by Sara Biren
I nod. And then it’s over. He looks away.
“I’ll help Emily if you don’t need me, then.”
She squeals when he hands her a worm, bounces on her toes when her line gets a bite, and Ben helps her reel in a tiny bluegill.
I will always need him.
I sit in the bow and cast again and again, watch the bobber, wait for something. Anything.
16 · Ben
Later that morning, after I bring Lucy and Emily back to shore, I find Tami in the garden, kneeling in a row of tomato plants.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks up. “Hi.”
“Listen, today was fine, but you know, I guess I’d rather not take Emily out on the boat anymore. Makes me nervous.”
She lifts her hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun behind me. She must know I’m lying.
But Lucy almost broke me when she reached for my two-hundred-dollar rod and reel that I don’t even let Guthrie use and then jerked away like I’d stung her.
“If you say so, Ben.” Tami goes back to her vegetables.
I do. I say so.
I drive around for a while, not ready to go home. I rub my hand across the top of the steering wheel.
“Hey, beauty,” I say. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s my car. She’s old but she hasn’t failed me yet.
I bought the Firebird the spring before Trixie died, the spring of my sophomore year. I’d been sixteen for only a few weeks, but I’d been saving for months. This guy named Buck who went to high school with my dad was selling it, and even though he’d wanted to unload it before winter, he’d told me he’d wait until I had the money. I picked up a part-time gig doing maintenance at the arena and helped out John at the resort with occasional odd jobs.
The four of us—Dad, Mum, Trixie, and me—drove out to Buck’s house on Iron Lake once I had the check. He lived way past Clayton and Lucy’s, down a narrow one-lane gravel road on the peninsula. He handed me the keys on a water-stained leather fob, and I slid in and everything was right in the world.
“Her name is Brigitte,” Buck said. He had a long gray ponytail and reeked of stale cigarettes. He leaned in, his arm across the top of the doorframe.
“Her?”
“Yeah. Brigitte. Named her after a girl I knew in college. Take good care of her, now.”
“Will do,” I said.
“And don’t smoke in her. That was my only hard and fast rule. You gotta show the old girl some respect.”
Trixie rode home with me. She put her feet up on the dash.
“Get your filthy flip-flops off my new car,” I said, and swatted her leg.
“Don’t you mean Brigitte?” she said. “That guy. What a weirdo.”
“I don’t know about weird. He works at the marina. He’s decent. I mean, to hold onto her until I had the money, you know?”
“Seems like a waste to go to college and end up working at a marina,” Trixie said. “I mean, I know that college is more than just your degree, but really?”
I thought about that for a while as we drove down County 5, Iron Lake on one side of us, Halcyon Lake on the other. Trixie had it all worked out. She’d go to school to become an elementary-school teacher, coach the swim team, someday have a family, but not before she’d lived in London with our gram for a year or two. She knew what she wanted out of life. Mum and Dad thought I should be a teacher, too. Summers off, Dad always said, can’t beat that. But I couldn’t see myself cooped up in a classroom for nine months of the year. I didn’t want to teach, I wanted to fish. I needed to be outside.
“I don’t know,” I said. I was going to be a junior. My parents were after me for a decision—I’d already made one, I just hadn’t told them. I wanted to go to the University of Minnesota up in Crookston and study natural resources. Water management. I told Trixie that day.
“Good for you,” she’d said. “You don’t always have to be what people expect you to be. Do what you love, Ben. Life is short, so live it. Be happy.”
“Okay, okay. I get the picture.”
She would have been a great teacher.
I don’t call the Firebird Brigitte, but I see Buck around town once in a while. He always caresses her and tells her he still loves her. And I think about that day and how Trixie told me to be happy.
I would have been happy living in Halcyon Lake for the rest of my life, I think, if Trixie hadn’t died. Maybe I would have started my own guide business. Maybe someday I would have taken over Apple Tree Lane. But Minnesota’s full of lakes, everywhere you look. Northern Wisconsin, too. I can leave town, like Clayton did, walk away and not look back.
But not today. I pull into the arena parking lot and turn around toward home.
17 · Lucy
Sunday night, after my shift at the Full Loon, I ride home with my mom. Usually she doesn’t stay much past seven on Sundays, but tonight she waited for me.
As soon as we’re out of town, she says, “I’m sure you’ve heard I finally hired Rita’s replacement.”
“Yep.”
“Her name is Joellen. She’s married with a couple of kids. They live out on Papyrus Lake.”
“That’s nice.”
“She can’t work Monday nights during the summer, so I need you to pick up another shift.”
Monday nights. Ben will be there.
“No.” It’s more of an exhale than a word.
“Look, Lucy, this isn’t a request. I need you to do this.”
“Can’t you ask Jeannie to do it? Or Rosemary?”
“Rosemary works the day shift. And Jeannie’s working five days.”
“What about Patty? Or hire another part-timer.”
She sighs. “Patty already works the Monday night shift. You know how hard it is to find good staff. Look how long it took me to find Joellen.”
“Mom. I can’t do it.”
“Lucy, please. We’re stretched pretty thin this summer as it is. I can’t hire another part-timer, especially when I had to hire someone to take Clayton’s place.”
I swallow hard and tell myself it’s not just about Ben.
“Mom,” I start, and my voice cracks. “It’s my only day off. The only day I get any time to myself, you know? This summer—this summer has been so hard already . . .”
She sighs and there’s a pause. Then, in that tender voice I’ve heard so much over the last ten months, she says, “It’s been almost a year, sweetheart. I know that Trixie was a good friend, the best friend, and we all loved her, but at some point you have to let go of this sadness. It’s time. It’s time to move on, to get on with your life.”
She reaches across the center console and squeezes my hand.
She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t, the counselors at school don’t, the ones who said that it was okay to be sad, but we had to learn that life goes on, that we need to move on, carry on.
I hated them for saying it.
“No,” I whisper into the window. Tears slip down my cheeks.
The car fills with a cloud of uncomfortable quiet that settles around us for the rest of the drive. When we get home, I run to the backyard to my escape, the lake. Shay won’t be down there at this time of night.
But Simon is.
He’s dragged two of the Adirondack chairs down to the beach. The sky is a dusky blue, not quite dark.
I’m surprised to see him here, but I’m not unhappy about it. He won’t tell me that it’s time to move on.
I wipe a hand across my cheeks to check for lingering tears. I sit down in the empty chair. “Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” he says. “Feels like I haven’t seen you for days. I’ve missed you. Are you feeling better?”
Last night, after my morning out on the boat with Emily and Ben, I’d been exhausted. I ignored Simon’s call and texted that I wasn’t feeling well, and I wouldn’t be able to go to the movies like we’d planned.
“Mm-hmm.”
He takes a long drink from his glass. “Sun tea. Mom made it today. You want some?”
He offers me his glass, but I shake my head. His fingers are stained sky blue.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“How was work? I tried to talk Mom into having dinner at the Full Loon tonight, but she was too into her painting, you know? So I had a peanut butter sandwich instead.” He laughs. “Doesn’t compare.”
“Were you painting today, too?” I point at his stained fingers.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he stammers. “I’m not as good as Mom, but yeah. I could show you sometime.”
I nod, but don’t say anything. I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the chair.
“I like it up here,” Simon says after a minute, “but I could never live in a place like this. It’s too quiet.”
“Too quiet?” I open my eyes and look at him. “How can it be too quiet?”
“In St. Paul, there’s this constant stream of noise. The air is solid with it. Sirens. Music. Talking, shouting. It never stops, not even in the middle of the night.” There’s fondness in his voice.
“And you like that?”
“Yeah, it’s like I know I can go to sleep because somebody else is always going to be awake, making sure that things go on as normal. I don’t have to keep watch all the time.”
“What are you keeping watch for?”
He shrugs. “You know it’s just me and my mom, right? My parents have been divorced for a long time. Things weren’t always great between them, you know? So I watch out for my mom, I guess.”
“Where does your dad live?”
“South St. Paul, not too far from us.”
“Shh. Don’t talk for a minute,” I say. “It’s actually not that quiet.”
I smile as I hear the cry of a loon overhead, the rustle of the leaves in the breeze, the chirp of an angry chipmunk, the rumble of a motor out on the lake.
“I stand corrected,” he says. “How can you sleep with all this noise?”
“It’s soothing,” I tell him. “No matter what, life on the lake goes on.”
“Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”
I hesitate before I nod.
“Was, uh, was Ben your boyfriend?”
I sigh. I can’t help it. This must be the night for uncomfortable conversations. “No. I already told you that.”
“Do you want him to be?”
I don’t know how to answer this. He asked me to be honest, and I want to be truthful without telling him the actual truth. “I wanted him to be, yes.”
“Do you still?”
“Simon . . .” What I want or don’t want doesn’t really matter.
“No, I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
A part of me thinks this whole thing might be easier if I do answer, though, even if I don’t tell him everything. “A lot of things changed between me and Ben after Trixie died. Sometimes it still hurts.”
There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh, okay.”
What I said must be enough for him.
Mosquitos buzz near my face and I swat at them. “We’ve got citronella candles in the shed. Bring those down next time.” I reach over and smash one on his calf. “Don’t you have mosquitos in St. Paul?”
I smile at him. He reaches across the arm of his chair and clasps my hand. This time, his hand is sweaty. This time, Ben’s not around to see. This time, he means it.
I tug my hand away a minute later to slap at a mosquito on my neck. “I’m getting eaten alive here.”
Simon stands up and smiles down at me. “I’ll walk you home.”
We walk up the hill toward my house and stop at the bottom of the stairs to the deck.
“There are so many stars here,” he says. “It’s so beautiful. I wish I could paint this.”
He leans over and his lips touch my cheek in the slightest whisper of a kiss.
“Good night, Lucy.”
Simon turns and walks across the grass. I watch until he ducks around the lilac bush, out of sight, my hand on my cheek.
I like him. I like his shaggy hair and his paint-stained fingers. He’s nice to me and he wants to spend time with me.
I want to spend time with him.
That’s got to count for something.
18 · Ben
Guthrie and I started hanging out at the Full Loon on Monday nights a couple of months after Trixie died. I was so sick of being at home, of sitting across from my parents at dinner, struggling to find something to say that wouldn’t remind them of Trixie, that I called up Guthrie and asked him to meet me there to watch Monday Night Football. And the next week and the week after that.
I don’t even like football.
We ate there every Monday night, even after the football season ended.
Lucy doesn’t usually work Monday nights. Last week had to be a fluke. I’m counting on it.
“Hey, Ben,” Daniel says as I sit down at the counter. “How’re the fish biting?”
“Good,” I say. “Water levels are up after this week’s rain.”
“How are the folks?”
“Good,” I say again, although this time it’s not quite the truth. Mum had one of her days when she didn’t get out of bed, and Dad flipped out at me when I scraped the Crestliner against the dock.
“You want the special?” Daniel asks, and I nod.
The special, Daniel’s famous Onion Ring Barbecue Bacon Burger. Dad used to call it a heart attack on a plate, but we don’t make jokes like that anymore.
We don’t make any jokes anymore, come to think of it.
Guthrie slides onto the stool beside me. He’s tall and lanky with dark copper hair and a broad forehead. He’s part Irish, part Ojibwe, with a low, even voice. It takes a lot to get Guthrie riled.
“Hey,” he says. “I’ll have the same.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, “me and Eddie drove up to Whitefish today. Caught a nice mess of walleye.”
“Where at?”
He thinks for a minute. “Second weedline. About twelve feet. Fifteen maybe.”
“Huh.” Warmer temps and the walleye go deeper. He rattles on, this in-depth analysis of the air temperature in relation to the water temperature, the delay in weed growth this year.
“Eddie landed this giant crappie,” he says. “You shoulda seen it. Biggest damn crappie I’ve ever seen.”
“He keep it?”
“Nah, threw it back for somebody else to catch. You go out today?”
“Yeah. Took out a family with a couple of high school kids. The guy was a dick but the girl was okay.” I pause. “Kinda cute.”
Actually, she reminded me a little of Lucy, except her teeth were straight and she couldn’t even bait her own hook. Not that I should be looking.
Not that I should be thinking about Lucy.
“So,” he says, “did you end it with Dana?”
Whoa. What?
“End it with Dana? Where did you hear that?” My throat goes dry and I reach for my water glass.
“Oh, it’s around, man. Rumor is that you’ve been hanging out with Lucy. Something about you two out on the lake together.”
I nearly spit water all over the counter. “What?”
“Yeah. I’ve tried to dispel that rumor.”
“So you don’t believe it?”
God, what a stupid thing to say.
Guthrie gives me a dry look. “Why would I believe it?”
I don’t answer. I shake my head.
“Am I missing something?” Guthrie asks. “You’re checking out some girl at the resort. You’re acting all weird about Lucy. What’s going on?”
I shake my head again. “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“So did you and Dana break up?”
“No. But I did take Lucy out fishing. Lucy and Emily. It’s my job.”
Daniel sets two plates in front of us. I’m so hungry, the smell of bacon nearly
turns my stomach inside out. For a minute all I can think about is how fucking awesome this burger is going to taste, but then something hits me.
“Wait. Is Dana telling people we broke up?”
Guthrie stuffs a handful of french fries into his mouth. He chews for a minute, swallows, and doesn’t answer right away, as if he’s giving serious consideration to my question.
“Are you in love with Dana?” he asks.
“Seriously, Guthrie? I think you know the answer to that question.”
“I don’t know that I do,” he says.
He’s trying to make me say it. I’m not going to say it. Hell, no, I’m not in love with Dana.
Dana’s a sweet girl. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t love her. But I don’t.
Guthrie takes a gigantic bite of his burger. I don’t expect him to say anything right away anyway.
He’s the youngest of five—he’s got an older brother and three older sisters. Those girls—and their mom—talk a blue streak. And Guthrie—just like his dad and Eddie—learned early on to choose his words carefully.
When he’s not fishing, he’s reading. He never knew his Ojibwe grandfather, and in fourth grade, he decided to learn everything he could about his ancestors. He didn’t stop there. He learned about other Native cultures and then moved on to German and Scandinavian immigrants, and French-Canadian trappers. He’s like a walking Minnesota history book.
We both plow through the food on our plates and then Guthrie says, “Well, this, too, shall pass.”
“You sound like my gram,” I grumble.
Guthrie throws money on the counter and gets up. “Gotta go. I still have to gut those walleye.”
I finish my burger and then a piece of pie that Daniel sets down in front of me without me asking for it—lemon meringue. I’m a simple guy, I guess, when it comes to pie. I like the classics, cherry and apple and lemon meringue.
Fuck if I know what that means.
I get in the Firebird.
I should drive over to Dana’s and convince her that the rumor about me and Lucy isn’t true. It wouldn’t take much. Her parents are never home, not that it would matter if they were.
Maybe I should break up with her.
I stare at the empty passenger seat, and suddenly I’m thinking about Lucy again.