Spider Lake

by Gregg Hangebrauck

  “That is when I wake up doctor.”

  Doctor Levine was still writing in his note pad. He had composed himself since his last interruption with the mention of the organ-grinder, and he asked, “Do you think that is the dream in it’s entirety Ben?”

  “I think so doctor. That is pretty much all I can remember. It doesn’t make any sense to me. The second half of the dream is really just a memory. The storm, the fire, and the monkey all happened when I was eleven years old when I was living at my father’s resort up in Rhinelander Wisconsin.”

  “Ben, can you remember when you began dreaming the dream?”

  Ben thought about the question. It had never occurred to him when he began dreaming the dream. He honestly could not answer the question. “I can’t remember when it began. I have been dreaming it for so long that I really don’t have any clue when it started.”

  “Let’s try to narrow the time frame down if we can Ben. You say that in the dream you are an adult at a cocktail party after the bus accident, so we can assume that you began having this dream as an adult. Would you agree with this statement?”

  “I guess so doctor, but I think the storm part has been around much longer.”

  Doctor Levine scribbled more in his pad and then sat back in his chair. He thought for a long moment and said; “Ben, this is what I can tell you about dreams in general, and more specifically about the dream and its relation to psychotherapy.

  As you know dreams have been around and have been baffling people since the beginning of time. Many of the prophets in the Bible had sacred revelation, or prophecy revealed in dreams. The author Robert Louis Stevenson got his idea for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from a dream. Discoveries have been revealed in dreams such as the molecular structure of the benzene atom in which the scientist had a vision of a snake biting its own tail.

  Sigmund Freud once called dreams “the royal road to the unconscious,” and Carl Jung said “dreams are a way of communicating and acquainting yourself with the unconscious.” While both of these men had differing viewpoints of how to interpret dreams, they were agreed that the path to the unconscious was through the analysis of the remembered dream. Repetitive dreams are an indication that you are missing the point of the dream.

  The dream itself is telling you to “wake up” that is, to wake up and remember it; and by not remembering or getting the point, you are stuck in a rut that is leading you around and around until you do so. It is my belief that you are missing some point in your dream Ben, and that is how we will begin to approach your problem.”

  Ben felt in his gut that the doctor was right. There was some missing point and he knew it. Each day as he woke up from the dream he had an uneasy sense of something missing, like a jig-saw puzzle with one missing piece, but he never quite understood what he was feeling. “Doctor Levine, I think you are right. I think I am missing something.”

  “Ben, we are nearly out of time, but before we meet again I want you to try something. Remembering a dream in it’s entirety is a known, albeit erratic process. What I want you to do first is this; I want you to keep a pad of paper and a pen near your bed, and when you wake up, write down everything you can remember about your dream. Try to include any random thing that might not seem important to you. Hopefully, after a few nights of writing your dream down, you may piece together some enigmatic point you have been missing. You may find out very quickly what your unconscious mind is trying to tell you, and if so, the dream will simply go away. How about we meet again in four days, say Wednesday. Make an appointment with Ms. Beck on your way out.”

  And just like that, Ben was free again. He thought to himself; “That wasn’t so bad.” And for the first time in a long time he felt real relief. He no longer had to go it alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Reconnaisance ( 1968 )

  en was nearly through the screen porch door when its hinges made their usual screeching sound. He had oiled them the day before with the hopes of sneaking out early under his mother’s radar. He froze and listened. No sound could be heard from the kitchen but the coffee pot percolating. He thought, “How in the heck can they make that noise when I oiled them yesterday?” The hinges were on his mother’s side. They worked for her.

  “She must have seen me oiling them and jimmied them after I was asleep!” he whispered to himself.

  “Ben, is that you? Ben? I want you to sit down and eat a healthy breakfast. You know that nine out of ten doctors recommend a healthy breakfast at the start of your day.”

  He thought, “Where in the heck does she come up with this stuff?” He knew the answer. Ever since the new broadcast antenna was put up in Campbell’s field, (the old one having been directly in the path of an unfortunate plane), and the TV reception was back, his mother had turned into a walking talking television advertisement.

  Ben had to think fast. Should he make a clean break of it and sprint through the clearing, or should he take his chances at the kitchen table? It was always easier to bolt when his father was away on business because his mom was more flexible, even gullible. He knew that he could charm her into not being mad at him, but he had been bolting a lot more than usual lately and he didn’t want to over-play his hand.

  He let go of the screen door. It snapped back loudly into its jamb with the tension of the spring. He was caught and he knew it. He turned around and headed back to the kitchen.

  It was the beginning of summer, but the early mornings were still cool. The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the bacon and eggs drew him in like a hypnotic charm. Heck, he even liked the smell of the coffee, but he would never drink the awful stuff.

  “Morning Mom.” He walked up and gave her a hug. He would never ever hug her in public, not since he had turned eleven, but he thought it would still be okay if nobody was watching. There was a place for him already set at the stainless steel table. He sat down and as he did, the big Labrador retriever put his head in Ben’s Lap. Bo always got scraps when Ben was full or when he was not that enthusiastic about what his mom had prepared. He snuck Bo a piece of rye toast.

  “Don’t feed the dog below the table Ben.”

  “How did she see that?” he thought to himself. “She had her back to me!”

  “When is Dad coming home?”

  “He should be home by Wednesday. How about a glass of milk?”

  “Can I have orange juice?”

  She poured him a generous glass of juice and set it before him. She sat down at the table with her bowl of oatmeal. Ben’s mom must have owned stock in the oatmeal company, or maybe she had once gone steady with the Quaker Oats man. She ate oatmeal every morning. He couldn’t understand why she would prefer that mush over bacon and eggs.

  “Ben, what are your plans today?”

  “Uh-oh here it comes.” he thought, “Here’s the part when she asks me to do something.”

  Saturday was Ben’s only real day off. The summer rentals would be driving up in their fully loaded station wagons later that afternoon and evening; and during the week he would be busy getting their boats ready, seining their minnows, trapping their leeches, collecting their night-crawlers, and chopping their ice from blocks in the walk-in cooler. Once they were out in their boats things would quiet down, and then he would be free to do what he wanted, but his mornings were always occupied.

  “Me and Matt are going to take our bikes and look for bottles.”

  “Matt and I.”

  “Matt and I are going looking for bottles.”

  “I have to go into town and pick up some things at Rudy’s and I need you to be around in case any renters show up early. You can paint one of the rowboats while I am gone.”

  “Mom, it’s my only day off and—”

  “Ben, I will only be gone a couple of hours. You and Matt will have all day to run off and do whatever it is you are doing. Painting one boat should only take you an hour or so. You only have to paint the hull, the inside and the seats can be painted tomorrow or the next day. Your father wants
one finished each week until they are all done.”

  “Matt and I wanted to----”

  “No arguments Ben. Two hours and you are free to do whatever you want.”

  There was a knock at the screen door.

  Ben yelled with his mouth full of eggs: “Come on in Matt!”

  The screen door made it’s loud slap slapping noise. Matt walked into the kitchen.

  “Morning Mrs. Fisher.”

  Matt gave Ben a furtive glance.

  “Good morning yourself Matt, how about a couple of eggs?”

  “No thanks Mrs. Fisher, I already ate.”

  Matt gave Ben another conspiratorial look as he sat down across Ben at the table. Ben looked back and shrugged his shoulders in reply. Bo thought he would give the new boy a try and dropped his head on Matt’s lap, tail wagging.

  “How about a glass of milk or orange juice?”

  “No thank you Ma’am if I eat or drink something now I might explode.”

  Matt pushed his belly out as far as he could to make it appear absurdly full, while stroking his stomach with one hand, and the big yellow dog with the other. Another glance at Ben laced with a couple of twitching eye movements towards the door indicated to Ben that they should be vacating the premises pronto.

  “Matt Andersen if you are going to explode, don’t you be doing it in my kitchen! I have enough of a mess to clean up.”

  Ben and Matt smiled. They wanted to laugh, but that would indicate that Mrs. Fisher was actually hip or cool, and neither of them wanted to let that happen.

  “Mom, can I be excused?”

  “Go ahead, but be in the clearing when I leave. I want to be able to see you, and don’t forget the row-boat.”

  The boys made for the door with the dog close at their heels. When they got to the clearing at a far enough distance, Matt turned and spoke in a whisper: “What gives Ben? Our plan was to sneak out before it was light and meet at the tree fort! You know we can’t scope out the Rule mansion in broad daylight! We have a very small window of opportunity here. You know that old man McCann will be getting another Doberman as soon as he can!”

  “I know! I tried, but my Mom must have seen me oiling the screen door hinges yesterday, and she somehow de-oiled them when I was asleep. They gave me away and I was caught red-handed. I thought about bolting, but I have been doing too much bolting lately; besides if she had to stay home today because of me I would have caught hell for sure when I got back. We will just have to resort to plan B.

  “I don’t know man, you know old man McCann keeps rock salt in his twenty gauge. He blasted a long shot at Skip Wadley and Jim Fletcher last summer, and if they weren’t running a zigzag pattern down the hill he would have clipped one of e’m for sure. I sure as hell do not want you pulling rock salt out of my keester with a needle-nose pliers!”

  “Come on man! That old duffer couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if it was tethered to his ass. We will just belly crawl through the woods with camouflage on until we get a close look at the place. I have my Dad’s binocs stashed in the shed. There is something going on up there and I intend to find out what it is. You heard the stories Matt. You see Digger digging all the time. He is shoveling with a purpose. No man is that enthusiastic about planting flower beds! We could walk up and down fifty highways and never get enough bottle returns for old man Nerroth to match even one-tenth of the fortune hidden on that estate!”

  “I think them stories are all baloney Ben. That old place is just a relic from the past with a nutty care-taker. My Mom says old man Rule’s father made all his money in lumber, and that dried up a long time ago. Besides, I have no intention of crawling up through the woods only to see old man McCann’s shoe-laces as I break through the bushes like Skip and Jim did. That old man has a sixth sense like a rabid dog. He can smell when people are infringing on the property. I bet that old buzzard could smell a fart that was lit in the next county. I say we at least wait until you can get out before first light.”

  “Alright, we will try again tomorrow. My dad is still out of town for a few days. It will be way easier for me to get out with him gone. I will oil the hinges again today when my mom is in town. Tomorrow I will make my move earlier, say two a.m. and I will meet you at the tree fort. We have to do this before old man McCann gets to the pound and gets another dog.”

  “Okay Ben, but don’t you leave me hanging like you did today. I was nearly eaten alive at the tree this morning, and I do not want to have another gab session in your kitchen tomorrow.”

  Ben had Matt paint the boat hull while he oiled the hinges. After opening and closing the screen door about fifty times till it made no sound, he decided to oil the spring for good measure. He was in no hurry. His mother told him she would be gone for two hours, but in reality he knew it would be more like three. When Ben returned to the place where he left Matt painting the boat, he saw that Matt had abandoned all thought of painting and was sneaking around the bank with a landing net in his hand.

  Ben picked up the wet brush and started painting. He still had the Rule mansion and old man McCann in the back of his mind, but his attention had turned to Matt and the net. He wanted very badly to be the one holding the net, rather than a paint brush. He thought for a minute and then he spoke loudly: “What are you going for, a peeper or a bull?”

  “Shhhh!”

  The young leopard frog leaped from the shore grass to a safe place in the lake beyond the range of Matt’s net. Matt tried to make a move on it, but he was too late.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  “Did not!”

  “Did so!”

  Ben continued his boat painting. Matt sat down at a nearby picnic table and watched. Later, as the two boys were rowing across the lake, they couldn’t help but notice off to the west; the Rule mansion and the distant figure of old man McCann, shovel in hand, digging in a new place presumably adding a new flower bed. Tomorrow they would get a closer look.

  Ben stared up at the wooden ceiling of his bedroom. He was wondering why the carpenters who built the house used some boards with two grooves in them, and some with only one. He thought, “What were they thinking?”

  He looked at the clock on the wall. He was sure that time was slowing down. God had a way of manipulating the universe into slowing time, especially on boys who were sneaking out.

  The clock read one-sixteen, and he was sure that ten minutes had past since it read one-fourteen. If he left now he would have no excuse if he was nabbed at the door. At two he could at least say he was meeting Matt to do some early morning fishing. The earliest he had ever gone out before was at four, and he was positive he could buffalo his mom into believing that the fish are on the bite between two and three, but she would never ever buy a story that any fish would be awake at one-sixteen. No way hose-ay.

  Outside he could hear the sea of trees making a shivering sound with each soft breeze, followed by a pat pat pat on the roof. He thought, “Water is falling off the trees.”

  Occasionally there would be machine-gun bursts of drops. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Now rain is falling.”

  Ben knew before the morning was over he would probably be missing his rain coat. It was bright yellow and he knew he would have to do without it. He thought, “Might as well paint a target on my back.” He had heard the stories about how rock salt feels like beneath your skin and he quickly put the thought out of his head.

  Two o’clock finally came. The breeze and the raindrops helped to mask the sound of Ben’s footsteps as he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He was careful not to step on any of the loose boards which would signal to his mom his movement, and give him away. He thought he was sunk for sure when Bo trotted across the linoleum kitchen floor to him, but he was relieved when he realized the dog’s nails on the floor made nearly the exact same sound as the rain on the roof.

  He pinned the note he had written for his mom telling her where he would be ( fishing ) under a magnet on the refrigerator. His hair stood on end when he l
ooked out the kitchen window and thought he caught a glimpse of the wolf-man looking in at him. A closer look made him realize it was only a shadow of a wind-blown bush cast from the light-pole in the clearing. After catching his breath he grabbed a few cookies from the cat-shaped jar and shoved them in his pockets. He headed for the screen porch. The dog followed him. Ben whispered sternly, “Go on Bo! You can’t come with me this time. Go lay down!”

  He loved the dog and it broke his heart to turn him away. He wished he could bring Bo with. After all it was very dark out there, but he knew that once at the Rule estate, the dog would blow the entire operation. He could not risk that.

  He made his way to the dock and stepped into one of the rental boats which were moored there. He used a coffee can to quietly bail out the rain water which had accumulated in the boat over-night. He would be bailing out all six boats later that morning for the renters. It was going to be a long morning. He lit his Coleman lantern and kept it at it’s lowest setting and began to row the quarter-mile trip across the bay to where he and Matt had built their tree fort. Beyond the range of the light from the lamp, Ben could see nothing.

  In the north woods at night, during a new moon or an overcast, without a lantern you could not see your own hand right in front of your face. Ben was wishing that it was a clear night with a full moon so he could get his bearings, but he rowed on quietly into the black void trying to keep his oars moving as evenly as possible. The gentle rain came in broken spurts, and with each new rainfall, his lantern would loudly hiss. Ben could hear odd sounds from the darkness which didn’t quite sound like fish jumping. The sound was more like a ker-plunk than a splash and he wondered what odd night-creature might be making the dreadful noise.