The Lake of Dreams

by Edwards, Kim

  “See? You can’t possibly sell the house—not until we know who wrote these.”

  My mother didn’t answer, but smiled a faraway smile.

  “It was a joke,” I said.

  “I know.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “I really have to get ready for work, much as I don’t want to.”

  “What time do you have to be there?”

  “In about an hour. Can you take me into town? Would you mind? I’m not supposed to drive with this cast, and I forgot to ask Blake to pick me up.”

  “Sure. I’ll take a quick swim first, while you get ready.”

  “But it’s so cold, Lucy. June cold, melted-ice cold.”

  “Right, I know. I was already in, remember? It’ll wake me up.”

  She shook her head, smiling, and carried the coffee pot inside.

  I hadn’t thought to bring a bathing suit, but I found an old one of my mother’s in the summer porch where we always used to hang them to dry. I walked across the lawn and out to the end of the dock and dived straight into the water without missing a beat, so the cold shock happened all at once. This was the best way; by the time I surfaced, the water felt warmer than the air. I dived deep one more time, through the layers of water, cold and growing colder, until my foot touched a moss-covered rock on the bottom, and I came back up, shedding memory and desire, seeking nothing but air.

  I dressed quickly, collecting the papers in an old file folder and carrying everything upstairs. The cloth was as light as a fragment of mist, as the remnant of a dream. Then I went out to the barn to start the car. The Impala was canary yellow with a white top and chrome trim like arrows along the sides. It had been polished to a gleam and smelled like stale air freshener. I had to pause, getting in, because the front seat was still set for my father’s legs, longer than mine, and I remembered how he’d slide in and turn the ignition with a flourish, and what a treat it had been those rare times I got to ride with him in the front seat, listening to him talk about this or that while we drove into town, meandering, as if we had all the time in the world.

  When I finally pulled myself together and adjusted the seat, the Impala started right away, hardly making a sound as I backed out of the barn. My mother came out onto the porch steps, pausing to lock the door behind her. She was dressed in a straight dark blue skirt and a blouse printed with tiny gold flowers, a briefcase in her good hand, her bright green cast in striking contrast to her serious outfit. She was the chief loan officer at the bank, a position she’d worked up to from her initial job as teller.

  “This feels strange, doesn’t it,” she said, sliding across the white leather seat.

  “It’s like a cruise ship,” I said. “It must get about five miles to the gallon.”

  “Probably. No seat belts, either. He just loved tinkering with it, though. It wasn’t ever really about getting from one place to another.”

  I drove toward town, passing the miles of depot land, the rolling fields verdant beyond the silver chain-link fence, butterflies and goldfinches darting through the tall grasses. At the curve before the entrance I slowed, half-expecting more protestors, but it was quiet, the gates closed, no one in sight.

  “I see you brought those papers,” my mother said, opening the folder on the seat between us. “I was wondering if the historical society could shed some light on them. You could ask Art if he knows anything, too.”

  “Art doesn’t exactly seem like the family history type.” We were traveling through the outskirts of the village by then, the houses closer together, the road hugging the lake. “So—what happened? Between Dad and Art, I mean.”

  “Oh, why does it matter, Lucy?” she asked. “I don’t really like thinking about that time, honey. It can’t be changed, right? Life goes on.”

  “Well, of course.” Though I could feel her reluctance, I couldn’t back away. “But don’t you think it matters to remember?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe. Probably. But it doesn’t help me, not anymore.”

  I pushed again; I couldn’t leave it.

  “I just don’t get it. I guess I’m thinking about Blake, Mom. Working for Art at Dream Master—it can’t possibly end well with so much history.”

  “Suddenly the past is so important,” my mother observed drily, and I knew she was thinking again of all the years I’d been gone.

  “Ah. Why not just tell me? I’m afraid for Blake. I mean, Art’s never going to make a real place for him at Dream Master. He’d never displace Joey, not even a little, to do that.”

  There was a brief silence. I turned onto the main street into town.

  “All I really know is that Art didn’t go to Vietnam,” my mother said, finally. “That’s the main thing. There was the draft, and your father’s number came up, and Art’s didn’t. It was a terrible time, when I think back, waiting to hear if you’d been born on a good day or a bad day, all those young men all over the country, connected by a random date. A terrible time, and terrible luck, too. Your father was supposed to have an equal share at Dream Master, that was always the plan, but while he was in Vietnam your grandfather had a stroke, and your grandmother gave power of attorney to Art.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  My mother shrugged. “Maybe she just got nervous. Your father was fighting a war, after all, half a world away. In any case, by the time your father came back, Art owned the controlling share of Dream Master. He’d already started having conversations, quietly, about selling the lock factory and all the patents to a rival company. He never said a word to us, and your father didn’t realize what was going on, not for years. He came back and we got married and he went straight to work, just glad to be home. Glad to be alive. When he finally found out what had happened, he was so mad. He thought about selling out and leaving, but then your grandfather died and your grandmother moved into town and gave us the lake house and the acreage. It felt like a consolation prize, but she was shrewd; it was just enough to keep us here.”

  “That’s when everyone stopped speaking to each other?”

  “More or less. The beginning of the end, you could say. Your father stayed on at Dream Master for a few years even after the lock business was gone, thinking maybe he and Art could build something new. They hardly spoke, though. The final straw came in 1986. You know, when the comet came back? The local paper ran a big story about your great-grandfather and how he’d come to this country and started Dream Master after the comet of 1910. Art was featured quite prominently in the article. Your father wasn’t even mentioned. I remember he threw the paper on the counter, went to work, and came back two hours later with his things in a box. He never went back.”

  “I remember that.”

  “Really? You were so young.”

  “I remember lying in my room and hearing people arguing downstairs. I remember how weird it was when Dad didn’t go to work for a long time.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “We always talked about moving away. Maybe we should have. Instead, we stayed and tried to work it out. That’s when I painted the house. Do you remember that? I started with the cupola and never stopped. If we were going to live in that house, I was damned sure going to make it ours.”

  “You planted gardens,” I said softly, feeling terrible.

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Lots of gardens. Beautiful gardens, weren’t they? And your father sold his share of Dream Master and bought the marina. We made a good life from a very unfair situation, we really did.”

  We were entering the village now, driving past the Victorian houses with their expansive lawns, past the lakeside park, through the center of town with its brick-faced buildings, which had once housed the feed store, the grocery, the five-and-dime, and which were now filled with gift shops, florists, and restaurants. The old movie theater had been turned into condos. I parked behind the bank, maneuvering the Impala into the last spot at the very end of the lot, far away from everyone. My mother got out, smoothing her skirt with her good hand and then picking up her brief
case, already shifting into a professional persona I hardly recognized. I got out, too.

  “Aren’t you going back to the house?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I thought I’d get some coffee. Should I pick you up this afternoon?”

  She hesitated, smiling a private smile that somehow excluded me from her day. “Sweetheart, thanks, but I’ve got a ride. Andy’s picking me up.”

  It took me a minute. “The secret admirer?”

  She laughed. “Yes, but for heaven’s sake, Lucy, he’s just giving me a lift.”

  My mother kissed my cheek good-bye and crossed the parking lot. I watched her climb the steps and disappear into the bank, trying to sort out my feelings. She was only in her early fifties, attractive, vibrant; there was no reason she shouldn’t move on with her life. Maybe, while I was gone, she already had. This was a good thing, at least in theory. So why did it leave me feeling so unsettled? First Blake with a baby on the way, then my mother with a budding romance—it made me feel left behind, as if, despite my constant travels, I’d really been standing in place.

  I locked the Impala and walked through town, looking for a coffee shop. Blake was right, there were changes everywhere. The sandwich shop where I’d worked in high school had been replaced by a sushi bar. I paused and looked through the windows, as if I might catch a glimpse of my former self behind the counter, fixing sandwiches and wrapping them in squares of white paper, dreaming of college and freedom. Any minor humiliations, any desire to rage at the general injustice of life—my cousin Joey was among those who regularly came in on the way to a carefree day of swimming or sailing—I’d stored away until Keegan Fall stopped by with his motorbike to pick me up each night at closing time. We flew down the narrow roads around the lake to whatever empty barn or waterfall or field party we could find, the wind rushing over us, cold and thrilling.

  A waitress tapped on the glass, startling me from my thoughts. I walked on. Some of the empty storefronts had new businesses—a travel agent, a jewelry store with handcrafted items, a real estate agent with a window full of lake properties. Gone were the little cottages that used to dot the shore; instead there was one minor mansion after another. I could hardly stand the thought of selling the family house, and found myself calculating how my savings—half in yen and half in euros—might translate into dollars. Even if I could afford it, though, I’d be so far away most of the time. And the tax rates was sobering, too. My mother never discussed finances, but for the first time I wondered how much of her salary went into the house and the land, and how much more independence she would have if she sold.

  The lake breeze was stiff. At the park, several people were sitting on benches, holding their newspapers tightly against the wind. Sailboats already dotted the water, distant and colorful, like butterflies against the whitecapped blue. Blake’s boat, the Fearful Symmetry, was moored in the slip he rented at the marina, but when I went on deck and called his name there was no answer, so I walked on.

  Dream Master Hardware and Locks was the first building on Canal Street. Dark brick, it rose two stories above the high paned windows of its storefront. Its original name, DREAM MASTER LOCKS 1919, was etched in the broad stone lintel above the door. Blake was probably inside, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in; if the family history had a shape, it would be this building.

  Instead, I followed a group of tourists past a green space with benches to the renovated glass insulator factory, which took up much of the block. Abandoned and falling into decay for years, the building had been beautifully restored. The brick had been cleaned and tuck-pointed, the windows replaced, porches and balconies added. Colorful signs listed the businesses that had opened there. I found Avery’s right away:

  The Green Bean

  Eclectic Vegetarian Cuisine

  It was bright and open, the high rafters exposed and ceiling fans moving gently. The walls were brick and the windows and doors were trimmed out in pale oak. The last time I’d been here the building was condemned, full of broken windows and abandoned machines. Now a line of people waited on the chic scarred wooden floors, and the display cases held scones and muffins and biscotti, all bathed in a soft gold light. The air was full of rich scents, coffee and eggs, balsamic vinegar and sweet brown rice. Avery was busy behind the counter, slight and deft, moving with swift purpose from one task to another. I went out onto the deck and got a table overlooking the water. A waitress with a bright green cap and apron took my order: a roasted artichoke, green bean, and egg-white omelet. She brought hot coffee in a bright green mug. I sipped this, leafing again through the yellowed papers I’d found, wondering who Iris was and what had ever become of her, while water from the lake flowed by steadily.

  My laptop was in my bag; other people were working at their tables, so I took it out and found an Internet connection right away. There were twenty-seven e-mail messages, three from Yoshi. He’d sent one from his phone the night before—having a drink, wish you were here—and I imagined him at one of the noisy after-work places he liked to go for yakitori or noodles and drinks—really, an extension of the corporate day. The other two were brief and businesslike, forwarding queries from potential students. To the last one he’d attached a photo taken from the balcony outside our bedroom, catching the copper roof of the Fujimoro house and the glint of the distant sea. At night I wake to the sound of trains passing. I miss you. I saved that message; I missed him, too.

  The waitress brought my order, with a cinnamon roll on the side.

  “Compliments of the chef. Avery’s busy, but she says hello.”

  “Tell her hello back. Hello and congratulations. This place is terrific.”

  And it was, the omelet tender, the roll so rich and buttery it melted in my mouth. I ate slowly, savoring the food and the fresh air and the patterns of the water. I was nearly finished before Art came in with my cousin Joey and took a table across the deck. If Art had come to resemble my father, it was equally true that Joey and Blake could have been brothers; Joey had the same curly hair, though his was darker, and the same striking, long-lashed blue-green eyes.

  I didn’t want to see Joey. I didn’t even want to think about him. Though of course I’d seen him at the funeral and the wake and then in passing over the years since, I’d hardly spoken to him since we’d run into each other at the gorge on the night my father died. That night Keegan and I were standing in the curve by the falls, water roaring around us, so we didn’t hear the car doors slamming, or the voices coming closer. It wasn’t until they started gathering on the shore that we saw them, milling on the broken shale, their faces briefly visible in the flare of lighters as they pulled out cigarettes and joints, their laughter cutting through the night air, through the rush of water. There were a dozen or so people from the in crowd that hung together at lunch and downtown after school. They were mostly wealthy, dressed in boat shoes and designer jeans and polo shirts, driving brand-new cars. Keegan and I stood, as quiet as deer, until the beam from a flashlight caught me in the face.

  “Oh, it’s just Lucy. Lucy Jarrett and Keegan Fall.”

  We had no choice then but to make our way to them.

  “Hey, cousin,” Joey said, emerging from the group as he cracked open a beer. Someone had lit a flare and his face was strangely shadowed in its flickering light. Since the rift between our fathers we’d passed each other in the school halls as if we didn’t even know each other, and I didn’t trust his sudden friendliness. “How about that? Why’d you cut your hair so short, cuz?”

  “Because I wanted to,” I said.

  He laughed; it wasn’t his first beer. “I hear you’re heading west.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hear you got a big scholarship, too.”

  “I did,” I said; the letter had come just the day before, and the thought of it still made me flush with pleasure.

  “That’s good. Glad it worked out.” And then, before I could say thanks—I was actually about to thank him—he added, “I mean, since you needed
it so bad.”

  “Come on, Lucy,” Keegan said softly. His strategy for dealing with fights—his mother was a very vocal member of the Seneca Nation, so he’d had his share of taunts over the years—was always to slip away and disappear, but I stayed where I was, the stream breaking around my ankles.

  “What do you mean, Joey? I earned this scholarship.”

  “Sure,” Joey said. He was a shadow on the moonlit shore. “You do what you have to do in life, right? If you have to work, you do.” He shrugged and lifted his beer. “I’m glad you’ll get to go to college after all, Lucy. Cheers to you.” And he drank.

  Keegan caught my arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered. I let him pull me away, but we didn’t leave the gorge. I couldn’t let it go. I knew even then that I was caught up in something beyond this moment of foolish insult, some dark dynamic I’d inherited as surely as I’d gotten the Jarrett eyes, the gift of listening to locks. Keegan and I crouched a few feet away in the dense green summer foliage; I waited until Joey and his friends shed their clothes and waded out to the falls so they could dart beneath the pounding water or linger in the pools it had formed in the rock over time. When I was sure they wouldn’t see us, I scrambled to the shore, grabbed Joey’s clothes and keys, and ran. “Is this a good idea?” Keegan asked, but I didn’t hesitate. I flung his clothes to the highest branches. His red shirt was a distant flag, his trendy jeans flopped over an unreachable branch, his keys sailed far into the darkness, rustling dense brush as they landed. At that moment I didn’t care if Joey walked home naked. He could search for his clothes all night; he could climb to the top of the falls and crash to the bottom for all I cared.

  My cousin still dressed well, in parachute-cloth pants and a dark blue cotton shirt. When he smiled up at the waitress, his eyes crinkled at the corners, charming and flirtatious. Her answering laughter floated over the deck. Some things didn’t change, after all. I closed my folder with its dusty discoveries from the past, packed up my computer, and paid my bill, trying to slip out amid the crowded tables before they realized I was there. It was too late, though. Art saw me, called my name, and waved me over. To my surprise, Joey stood up when I reached the table and swung one arm around my shoulders. I wondered if he even remembered what had happened at the falls.