinner with him, and taken him home. Both had been family friends, both of them generous and meaning their interest in him. Looking for some connection in this world.
Who wasn’t? With both women, there had been no feelings of shame or guilt. That was because he had not been able to think about them in any terms other than disappointment. Theirs, too, in both women’s faces, when they realized by the third or fourth time with him that there was no connection. Nothing but sex, shared space, and talk of children.
This was different.
◆◆◆◆◆
“You go on ahead.” Louis finished tying the stern line and stood. “I want to check with International Falls on tomorrow’s weather.” He crossed the dock, sat, and grasped one of the plane’s wing struts.
“Louis, before I go up—”
“I’ll save you the trouble, Schmidt.” Beard white in the darkness, Rohmer stepped onto the wing’s pontoon and turned, holding the strut. “It hasn’t worked out, that’s all. My fault. Jerry and I will be leaving tomorrow. I’ll tell him. I very much appreciate the hospitality, and don’t want to leave on a bad note.”
“Thank you, Louis, that’s good. I think—”
“No, I won’t call, don’t worry. A clean break is better. But I have one last favor.”
“Name it.” Schmidt felt grateful. Louis Rohmer understood how it was.
“I won’t be back, but this place—it’s something I want to remember. I’d like to take your boat first thing in the morning. Take a final cast or two before we leave. Alone.”
“It’s yours, Louis.” He reached in his jeans pocket, crossed to Rohmer and handed him the ring of keys. “Who knows? Maybe the big one’s waiting on you.”
“Right, who knows? Be up in a minute.”
Rohmer pocketed the keys and swung up under the wing to the cockpit. Schmidt turned away. He felt better and moved quickly up the dock. It always troubled him, having to fire guys who kept calling in sick Mondays and Fridays. Guys who drank their lunch and left jobs half finished, tenants calling to complain. Always they had a reason, sometimes good ones. It didn’t matter. Let it go, and they took advantage. Pushed their luck until you had no choice. This was like that, but Louis understood.
He climbed the grassy incline, glad not to hear music. What kind did she like? It was something to find out. What movies, night or morning person? Sports? Andy had made him try in-line skates last summer, laughing his ass off, watching the old man veer and flap his arms, out of control in an empty parking lot. Crazy new stuff every week, skateboards, parasailing. It made you feel old. He hoped he wouldn’t have to look clumsy in front of her, past his prime, trying to keep up. Up here, that wouldn’t happen. But elsewhere, in what you could call the real world—that was something else.
He was getting way ahead of himself again.
He neared the porch slab and remembered the ladder still in place, screens in the shed. He would put them up tomorrow, after they left. Now seeing Rizzo inside, feeling happy, he pulled open the door wall, stepped in and shoved it closed. Jerry was on the couch, cleaning his boots. He l
ooked up a second, and went back to working the rag.
“Want a beer?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Schmidt got them out, opened them and crossed to the table.
Jerry took his and nodded. “Fun with the ladies?”
“It was good.” He felt tired now, wanting his bed. “Nice boots.”
“Justins. Fucked ‘em up checking out the woods. You got a shitload of deer ticks up here.”
“You got bit?”
“Three of ‘em,” he said working the rag. “Took me half an hour to find a needle and dig the fuckers out.”
A walking disaster. Schmidt drank, watching him. It was just as well he was going. Rizzo might already have tetanus or Lyme disease. His socks were dirty, jeans rolled up on both legs, Band-Aids in place. How you got bitten by deer ticks when you were wearing cowboy boots he couldn’t figure. That, he supposed, was just Jerry.
“Okay, then, I’m turning in.”
“Where’s Louis? He get lucky with the dollies?”
“Out in the plane.”
Rizzo smiled. He stuck his hand in the other boot and raised it.
“I think he wants to leave tomorrow,” Charlie said.
“I bet he does.”
“Make sure you don’t forget anything.”
“I won’t, nighty night.”
Easy enough. Schmidt moved into his bedroom, smelling cedar and the camphor odor of moth balls. He snapped on the light and closed the door. Turning, he now saw the closet door was open. His wife’s sewing basket rested on the floor, between pairs of old shoes. Rizzo. Looking for a needle to dig out deer ticks. It irritated him, the idea of someone like Rizzo shoving through his wife’s things.
He bent down, replaced the wicker lid and put the basket back on the top shelf. He drank his beer, looking at the shelf. Stacked there were plastic storage bags for sweaters and spare blankets, extra life preservers. Schmidt looked at them another moment, identifying textures and colors. He stepped back and finished the beer. On the closet floor rested shoes in pairs, some of them Lillie’s—tidy, ordered, painful to him on the shiny, polyurethaned floor.
He closed the closet, undressed, and snapped off the light.
MONDAY, MAY 7
Rain on the roof woke her.
She lay on her back, listening a minute before working her arm up from the sleeping bag. 6:50. No time seemed to have passed since saying goodnight to Marion and turning out the light. It was still dark outside, sunrise just underway. Only the patter of light rain separated then from now.
Cocooned in the semi-dark, she saw Charlie Schmidt’s profile in the copper glow of Johnson Bay. Saw and heard the whir of his cast, the plop of the lure. She imagined him awake in his own bed at the other end of the lake. In a cabin smelling of wood and mildew—she smiled. He would be pleased with himself, stretched out on his bed and playing it back. Getting lucky with someone younger. One movie cliche after another—crashing falls, sudden lust, towering pines.
Focused now on the cabin’s ceiling, she knew such efforts to deflate what had happened would fail. But she had to try. Because of the sudden disappointment that came from wondering whether, as the two men made their way back to his house, Charlie Schmidt had told Louis Rohmer about Kettle Falls. It was his right, his experience. But it was painful to think of him out on the lake at night, in his boat and talking loud over the motor, giving Louis a play-by-play.
He was strange to look at, Louis Rohmer. Startling. Theatrical. Bald head fringed with prematurely white hair that blended into the white beard. Pink skin and periwinkle Santa’s eyes behind rimless glasses. Sharp nose, small, full mouth. Rohmer’s features somehow projected intelligence without serious thought to go with it. Magic, not judgment. She remembered his careful, tidy hands dealing cards. He asked me if I realized how much my good life depended on his going to Europe.
Funny little man. Brenda listened to the rain. Louis Rhomer was not physically little, but he seemed so in memory. Seemed like someone who didn’t fit as a friend of Charlie Schmidt’s. She could imagine a chance encounter leading to polite exchanges, nothing else. They were too different. Maybe it was just the male-bonding thing, cars and sports. For men, sports gear and games represented a sort of social Switzerland. Neutral ground where they could kill time and make deals. But that would be all there was between them.
She was pretty sure Charlie hadn’t talked about her.
But if she were fair, what, really, would it mean if he had? What difference, if she liked him for her own reasons? If she was attracted and thought him graceful, observant, able to lead without pushing? No. It would still mean quite a bit. But one thing she felt sure of: Today or tomorrow, if she asked Charlie Schmidt about it, he would give her a straight answer.
The rain was slowing, and for no reason she now remembered the canoe. That would be her Switzerland. Before the morning got invaded by meals and words. You couldn’t know what the days ahead would bring. This might be the only chance to commune with the place.
She unzipped her bag, swung out and quickly put on her Levis. Rummaging in the duffle, she found clean socks, her heavy sweater. New yellow foul-weather gear hung on the door, purchased last week from Eddie Bauer for just this moment.
She dressed, grabbed the rain gear, shoved into her boat shoes and stepped from the cabin. The door opposite hung open, Marion a speed bump under her dark green down comforter. Brenda moved down the passage and let herself out. Standing under the deck canopy, she studied the cove, gray and motionless. Opposite the houseboat, ground fog floated in trees on the bluff.
She stepped into the overalls and pulled up the shoulder straps. Now the parka. She crossed to the ladder and went down. The stern was white and shiny, everything rinsed. Rohmer had tied up the Lund on the starboard side. She opened the equipment locker and got her rod before crossing to the port side.
Clicking came from the closed back door. When she looked, Sonny was on his hind legs, smiling at her, paws braced on the glass. Heather stood behind him, and Brenda smiled. So near and yet so far, she thought. The door opened and Sonny banged out.
“Good morning.” Heather held open the door, balancing a steaming mug. “God, it’s cold. You look ready for anything.”
“I’m taking the canoe.”
“Now? Alone?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Heather took a sip. “Isn’t it dangerous? The water must be freezing.”
“There’s no wind. I’ll take a float cushion.”
“Even so. Don’t you want some coffee first?”
She didn’t, but Heather still held the door. She stepped in, seeing Tina’s door was closed. Brenda pulled off the parka hood and followed down the passage. She smelled cinnamon, but would stick to her plan. No coffee klatch this morning, she was on vacation in the north woods. In the lounge, she got the carafe from the Mr. Coffee and poured. Heather stepped behind the sink and opened the oven.
“Sarah Lee. Ready in another five minutes.”
“When I get back.” Brenda drank too fast and scalded her mouth.
“You guys must’ve been up pretty late.” Heather closed the oven door. “I was exhausted. I slept well, though. Fishing is work. I hope Charlie comes back and takes us again to Johnson Bay.”
“Me too.”
“His friend, though. Louis…”
“They aren’t really friends,” Brenda said, instantly annoyed with herself for defending Charlie Schmidt. But she wanted to. She drank more carefully. “I think Rohmer invited himself here, and Charlie said yes. That’s all.”
“Last night?”
“Coming to Minnesota, the whole thing. Once someone’s staying with you, you can’t just leave him home.”
“I suppose not. Listen…” Heather came around the counter. “Didn’t you think that whole thing at dinner was weird?”
“Not so much weird as forced. Stagey.”
Heather nodded exactly, waiting for more.
After a moment, B
renda said, “He’s a type, that’s all.”
“How do you mean?” Watching her intently, Heather was in her element now, trading gossip in a cozy breakfast nook with a neighbor, after the hubbies had gone to work. “I was out of school a year. That’s when he and Marion started dating. I don’t remember him much, only the magic tricks.”
“I just mean he’s an identifiable type,” Brenda said. “Aren’t we all.”
Sonny barked outside. Heather’s expectant expression slipped away. Replacing it was her little-girl-lost look. No, not today, Brenda thought. No personal-growth moments, not now.
“You mean me,” Heather said. “Betty Crocker watering the vodka.”
“I mean everyone. We’re types, that’s all. Marion, me. Tina.”
“Tina? She’s unique. At least I never met anyone like her.”
Sonny stopped barking. “It’s not a criticism. You’re different, I’m different. Marion, Louis Rohmer.”
“How in God’s name is Tina a type?” Heather was back in full gossip mode. “I’m serious, how do you get that? Does it come from being a journalist?”
“Could be. Interviewing people, seeing likenesses. Anyway, she’s smart, educated, flinty.” Brenda drank more coffee. “I bet she’s very environmentally knowledgeable. Liberal in her politics and religion, if she has any. If it weren’t for MS, I bet she’d be out marching against soft money in politics, or in support of Planned Parenthood.”
Heather frowned, thinking about it. “I guess she would be. That makes her a type?”
“A very good one. The flinty, no-nonsense, educated, politically correct, elderly tree-hugging liberal type.”
“And this Louis Rohmer. What type is he?”
No you don’t, Brenda thought. “Later, Heather.” She downed what was left in her mug and set it on the counter. “I want to nose around before it starts raining again.”
She started up the passage. One good thing about someone of Heather’s type was that she would never ask to come along in a canoe on a cold, wet morning. Through the door, she saw the dog was seated on the transom, looking out. Several gulls had landed in the cove. She pushed out, got her fishing rod and stepped to the Lund. She knelt and grabbed a floatation seat cushion, then moved to the port side. Edging along the catwalk, she settled her rod in the canoe, dropped the cushion on the back seat and untied the rope. She shoved the gunwale with her foot, and the canoe floated away. Heather stepped out as Brenda drew the rope to the stern. The canoe’s ribbed belly held perhaps two inches of water.
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 15