Indian Foot Lake Love Story

by Johns, Samantha

  “Hot dog!” he exclaimed while seating himself at the table.

  “No, it's pot roast,” Sylvia corrected him. “And don't worry, this man here whom I don't know how to address got it for free, although he hasn't explained how. He's been very busy today, in case you haven't noticed the free sofa in the living room.”

  Greg turned to look, smiled, and then gave little Debbie a big smackaroo on the forehead.

  “With dad, sometimes it's best just not to ask,” he teased.

  “I went over to the Coffman place, to fetch their boys for help carrying the sofa,” he proceeded to tell the tale. “They were clearing out some of their frozen meat from last year to make room for the deer meat they had just finished processing. They were going to throw it out. So we have a freezer full of meat to last us several months.”

  Sylvia put her hand over her mouth, as if she wasn't sure if she could swallow it.

  “What's the matter, Sylvie?” Greg said, giving her a playful poke. “Haven't you ever eaten venison before? Or, is it a problem that it's a year old?”

  She swallowed, then smiled.

  “It's delicious,” she admitted with a surprised look on her face. “I can't believe I'm eating Bambi. And, since my dad was a meat man, I am aware that frozen meat, if packaged properly, is good for years. This is so good,” she added taking another bite.

  “I did a little research today while using the Wi-Fi at Crystal's Cafe,” Sylvia began. “I found some interesting facts about equine arthritis. I wanted to show it to you before I buy any of the medications. With no printer, all I could do is write down some of the names and request they mail us some information. Do either of you know how to give a horse an injection?”

  “Yup, we have both done that from time to time—antibiotics and vaccinations,” answered Mr. Devine. “Either of us can show you how, if you want to do it.”

  He looked at the list of medications and treatments.

  “Well, this looks promising,” he commented. “I've used this ointment before, just for pain relief. But, you know, I couldn't tell if was doing any good or not. They've got that at the feed store. Maybe you could try it. You might be able to tell if Nippy was feeling better or not. There's half a tube of the stuff in the barn.”

  Sylvia decided she'd give Nippy a rub-down that very evening.

  The conversation then lead into what Sylvia should call Mr. Devine, how the “new” sofa had ended up in the living room, and her earlier meeting with Sheriff Caywood. They decided “Pops” would be a good choice for Mr. Devine and that they would start on the papers immediately. Even though Greg would only be able to help for a short while before leaving for his four-hour shift at the convenience store.

  “I hate it that you have to leave,” Sylvia moaned. “Why don't you show me your bills and let me see if I can come up with some ideas? I'm practically family, you know. By the time you get back, it'll be past midnight. You only get five or six hours to sleep before going to your day job. You can't keep that up forever.”

  “It won't be forever, just till the bills are paid,” he said.

  “And, how long will that be?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You don't know? How can you not know? You need to have a payment plan. The hospital should have a sliding scale. Did you talk to their social services department?”

  “No, and I don't need any government help. I'll pay it off as fast as I can. I've made a dent in it already. It was over twenty-thousand dollars, and I've got it down to ten.”

  “Greg, it wouldn't be government money. Every hospital has a fund for people in your situation. I know that because I once worked in the business office at Cardinal Glennon Hospital in St. Louis. They would probably knock off a good portion of your balance. Promise me you'll ask about it?” she pleaded. His thoughtful look gave her a sense of relief that he would consider her suggestions.

  The three of them cleared the table of dishes, and then piled it up again with boxes of papers. Greg had Mr. Kraft's lake documents and Sylvia began sorting her mother's files.

  “What are you doing, Greg?” She gasped, watching him ruffle through the papers back and forth, tossing aside whole packs of papers bound with rubber bands and twine.

  “Well, I don't know what I'm looking for,” he said. “Sorry. I'm not a librarian, you know.”

  “Watch me and learn,” she teased. “You take a stack, you open the stack, you look at each paper, then put it aside making a “finished” pile. Anything interesting goes in another pile.”

  “My way is faster,” he said.

  “Faster, yes. But, you will not find anything that way.”

  Pops entertained little Debbie with a teething biscuit while Sylvia and Greg continued their work. He began going through the papers, carefully as she had instructed, and he found Mr. Kraft's ledger book that included the cabin rentals. Sylvia jumped up and came over to his side of the table, peering over his shoulder.

  “Look for 1999, around the end of May,” she said with excitement. “My dad died May 24, and from what people have said, Arthur Caplan appeared that following week.”

  “There were three rentals during that time,” Greg said with a disappointed tone, “and none of them list that name.”

  “Okay, he used an alias, then,” Sylvia surmised. “We know he stayed in our old cabin. You saw him yourself, Crystal saw him too. Who was staying in that cabin during that time?”

  “The name is John Smith,” said Greg. “How original is that? It must be him. And, look. He paid for the entire season—four hundred and ninety dollars. And just when it's getting good, I have to say goodbye. That's the story of my life,” he said, giving Sylvia a knowing smile.

  “We should show this signature to Sheriff Caywood,” Sylvia stated. “It might be some kind of evidence. We really need a copy machine, a printer, internet—I guess I can take it to town tomorrow.”

  “Give it to me,” said Greg, about to walk out the door. “I can make a copy at work.”

  “Actually, I think we should give the original to the sheriff,” Sylvia surmised thoughtfully. “But, make a copy for us anyway. I'll keep a file of our own as a backup.”

  She ran to the door, grabbed Greg to his surprise, and kissed him quickly on the mouth. He hugged her while casting an eye toward his dad, to see how he reacted. The old man was smiling, watching them. Greg looked at Sylvia, looked back at Mr. Devine, and smiled. He knew then that the two of them had discussed this budding relationship, and that it was good. Grinning broadly, Greg left for his job feeling happier than he had been in well over a year.

  Sylvia continued sorting through her mother's papers, still concentrating on the folder marked “Joe's death.” She found his death certificate, the leftover funeral cards, the funeral bill marked paid in full, and newspaper clippings of his obituary. She saw a pile of condolence cards in the box and the guest book from the funeral home. Nothing seemed related to what was happening now. She read through the cards, realizing that she did not know most of them. Her father had known a lot of people from his business associations. She glanced through the guest book with signatures of those who had attended the viewing and the funeral ceremony. Her mouth dropped open when she saw a familiar handwriting resembling John Smiths that read “Arthur Caplan.” He had been at her father's funeral! Her mother had seen him—she herself had probably seen him!

  It was nine o'clock in the evening, but she didn't care. She called Sheriff Caywood to tell him of the ledger, the alias, and the funeral book. He was quite interested and did not seem at all disturbed by the lateness of her call. He told her to bring them with her the next day to his office, and he assured her that he could make excellent digital copies and give the originals back to her since he imagined these items had sentimental value. He asked her to keep them safe in case they needed the originals at any future trial. And just before hanging up, Sheriff Caywood had another one of his ingenious ideas.

  “Since he wasn't a member of your family, do you
think it possible that Arthur Caplan could have been involved somehow with your father's business?”

  That seemed so unlikely to Sylvia given the man's description. Why would her father have any kind of an association with this man at all? But, she could see the sheriff's point—he was not a family member, why was he at the funeral? She began looking through the box for papers relating to Marshall's Meats. There were none. Then she remembered that the box marked “meat business” was still in her storage locker back in St. Louis. That had been one which held little interest at all for her. She almost threw it out, but her hoarder's instinct had kicked in just in time. It was there, in the farthest corner of her locker, she was confident of that. Now she would be making another trip back to her old apartment. She thought maybe it would be a good idea to take “Pops” and the baby with her for the ride. They could provide both company and moral support. She could buy them an ice cream from the world-famous Ted Drewe's. The thought made her mouth water. But, she remembered that she would need to find reason to keep Pops' observant eyes out of her actual apartment so he wouldn't see her ridiculous display of horses. He might not want her to enter her gene pool into the family. To her surprise, she had not been having her usual withdraw symptoms that afflicted her whenever she was away from the horses for any length of time. Once at an American Library Association seminar, she could hardly overcome her cravings to dust them and rearrange them. Perhaps having real horse-flesh she could touch whenever she wanted was somehow a healing force for her. That would be a miracle for which she would be forever grateful to God.

  It was ten o'clock, and the phone rang. She could see by the caller ID that it came from Casey's so she quickly grabbed it on the second ring, hoping she wouldn't wake Pops and little Debbie.

  “Hi, Greg,” she said. “Have I got news for you.”

  She told him everything, including her need to go back to St. Louis. He growled at that, but agreed that “Pops” and the baby should go with her. She was surprised by that, since he considered St. Louis a hell-hole. To some extent she felt he was probably right, but she never felt unsafe—well, hardly ever—and she believed in the angels that watched over her.

  By the time she had finished talking to Greg, the night had progressed way past her bedtime—one which had gradually been changing to a country schedule. She cleared the papers from the kitchen table, as she had promised Pops, and went to take her shower, change into her nightshirt, and turn into her newly acquired bed.

  Her dream was troubling, causing her to toss and turn in her sleep. She even cried softly, but no one heard her. She dreamt of a time back in her past, her horrid past, when she found herself nineteen years old and alone in the world. It terrified her to think of making a decision as to any kind of career choice. The whole ordeal overwhelmed her. The avoidance tactic proved disastrous. She saw herself now, in her dreaming, back at the smoke-filled club known as Hot Girls dancing with a pole to loud rock music. She had dollar bills stuffed in her g-string, and sometimes she felt fingers slipping down too far. It was part of the job; she pretended to enjoy it as well as the smiling face of her own personal sugar daddy who sat in the audience masturbating. Her dream shifted to a big round bed where the wrinkly old man lay propped up watching her perform oral sex on him. She hated him, but she almost had enough money to pay for a year of library school. It wouldn't be long, she told herself while letting the man climax on her. She jumped suddenly as hands began to touch her and awakened to find Greg lying prone next to her on the couch.

  She grabbed him frantically, so happy for whom it was rather than the man in her dreams. He slipped his leg over her, and even though blankets were spread between them, she felt his body clearly as it began to cover hers. They kissed as she ran her hands over his arms and shoulders, loving the feel of his hard flesh.

  “We can't do this, Greg,” she whispered, not sounding as though she believed it. “You know we can't. Your father, remember? What if he walks in? Even if he goes to the bathroom, he's going to see us from the hall.”

  “I know,” he said, forcing himself to stop. “I won't keep trying to sneak you into my room either. I know better, I do honestly. You just have no idea how tempting you are lying there.”

  “You're pretty tempting yourself, you know,” she said, smiling coyly.

  “So, I think we'd better get married,” he said, “soon.”

  She bolted upright, suddenly wide awake and conscious of everything, including her secrets and her past.

  “Well, that was romantic,” she said, not giving her answer to his implied proposal.

  “You want romance, huh?” he teased. “Then say yes and I'll wake up the whole town and shower it with rose petals. I can be romantic.”

  “Of course, I want to say yes,” she whispered. “So, I will. Yes, Greg Devine, I will marry you. I'm yours if you want me, for as long as you want me.”

  Greg kissed her quickly, then rose, pacing and talking faster than she had ever seen him walk or talk.

  “We need to talk to Father Machens right away,” he said. “We'll need to set a date and everything. I don't know how much money we'll have for a wedding, but I'll try my best to give you everything you've ever dreamed of.”

  “I was not one of those little girls who dreamed of a wedding, remember?” she said, reminding him of her tomboy childhood. “And, besides, traditionally, it's the bride's parents who pay for the wedding. Really, I have no family to speak of. A few aunts and uncles that I don't think liked me very much. I have a few friends, but it will pretty much just be us, for the most part.”

  “We've got to tell dad,” he said with excitement.

  “He knows.”

  “What?” Greg said, looking very confused.

  “He told me earlier today, that I am his future daughter-in-law. He knows you better than you think,” she laughed.

  “Well, then,” Greg kidded, “We are definitely waking up that old man.”

  “Greg, it’s one o'clock in the morning. Let him sleep.”

  “What's all the commotion about?” the old man in his robe with a grumpy voice asked from the hallway. He opened his eyes wide with confusion once the two of them burst into laughter.

  “We're getting married,” they both said together.

  Now that the whole family was awake, except for little Debbie who was oblivious to it all and sleeping soundly in her crib, the two filled Pops in on everything that had transpired since he had retired for the night, or so he thought he had retired.

  “Greg, you are only going to have about four hours sleep before you go to your electrician job,” Sylvia moaned with regret. “That's even dangerous. You could get killed in your line of work if you are not alert. What if you cross some wires or something?”

  “I'm young and healthy,” he protested. “I've done this before, especially before little Debbie started sleeping through the night. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, and I promise I won't worry about you when you are all in the middle of the lion's den.”

  “I'll agree to that,” said Sylvia, “but, do you really believe we can both keep those promises?”

  “Maybe not,” Greg conceded, “but we can try.”

  Greg placed the Indian Foot Lake ledger on the table as he passed by on his way to bed. Since Sylvia was unable to sleep due to her excitement, she grabbed the book and began studying it, this time for financial information. The Krafts made a go of the place, why couldn't she? She thought about the way it used to be in the old days. Surely she was not the only one who would pay money to enjoy the beauty of the lake.

  The figures were from 1995, but if she could adjust them to today's equivalency, it might give her some insight as to how to turn a profit. She would have to find out how much advertising rates would be for something that would include glorious pictures of the lake and the grounds. No need to grab her camera just yet though. First, they would need to restore the concession area and at least one of the cabins to their former beauty. Carpentry, paint, a roofer perhaps
—most of it Greg could do himself if he had the time. She didn't even care if she ever got back her investment. All she wanted was for them to be able to have income from the place so that Greg would not have to work two jobs, so that she and little Debbie would not have to go through life hardly seeing him. She wanted for the two of them to become another Mr. and Mrs. Kraft—only with children that did not move far away.

  Children? How was she even thinking that was possible? The doctors had told her that it would be practically impossible after she got past her twenties. The big 3-0 was approaching this September. Of course, she should see a doctor. Ten years had passed since her diagnosis. Perhaps there were new methods since then. She wouldn't give up on Nippy's arthritis, so why should she do so on herself? The situation, though accepted as hopeless, did not require hope without a man in the picture. Now that she was planning a wedding, she needed to tell Greg the situation, and then move on from there. But, unfortunately, this would not be the only bad news she would need to disclose. Before she orders the invitations, she had better see if he was able to forgive her past.