by K. D. Miller
“I was Jennifer Bangs. I spent my life telling people it wasn’t a sentence.”
Fiona laughed too loud, then realized Jennifer had not meant to be funny. She could only hope Leonora wasn’t lurking. If the little girl had overheard their exchange, she would demand a full explanation of “bangs.”
It takes Fiona a day or so to decide that Jennifer Stumpfigge is a social black hole. The harder she tries, the more she gives, the more Jennifer will just suck it all in and render it nothing. But Fiona knows she is a giver by nature, so she is resigned to a week of suggesting tea and a slice of banana bread to Jennifer while their men are off hatching plots, only to have Jennifer curl her lip and inform her that she is attempting to detoxify.
“She’s got a long way to go,” Leo says in bed when Fiona shares this last detail.
“Shshsh!” Into the silence, from the main floor bedroom beneath them, comes the unmistakable sound of Charles. Moaning. Then uttering a little yip!
“Holy fuck. What is she doing to him?”
“I just hope they don’t wake up the Queen of Everything.” Fiona glances at the adjoining nursery door, trying to ignore the fascination in Leo’s tone.
The big main house is flanked by four housekeeping cottages, now closed up for the winter. Nearer the lake there is a lodge with a meeting room, dining room, and kitchen. A caretaker drives in once a week to check on things and make any necessary repairs.
“After the musicians clear out, the place is free every year from mid-September till the end of October,” Leo told Charles during one of their initial talks. “We could fill those cottages the first year, no problem. There’s enough surrounding land for a campground, too. In time, we could build a wash house with toilets and showers for folks who can’t afford a cottage, but could stay in a tent. And we could hire our own cook and staff. It could be another Bread Loaf.”
“Well, this all sounds wonderful, Leo,” Charles said in his slightly pedantic way. “But what do we have by way of money to pay for it?”
“The first year, we’d both have to kick in,” Leo admitted. “But we’d charge anybody else who came, and as the thing grew, it would pay for itself. Plus, once we were established, we could apply for grants.”
“And what would we be offering these pilgrims in exchange for their money?”
“Charles. We’re talking about writers. What wouldn’t they give for a week in the woods by a lake to get some writing done? Plus, there’d be courses and workshops.”
“Taught by whom?”
“Me! You! To start, anyway.” Charles actually taught economics at Breadalbane, but he was a poet on the side, and had published a dozen or so poems. Leo’s novel, Olly Olly Oxen Free, had been up for both the Biggar Prize and the Olympia Featherstone Award For Fiction five years ago, and had helped him secure his teaching job. “And in time, we could recruit more teachers. Make it a rule that anybody who comes on the retreat has to take at least one course. Bundle that into their fees.”
“And you’re sure the music camp foundation will approve of all this building and all these improvements that you foresee?” The couple who had originally owned the big house had donated it to the foundation in 1973 in memory of their daughter, who once dreamed of becoming a concert pianist.
“Look. Charles. I don’t have all the answers right now, okay? All I’m asking you to do is think about it. Come see the place. Bring Jennifer. Have a week by a lake in the Laurentians in the fall. Great way to kick off your retirement.”
On the third day, the two men decide to take a break from arguing and envisioning and totting up hypothetical dollar amounts in order to do some writing. Charles asks if anyone would mind terribly if he set himself up at the dining room table. He’s sorry, but he needs a straight-backed chair for his lumbar region. That said, he’s perfectly willing to go elsewhere if this would cause any—
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Charles! We’re paying enough to stay here. You can put your lumbar region anywhere you want.” Jennifer retreats to their bedroom, claiming one of her headaches and leaving Charles to gaze, moony-eyed, at the closed door.
“How long before he goes crawling in after her, do you think?” Fiona asks, as she and Leo head for the pond behind the house. Leo has decided to write on the dock. Leonora skips ahead of them.
“That’s probably why he writes haiku,” Leo says. “Just seventeen syllables, and he’s already earned himself a spanking.”
“Are you sure you want Leonora with you?” Fiona asks as Leo settles down on the dock with his laptop. “I could take her.”
“Nope. You have your walk. Oh, hey!” Leonora has just run up to him and tucked a fresh-picked daisy into the neck of his sweatshirt. “Does this mean you’re my girlfriend?”
“Moyra said to give it to you,” the little girl answers.
Fiona is secretly glad to have some time to herself. On top of everything else, she has become the default cook for the group. She had thought she and Jennifer would share the kitchen duties, but Jennifer seems to have a complicated relationship with food. She claims never to be hungry, to be mystified by others’ need for three meals a day, to be lactose-intolerant, gluten-sensitive, and vegetarian-verging-on-vegan. Then she loads her plate with whatever Fiona has put on the table and goes back for seconds. Later she complains of indigestion or headache or both, citing the meat or the gluten or the milk in the enormous meal she has just inhaled.
“Where does she put it?” Fiona whispered to Leo on their second night.
“It probably rubs off on Charles.” Whom they could once more hear moaning and yipping in the bedroom beneath theirs.
Just before she turns onto the trail leading into the woods, Fiona stops and looks back. Leo is sitting cross-legged on the dock, studying his screen. Leonora is walking the circular path that rings the pond, gathering more wild flowers. As Fiona watches, Leo looks up, checks on their daughter’s location, bends his head down to type, then looks back up again. He won’t get much writing done, she thinks, turning and entering the woods.
She strides along the trail, swinging her arms, enjoying the leaf-crunch underfoot, the smells of autumn coming early. Long, solitary walks are a rare treat now. Of course, once Leonora is more independent … But if she’s honest with herself, Fiona will admit that she can hardly stand to think of her little girl not needing her.
She still can’t get over how content she is to stay at home with her daughter. She read all the books during her pregnancy, braced herself for post-partum depression, debilitating fatigue, boredom, and frustration. The whole world was telling her she would live for the day her kid finally started school. Then Leonora was placed in her arms for the first time, and all that went out the window. Talk about not knowing what you’ve been wanting all your life until it’s given to you.
Motherhood filled her with almost superhuman energy. She seemed to thrive on two hours of sleep a night or less. She cherished every stage of Leonora’s development, including the terrible twos, and missed it when it was over. Refused to even consider daycare.
That last decision turned Leo into the sole breadwinner. Well. Okay. She supported him for nine years while he was writing his book, didn’t she? And his book took off, didn’t it? And helped him land his job. Which he likes. Doesn’t he?
Dry leaves crackle under her feet. Maybe she should have insisted on taking Leonora with her on this walk. She knows Leo wants—needs—time and solitude to write. He was hoping to have another book in the works at least by now. It must be awful to be surrounded by other people’s writing—reading it, teaching it—yet not be able to do any of your own. What if she hadn’t been able to conceive? How would she feel every time she saw a pregnant woman or a mother with children in tow? Every time she passed a schoolyard at recess time?
She has hinted that she might go back to work half days, once Leonora’s in school. Take some of the pressure off Le
o. But she hates the idea. A few nights ago she had a dream that she had a job again. It was ten in the morning, the boss was calling to ask why she wasn’t there, and she was still struggling to get dressed and out the door because she had forgotten how.
She’ll have to remember how, soon enough, she thinks ruefully, scuffing along the path. And that’s just one reason she’ll probably burst into tears next year when her little girl lets go of her hand on the first day of kinder—
Something soft. Under her foot. She half-kicks, half-steps on it. A small, brown, furry creature. Not a mouse. A vole? It is obviously badly hurt, on its side, curling into a ball then straightening out. Curling, then straightening.
Oh God. She has hurt this poor little thing. And now she has to kill it. Put it out of its pain. She takes a step nearer. Raises her foot. No. No. She can’t do it. The thought makes her sick. Maybe Leo? But if she goes and gets him, Leonora will want to know why and will want to come too, and—
A stone. A big, flat stone. Big enough so she won’t have to see. She’ll place it gently on top of the little animal, then bring her foot down hard. Yes. She can do that. Except there are no big, flat stones anywhere nearby. She marks the place on the trail where the creature is still writhing, then walks deeper into the woods, searching the ground.
Pebbles. Nothing but pebbles. Biggest one the size of a golf ball. Oh. Here’s something. Something shiny and smooth and brown. It takes her a moment to realize it is the toe of a shoe. Above it, a trouser cuff. Above that, a leg.
“Looking for something?”
Fiona jumps back. The man is essentially camouflaged by his brown corduroy pants, tweed vest and jacket and old-fashioned flat cap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
He smiles. A strange, square smile, just a lifting of his upper lip over very yellow teeth. “That’s because you weren’t looking for me.”
“I was looking for a rock. I accidentally hurt a little animal, so now I have to kill it and—”
“Where is it?”
“Just back a few feet on the trail. I—”
“Better take a look,” the man says, pushing past her. She follows.
“Ah, here we are.” He bends to look at the still-twitching creature, then turns his face back up to Fiona. “So you just left it like this. Hurting all over. Insects getting into it already. Eating it alive.”
“No! I didn’t just leave it. I told you I was looking for a rock to—”
“Oh, never mind,” the man says disgustedly. He stands. “Up to me, then. Do what needs to be done.” He raises his foot and brings it sharply down on the vole.
Fiona didn’t mean to yelp. It was just so fast. And that crunch sound. She swallows. Takes a breath. “Thank you,” she says grudgingly. “I couldn’t have done that.”
“Staying at the music camp, are you?” He is looking at her with a trace of amusement in his eyes. His foot has not moved from the vole.
“Yes. We are. For a week. The four of us.” Five, actually. She wants him to know that she’s not by herself. But she wants to keep Leonora out of the conversation.
“Yours the little girl, then?”
Reluctantly, she says, “Yes. Our daughter is with us.” Maybe he’s the caretaker. The one who drives in once a week in the off season. Maybe it is his business to know who’s on the property. “She’s with my husband right now.” She puts emphasis on husband.
“Sure of that?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Think I saw her just a minute ago.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Fiona and his foot on the vole. “All by herself. Wandering in the wood.”
“No,” Fiona says firmly. “She’s with my husband. At the pond.” Sweat is running down her back, despite the cool air.
He shrugs. “If you say so.”
“Her father would not allow her out of his sight.” Who is she trying to convince?
“And that’s a good thing, is it?”
“What’s that supposed to—”
“Wee little girl with a big, big man,” he whisper-chants, his lip stretching higher over those yellow teeth. “Wee little girl with a big, big man.” He’s swivelling the ball of his foot back and forth on the crushed vole. “Wee little girl—” Now he’s waggling his pelvis.
“You sick—!” Fiona turns and tears back down the path, hearing laughter fading behind her. Straining her eyes for a first glimpse of the pond. Of Leo. Of Leonora. The pond. The pond.
Leo sits cross-legged on the dock, his laptop open in front of him. He waves goodbye to Fiona and Leonora as they walk hand-in-hand along the trail into the woods. The daisy Leonora has just popped into the neck of his sweatshirt is tickling, but he doesn’t remove it. She could come running back for another goodbye kiss, and God help him if he’s not still wearing it.
He offered to keep their daughter with him, but Fiona insisted on giving him some time alone to write. Now he makes a point of appreciating the sight of his wife’s sweet little bum as she walks away from him, head bent to catch what the child is saying to her. He still feels a bit guilty about the dream he had early this morning. He was kneading Jennifer Stumpfigge’s breasts, which were blowing up like balloons, getting bigger and tighter by the second.
The cursor is blinking at the top of the blank screen. He types Lost Lake, then centres and saves it. Great title. For something. Last year, when he found this place on the internet, he had the strongest hunch that if he could just get to Lost Lake he would write something called Lost Lake. It’s been five years since he published Olly Olly Oxen Free. His breakout book. That just might turn out to be his only book.
He shakes his head. He shouldn’t let himself think that way. Olly was nine years in the making. So five years is nothing. Except that’s what he’s been doing. Nothing.
Lost Lake
The cursor is still blinking.
Wrong. He has not been doing nothing. He’s been teaching. Supporting his family. Living a life that all kinds of people would envy. Even if he never publishes another word, he’ll still survive. Keep on teaching at Breadalbane. The place isn’t publish-or-perish. And he’s a good teacher. And he likes it. That came as a surprise. He took the job because Fiona was pregnant (another surprise) and he knew he probably wouldn’t be offered anything like it again. So yes, he could spend his days reading his students’ short stories and novel excerpts. Cultivating a warm, encouraging atmosphere in his classroom.
Except—
Lost Lake
Leo used to despise the kind of man he has become. Family man. Something castrated about that phrase, the way it smacks of groceries being loaded into the backs of minivans and Saturdays spent in the children’s section of the library. The implied sunniness of it all. The assumption that this was the stuff of maturity. This was what it meant to be a man and put away childish things.
He wants his childish things back.
When Olly Olly Oxen Free was still in the news, critics inevitably referred to its edge and its darkness. He remembers approaching nearer and nearer that edge during the writing, digging deeper and deeper into that darkness. Daring himself, shocking himself with what appeared on the page. The joy of it. The work of it. Chewing through stacks of paper, draining one pen after another, heating up his laptop, exhausting the ink cartridges in his printer. Knowing full well he would never actually get where he was trying to go. But trying and trying anyway. And nothing sunny or mature about it.
It isn’t enough just to survive. He has to keep his head above what he imagines as a huge, grey sea of ordinariness. He is in fact terrified of never again seeing his words and his name in print. He had thought the fear would abate when Olly was published and got so much attention. Instead, once the excitement died down, he was gripped with a new version of the old fear—of turning out to be a one-book author.
Publishing. His students think it�
�s the Holy Grail. Should he tell them that it’s more like a drug? That the more you get, the more you need?
He should be brimming with gratitude for his life, just as it is. For Fiona and Leonora. If he had his priorities straight, he’d be able to put all that publication stuff down and walk away from it. Find all the happiness he needs in being a teacher. A husband. A father.
He was there when Leonora was born. They let him cut the cord. Then, when the nurse had to take her away to wash and weigh her, he followed close behind. His fists were actually clenched. The sight of hands—strange hands, hands not his—lifting and removing his child hiked his testosterone. Mine! Mine! A deep, atavistic voice growling from the base of his skull.
Right then, for once in his life, he did have his priorities straight. Everything else shrunk away to nothing. There was only this child. His child.
Lost Lake Lost Lake Lost Lake
He closes the file. Shuts down his laptop. For all it’s a cool day, the sun is hot on the back of his neck. The surface of the pond is perfectly smooth, a mirror for the sky above and the surrounding ring of bulrushes and wild flowers.
This place is gorgeous. Does he really want to turn it into a writers’ retreat? Think of the work involved. And it’s such a long shot. He’s seen the scepticism in Charles the economist’s eyes lately when he’s been going on about how the whole venture could pay for itself. Right now, just thinking about it makes him tired. He doesn’t want to run a retreat. He doesn’t want to run anything. He just wants—
“To be. Yes. Isn’t that what you really want? Just to be? Isn’t that enough?”
Of course it is. The young woman has put her finger on it. The young woman who is standing at the far edge of the pond, across from the dock. Her voice is practically in his ear.
She smiles and walks around to him. Where did she come from? Even as he wonders, Leo knows somehow that she has been there all along. She is so lovely. Blonde and tanned, about the age of his senior students.
She has stepped onto the dock and is sitting down cross-legged in front of him. He is struck again by her sun-bleached hair, the freckled beauty of her face. He actually yearns toward it. Her vitality. Her youth and potential.