by Davis, SJ
“I’m right behind you.”
She continued toward the cabin, keys gripped in her hand. At her side, Jake slowed to match her strides. The odor hit them halfway across the clearing.
“What the hell’s that?” he said, stopping dead in his tracks.
“That’s the reason the owner agreed to a $30,000 chunk off the asking price,” Lena told him, continuing forward. At the door, she dug into her backpack and pulled out two dust masks. She donned one and handed him the other. “You might want to put this on first. It’s not vapor-rated, but it should knock down the smell a bit.”
“What in God’s name’s in there?”
“You’ll see.”
She cracked the door open and the odor of decay hit them with full force. Jake recoiled. Lena shrugged apologetically. The interior of the cabin reeked. With the heat of the approaching summer, the contents of the bags, frozen all winter, were rotting. Maggots crawled over the plastic; flies swarmed the windows. A rat scurried through the debris, escaping through a small gap in the logs by the fireplace. Lena watched as Jake surveyed the wreckage with dismay. She, too, was disheartened by it. It seemed like the mounds of garbage had grown since she’d first seen the place, two months before.
“This part of my renovation won’t be pretty, just down and dirty,” she said. “But I understand completely if you don’t want the job.”
Jake shook his head and donned the mask. “No, I’m okay…it’s just trash, after all.” He stepped inside and kicked one of the black bags. It emitted a fresh burp of odor. “Have you opened any of them up to see what’s inside?”
Lena shook her head. “Be my guest. You’re welcome to keep anything you think’s worthwhile.”
“I think I’ll pass.” He took a few mincing steps around the perimeter of the room, careful not to brush against the bags. “Mind if I have a look upstairs?”
“Be my guest. I’m going to check out the dock again. It seemed pretty stable when Alex and I were here in April, but I might need you to replace some of the boards.”
She left him negotiating his way across the living room and turned toward the water. Blackwater Pond was a dark blue-green from the steps of the cabin. As she neared the rocky shore, it turned lighter in color, translucent. Stepping onto the dock she looked straight down at the bottom, gravel-covered and bare of weed, the water crystal clear. Tiny fish darted around the pilings where the substrate dropped away and disappeared into the depths. Fifty feet out, at the dock’s edge, she could no longer see the bottom. She sat by the ladder and took her shoes off, dangling her feet ankle-deep. It was cold, but not unbearable.
“There’s a PVC pipe leading from the pond into the cabin,” Jake called from the water’s edge. “Did you see the hand pump next to the sink? It looks like you’ll have water for washing up, once we get her primed.”
“From the looks of things, we’re going to need it,” Lena said, her initial optimism fading with the reality of a month of hard work ahead. “How does the dock look? Does it need to be replaced?”
Jake shook his head as he joined her at the end. “The pilings are sound. Some boards need replacing, but most of it can wait if you want to use it for a season or two first.”
“Do you think you could expand it a bit here at the end?” she asked. “Enough to put a couple of lounge chairs out?”
“Sure. I could build you a float, too, if you want.”
She smiled. “Let’s see how far my money goes first. I’d love a float, but the outhouse and roof take priority.”
“Gotcha,” he said, turning back to the cabin. “Hey…where’s your dog?”
“Zephyr!” Lena whistled and the Golden Retriever streaked from the woods. He entered the water with a splash and paddled out to the end of the dock, swimming in leisurely circles. Leaning back on her elbows she watched him in silence until a high-pitched screech sent her scrambling to her feet.
Zephyr turned toward the far banks, growling softly.
“What the fuck was that?” Jake said, retracing his steps to stand beside her.
“I don’t know,” Lena said. She raised a hand to her forehead, squinting at the opposite side of the pond in the bright morning sunlight. “There it is again. Could it be a hawk?”
Jake shrugged and searched the sky. “Maybe, but I don’t see one, do you?”
She shook her head and stared across Blackwater Pond, as, a moment later, faint strains of music began. It was classical music, strings mostly, accompanied by a woman’s voice that dipped and soared with the opening notes.
Jake turned toward her, eyebrows raised.
“Opera,” she said. “Marge Quimby told me the camp across the lake’s rented for the summer. Single guy, middle-aged. I’d say he’s a man of culture, wouldn’t you?”
“How far away’s his cabin?”
“About half a mile, I think. Sound really travels up here.”
“That’s the way it is on these lakes. On a quiet night on Moosehead, you can hear your neighbor fart from a quarter mile away if the wind’s in the right direction.”
Lena laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She stretched and turned toward land. “So much for the peace and quiet, huh? Ready to get started?”
“Sure. What’s first, boss?”
Tapping her foot on the dock, she surveyed her new kingdom. “Well, we can’t do anything else until we can get the trucks in the driveway, can we? I guess that means we’re landscapers today. The dump runs will have to wait.”
Jake rolled his eyes heavenward. “Thank God for small favors. Maybe Templeton and his family will have moved by the time we start gutting the house.”
“Maybe,” Lena said, doubtfully.
They worked steadily and, by the day’s end, the first half of the driveway was cut back enough to allow a single vehicle to pass. They finished clearing the rest of it the next afternoon.
“That’s got it,” Jake said, cutting back the last limb and adding it to the compost pile. “What’s next?”
Lena checked the time and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Next we take a swim and have a beer. Put yourself down until six today. You deserve it.”
“It’s Wednesday tomorrow. Dump day,” he reminded her.
“We have until noon to get the truck down to Monson, so let’s plan on loading it first thing. Once that’s out of the way, we can work on the new outhouse until eleven-thirty. I’ll dig the pit while you put it together. After that, we’ll take some windshield time, drop off the garbage, and try to make a second run. That should just about finish off the day, don’t you think?”
Jake nodded. “Sounds good. I’ll bring my chop box and generator up tomorrow morning. If we clear enough of the crap from the house I’ll be able to lock my tools inside. I’ll leave everything here and set up on the front porch, that way I can work rain or shine.” He turned to stare back at the cabin. “I have to tell you, though, Lena, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning. I only brought a six-pack along today. Tomorrow I’ll have to bring a case!”
“It won’t be that bad,” she said. “It’s just garbage.”
Jake shook his head. “Yes it will, but it probably won’t take us more than a couple of days to clear it all out. It could be worse, I guess. You could have bought a sewer plant.” He reached into the water and retrieved the cans of cold Budweiser. Popping the tops, he handed one to Lena. “Cheers,” he said raising the can to his lips. “Here’s to beginnings.”
Chapter 11.
The God watched from across the water. At last, when Lena and her helper left for the day, he climbed into his kayak and paddled across the pond. He’d seen her leave the key to the camp dangling from a hook in the outhouse for two days running and smiled as he tucked it into his pocket. She was a creature of habit. He liked that.
Paddling back, he loaded six black garbage bags into his truck and made the return trip to her camp by road. He opened the door and carted his bags inside, intermingling them with the garbage within. Finished, he retreated to his
own side of Blackwater Pond. That night, he rewarded himself with a rare-cooked sirloin and a bottle of Pinot Noir.
The next day, he woke early. The temperature had dropped little overnight; the morning air was thick and humid. He walked to the bunkhouse and fit the key into the padlock. The door swung open with a loud creak. Entering the building, his heart pounding, he searched the dim room for the woman. She was huddled on the bed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, her eyes dark-circled, enormous in her thin face. Where her tears had dried, her pale skin was salt-streaked. He smiled as she cowered, gratified by her fear.
“Take your clothes off, love,” he said, closing the door behind him.
She hesitated then swung her feet off the side of the bed and pulled her shirt over her head. Her breasts were small and firm, salted with freckles. He loved her breasts.
“The pants, too.”
She turned away and stripped off the boxers, covering her pubic hair with both hands. It pleased him that she was still so modest after all the time they’d spent together. Virginal, almost. He could see her trembling and his excitement grew. “Come here,” he said, gentling his voice. “Are you afraid?”
She shook her head. He knew she was lying.
“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. You’re not like the other one, are you, then? You’re a good girl. Brilliant. The best.”
He crooked a finger and she took a step forward as he started the CD player. Opera played to the morning sunrise, welcoming the day. When she was close, he grasped her shoulder. Her skin, beneath his fingers, was a mottled fusion of yellow, purple, and white; an artist’s palette of hurt and pain.
“You are truly a beautiful creature,” he whispered. “On your knees.”
She obeyed, kneeling on the floor before him as he lowered his pants. “Ah,” he sighed, as she took him in her mouth. “Good girl.”
At first he was content with the feel of her tongue and lips, but as he grew more aroused he pulled her head closer and pushed deeper down her throat. She gagged and pulled away, retching. Disgusted, he wrapped his fingers in her hair and pulled her to her feet. “Lie down,” he commanded, shoving her face-forward on the bed. “We’ll finish it up another way.”
She cried out and his anger intensified; sound traveled easily across the water. With the reality of neighbors on the pond, her cries were no longer amusing, they were a liability. He turned the music up louder and struck her across the buttocks.
“You think this is bad? You don’t know how easy you’ve had it.” He hiked her ass up and forced himself inside her. “How does that feel, eh? Now you’ve got something to cry about, don’t you?”
When he was done with her, she took the pills he offered without protest, and curled, fetal-like, on the bed. He watched her swallow them and tossed her a hunk of bread, then turned away and locked the door behind him, his well-being restored. Outside, the sun was rising above the eastern mountains. He stepped onto his dock and checked the wind. It blew from the north. Slipping into his kayak, he paddled south, following the shoreline. Where it curved north again, he backed off, sliding through the water silently. One cove shy of the other cabin, he pulled to shore and hid the kayak in the woods. Settling behind a downed tree, he watched and waited. From his vantage point, he could see Lena Walker’s property in its entirety.
His timing was perfect. Her Jeep and the big truck pulled into the meadow less than ten minutes later. As he’d hoped, the wind acted to his advantage. Every word she spoke carried to him, loud and clear. He closed his eyes and listened, soaking up information, while he formulated his plan. Across the pond, the first aria of Madame Butterfly began for the second time that morning.
***
“How can he listen to that screeching day and night?” Jake unloaded his chop box from the bed of his truck. He placed it on the porch next to his handsaw and the generator. “It’s driving me crazy and I’m all the way over here!”
“Opera’s an acquired taste,” Lena said, retrieving her shovel. “Alex listens to it from time to time, when the mood hits him.”
Jake shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Strike one for Alex,” he said, pushing the cabin door open. “Jesus, I’d forgotten how much shit was in here.”
“Me too,” Lena said, looking over his shoulder. The bags of trash appeared to have multiplied overnight. “Oh well, hopefully we can clear it out between today and Saturday. Where did you get that key, anyway?”
“My dad gave it to me when I told him I was working for you. They had it at the office.”
“It’s a good thing you brought it…I can’t for the life of me figure out where I left mine.”
“I thought you hung it in the outhouse.” Jake tossed the key into the air, caught it and offered it to her.
She shook her head. “I could have sworn I did, but it wasn’t there this morning. I must have left it in my pocket. I’ll check my jeans when I get home.”
“Sure you don’t want this copy?”
“You’d better keep it. It only took me two days to lose mine. We’re better off with you holding the back-up.”
Jake turned to set up his saws. Across the pond, the music swelled with the closing notes of the aria. “I wonder what that guy does over there alone all day besides listen to crappy music?”
“Marge Quimby told me he’s an artist,” Lena said, climbing into the back of the pick-up.
“Artist? What the hell’s he doing up here for the summer? Painting moose?”
“I guess. He must be into landscapes.”
“He’d have to be. It’s not like there’s anyone around to model for him.” He reached for his chop box, wrestling it out of the bed of the truck with Lena’s help. “You could, though, if you wanted to.”
“I could what?”
“You could model. You were the prettiest girl in school. You even had Annie beat. Still do, in my opinion.”
Lena felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She covered her embarrassment with a scowl. Reaching into the back of the pick-up, she pulled a stack of 2x4’s out and heaved them to the ground. “Flattery won’t get you a raise, Jake Morris.”
He grinned. “I know, but it was worth a try.”
When his truck was empty, she pulled out two pairs of green throwaway gloves. “Now comes the fun part. You’d better wear these.”
He shook his head. “I’m allergic to latex. It makes my hands itch.”
“I’ve got some canvas gloves in my car, if you’d rather.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’d rather get dirty than sweat all day.”
“Suit yourself.”
With steely resolve, Lena grabbed the nearest of the bags and carried it to the pick-up. It was heavy and the stench was so bad she had to breathe through her mouth. “How could anyone live this way?” she said as she heaved it into the back.
“Mind over matter, kid.” Jake heaved his own bag next to hers and returned to the cabin. “Besides, the old coot doesn’t have to live here anymore. You do.”
“True, that.”
Bag by bag, they carted the garbage across the meadow. By eight-thirty, the truck was full.
“I counted 23 bags,” he said, throwing the last one on top. “That’s 23 dollars to get rid of it at the Monson transfer station. A dollar per bag.”
“How many more do you think are in there?” Lena said.
He shrugged. “Forty? Fifty? I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.”
“That’s at least two more trips to the dump.”
“Don’t forget the appliances and the furniture.”
“Four more trips.”
“Being cautiously optimistic, I’d say five.”
He began to cut boards for the new outhouse while she struggled with a pick and shovel, scratching out a hole. It was easier said than done; the ground was hard and rocky and it was slow going. By eleven-thirty, Lena was tired, hot, and sweaty. Thankful for the break, she loaded Zephyr into the truck.
“Come on, Jake,” she called, starting the engine.
“Let’s head to town.”
It took forty minutes to reach the Monson transfer station and ten to toss the garbage and pay the attendant. With the first load disposed of, they returned to load the truck for a second time and repeated the procedure. By the end of the day, there was a noticeable dent in the amount of junk left inside the cabin and Lena’s hole was two feet deep and two across. Jake had finished building the new outhouse except for the roof.
“Forty-nine bags done! Good work, boss.” He tapped his beer can against Lena’s and reclined on the deck. Faint strains of music echoed over the water. “The guy must have a generator to keep that shit playing all day.”
“Either that or he goes through a lot of batteries.” Lena took a sip and closed her eyes. The heat felt good, now that their work was done. “Want to get a pizza on the way in?”
“You’re buying, right?”
“Sure.”
“If you spring for two and a couple of pitchers, I’m in.”
She laughed. “It’s not building supplies or your hourly wage that’s going to break me on this venture, Jake. It’s what it costs to keep you fed.”
Jake grinned and tossed her another beer. “I guess I could chip in for the beer.”
“Deal.”
When the six-pack was gone, Lena locked up, handed Jake his key, and followed him down the driveway. Except for Madame Butterfly’s endless lament, Blackwater Pond was still.
Chapter 12.
“Where do you think she went this time?” Jake asked.
“Who? Annie?”
He nodded.
It was Saturday afternoon and they’d just thrown the last bag from the pick-up truck into the big metal dumpster in Monson. It was their second run of the day and they still had the appliances to get rid of, but the dump closed at three so it would be their last.
Lena handed twenty-two dollars to the attendant and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“She must have told you something,” he pressed. “You’re the only woman she’ll have anything to do with so it stands to reason that she must have told you.”