Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  I smooth each sock and roll them into tidy balls before sticking one in each boot. Giving my tattered hems a couple folds, I trip toward the water’s edge. If I fell face-first into the cove, now that would be funny.

  I slosh out far enough to wet my ankles and then hop onto a small boulder, which leads to another a little farther from shore, which leads to several more, until I land on the “launch pad” where we would dive into the surrounding black water. As soon as I plant my feet, the sun recedes behind a cloud. The treetops quit rustling. Not even a water bug disrupts the lake’s glassy surface, and all the black flies vanish. My own pulse seems to pause. It’s as if every creature in the cove holds its breath.

  Out on the main lake, a small island reflects on the water. I push back a bittersweet memory. Bit by bit, the sounds of the lake revive. The swelling blat of a bullfrog ripples across the water; as if eighteen years suspends its reverberation, the echo finally rolls back to me. The frog sloshes in the reedy pool, but I could swear it’s Frankie. Traveling through time—through eighteen years—I hear Penny’s voice.

  “Get that disgusting thing away from me!”

  “Kiss him,” Frankie said, shoving the bulging creature at her face. “Turn him into Percy Wade, your Prince Charming.”

  She gave his flaxen head a good-natured swat. “You are the most annoying seven-year-old alive.”

  “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed,” he chanted, narrowly missing a not-so-gentle smack as he fled toward the boat shack.

  Penny turned her attention to me. “C’mon, Ben, let’s help Dad get the float in the water. I want a couple hours of sun before supper.”

  I check Whispering Narrows, hoping for another glimpse of Amelia. Would she notice that I now towered over every other fourteen-year-old on this planet? I wouldn’t have minded the height if I had gained as much girth, but I planned to work out over the summer and hoped for improvement.

  Amelia was a no-show, and so I followed Penny over to where Dad surveyed the float. The sheathed platform sat on blocks, right where we had left it last Labor Day weekend. As Dad scratched his head, the rolled-up sleeves of his T-shirt cut into his biceps. That didn’t make him look any tougher—just made his shirt look too small.

  Frankie tugged the tattered canvas, snuffling boogers.

  “No, Sport, like this,” Dad said, demonstrating how the corners needed lifting before removing the cover.

  Frankie mimicked the maneuver.

  “Good job, Sport.” He cut a look toward me. “Ben, don’t just stand there like a moron, help your little brother.”

  I knew the drill, so I would have stepped in sooner, but I always hesitated around Dad. One screw-up and he would cuff me upside the head.

  With one of us at each side, we waddled the float toward its summer mooring place. Within a half hour, we had it secured a few yards from the end of our dock, which was enough time for swimsuit-clad Amelia to find her way down to her beach. After Dad’s dismissal, I swam to the float, while Penny retrieved her sunbathing necessities and soon joined me. Open water frightened Frankie, so he stayed at the shoreline with the frogs.

  Hoping to shrink my spindly new height, I sat at the float’s edge with my chest and shoulders slumped over my knees, careful not to face Whispering Narrows, as if I wasn’t spying on Amelia. Penny lay close by, wearing a modest one-piece bathing suit, the style she had to settle for because Mom didn’t want her “attracting boys from a fifty-mile radius,” as if Penny filled out her top the way Mom did. The fact was, Penny couldn’t help attracting boys, and it wasn’t just her figure or face. She was a genuinely nice person, even if she had become a little touchy at times.

  The scent of perfume-tinged baby oil wafted from her glistening white body. As if waking from sleep, she sighed. Moving only her lips, she said, a little louder than a whisper, “I hate to burst your bubble, Ben, but Amy is way out of your league.”

  I cringed at her intrusion upon my daydream but was grateful she had kept her voice down. We both knew how sounds carried across the cove.

  “I mean honestly,” Penny said. “Money aside, look at her—she’s got boobs bigger than mine, and what is she, barely fifteen?”

  “You’re just jealous ’cause you’re flat as a board.”

  “And you’re just jealous because she and I are friends.”

  “You are not.”

  “Okay, well, more like acquaintances—but at least I’ve actually been over there. Besides, I’m not flat as a board, at least not this summer.” She glanced approvingly at her chest. Rolling to her side, she tossed a glance toward Amelia on her stretch of white sand. “You know, I’m not saying that about Amy to be cruel, Ben—”

  “I couldn’t care less about her.” My voice hit two octaves in a split second. I sprung to my feet and then dove into cool water, cutting through midnight velvet. My eardrums compressed as the lake enveloped my body in murkiness that splintered with light as I rolled and darted back to the surface. With a splash, I emerged halfway into the cove. Sucking in a deep breath, I flung water from my hair and wiped my eyes.

  Amelia sat cross-legged on her towel, reading a paperback in her lap. She was now nearer to me than Penny. Her eyes responded to the spattering water and settled on me. Confident of her attention, I did my best front crawl. I hoped she was watching, but I didn’t have the courage to check. When I dove in again and came up, she had set the book down. I think our eyes met. Then she stood and I took in a real good look at her. For two seconds, I thought she would wade out to meet me, but instead, she picked up her towel, shook it, then wrapped it around herself and walked up their expansive lawn to the house.

  Chapter 5

  I’m overgrown, standing on this boulder that once required effort to climb. I’ve put on another five inches since I was a spindly kid, which seems to have shrunk the entire cove, but not Whispering Narrows. As a boy, the vastness of it captured my imagination, like volumes of Robert Louis Stevenson and H. G. Wells. Treasures of far away places filled its rooms, and the most beautiful creature in the world walked its halls. I spent many hours wishing I could peer into the second-story windows of the west wing, which faces the cove. The far, eastern-facing wing looks out over the lake and hides most of a four-car garage. Just beyond that, at the water’s edge, a short dock once moored the floatplane—the second greatest mystery of the lake.

  Back in the day, Doc Burns always had Whispering Narrows opened up before we arrived at Safe Haven on Memorial Day weekend. Dad had three weeks off every summer and spent them with us at camp—the first and third around Memorial Day and then Labor Day, and the second during the middle of July. The rest of the time, it was only Penny, Frankie, Mom, and me—until our last summer; more people came into my life, and left, than during any summer before that.

  Now, the quiet over at Whispering Narrows is conspicuous. So is the absence of Doc’s floatplane. I assume it never came out of winter storage this year. Or perhaps it went up for sale—if that’s the case, I wish I would have known; I might have considered buying it myself. Learning to fly—legally—is still on my To Do list. As for Whispering Narrows, I hope the place stays in the Burns family. I should have asked about it, but I didn’t have the presence of mind. Once I’m done with this place, I’ll have to look into that. On second thought, perhaps not. It’s too much just knowing Doc is no longer around. Besides, I’m not here to grieve him. That will have to wait.

  I swat a black fly and turn my attention toward camp. The eagerness of my drive to Safe Haven has devolved into that too-familiar feeling of measured anticipation, never daring to cross the line into all-out excitement. It’s difficult to unlearn disappointment. In this case, I can deal with the physical dilapidation of the cottage; I need only to brace myself for the unrecalled memories awaiting my return.

  I slip my feet into my socks and boots, leaving the laces slack. Heading up the path, I dig inside my pocket for the key—the front door key. I do not intend to bat my way through insects and other debris
suspended in spiderwebs that ensconce the rear basement entrance. The stairway, slick with lichen, adds to the odor of rotting pine needles, decaying asphalt shingles, and mold. The mixture stirs a memory—a fleeting sense of childhood—of me as a child, the innocent who had not yet gained a broader perspective. That child inserts the key and turns it. The adult, the man who understands that nothing stays the same, pushes the door open.

  A thin band of light streaks down the length of particleboard paneling, widening like a path as I step inside. A haze infiltrates the grimy windowpanes above the old chipped sink and sideboard beside the door. I move through the shadows to an overhead light bulb in the center of the room and pull the string. Twice. No such luck.

  I push back dingy curtains above the sink, illuminating some of the only remaining pieces of furniture, the same old table and chairs that always sat there. I close my eyes and breathe the musty odor, the scent of summer and hope and fantasy—the scent of not knowing.

  I walk the perimeter of the round oak table, a sentinel of the past, dragging my fingertip through a film of dust, right over a burn mark. I had forgotten about that. It was the most recent mar, not there long enough to make a deep impression, but significant enough to spark the mental image of a burning cigarette. Don’t dwell on it. Moving to the opposite side, running my hand beneath the table’s overhanging edge, I feel around for a familiar carving—BH.

  The defacement of family property. My secret rebellion. It would have earned me a beating, for sure. The tactile memory stirs voices—the familiar din of suppertime. Frankie reaching over my plate for bread, without reprimand.

  “Elbows off the table, Ben, and stop slouching,” Mom said as she passed the green beans. “And button up your blouse, Penny.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “I’m wearing my halter top under it, Mother.”

  “I don’t care. It looks sloppy and gives the wrong impression.”

  Yeah right. I stifled a snicker. Mom kept her shirts buttoned up, but men still stared.

  “Gives the wrong impression to who?” Penny asked, surveying all present.

  “Easy on the attitude, Sweet Pea,” Dad said.

  Distracted by Mom and Penny going at it as usual, I hadn’t moved my elbows fast enough.

  “Ben, you heard your mother.” Dad swung, grazing the back of my head.

  I ducked and slid my elbows to my side. Mom’s penciled brow spiked. “What is that on your shirt, Ben?”

  I had forgotten about the scorch mark. “I bumped into someone’s cigarette at Garver’s.”

  She kept one brow arched while squinting. “You haven’t been smoking, have you?”

  “No, Mom. I just wasn’t looking where I was going.” I didn’t dare mention that the kid had flung it at me. That would have brought up the whole bullying lecture and how I shouldn’t let kids push me around, and that I needed to stand up for myself and give it right back.

  Dad jumped in. “Well, I don’t appreciate having to buy new clothes because you can’t be bothered to watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry,” I said, anticipating another swing. “I’ll be more careful.”

  Penny gave me a nudge. “You could just tie-dye it, and no one would notice a little singe.”

  I let out a huff. “Not likely.” What I really wanted was to change the subject. “Can I ride my bike after supper?” I asked, directing my question to neither parent specifically.

  They exchanged a look. Before Mom could object, Dad said, “After you help with dishes.”

  In hopes of avoiding further stipulations or leaking any eagerness, I nodded without making eye contact.

  An hour later, I skidded out of our driveway, calculating the lean of my stingray bike with its brand new banana seat. It was impressive. Back in the development where we lived, it was the bossest bike on the block. Its best feature was caliper brakes. I had installed them myself. Everyone knew me as the go-to bike man. I could take any piece-of-crap bike and give it a complete makeover, paint job included. Since there weren’t any hills in our neighborhood, only square grids of pavement, I couldn’t wait to give it a spin on the inclines and declines of the dirt roads around the lake.

  Taking a left turn onto the road, I pedaled the downward slope. I had grown too big for the bike, which made the whole contraption top-heavy and sent me reeling side to side with each pedal thrust. Before the steep drop-off, I locked up the rear brake, shooting a gravel fishtail behind as I ‘J’ skidded to a halt. From there, the road gradually ascended until the road peaked in front of our camp. If I gained enough speed, I could catch a little air as I headed into the hairpin curve beyond our driveway and then zip down toward Whispering Narrows. Sure, it was risky, but for months, I had been imagining my moment of triumph, envisioning myself as Evel Knievel.

  I took off, speeding up as I breached the curve and gained some air. With a twist of my handlebars, I righted myself and landed as Doc Burns’ vehicle came out of nowhere. I hit both brakes, skidding into his Land Rover’s front tire. It was more of a scrape than a collision, but it disabled my chain as I careened off to the side of the road. We both came to a halt.

  His head lunged from the window as his voice thundered, “Jeeze, son, you alright?”

  I brushed gravel from my leg with one skinned hand, and gripped the handlebar with the other. I panted, “Yeah, I’m fine—no biggy.”

  “You ought to take it easy on that curve, you know.” His bushy white brows furrowed as his fingers raked a shock of silver hair.

  Awaiting his rebuke, I quickly replied, “Yes, sir, I’ll be more careful. I didn’t hurt your car, did I?”

  He cocked his head and exhaled a chuckle. “I’d be more concerned with your bike, if I were you.”

  I nudged the slack chain with my sneaker. “I think that’s the worst of it—I can fix it easy.”

  “You sure?”

  I didn’t know if I should read his squint as disbelief or approval.

  “Oh yeah—” my voice pitched a curve. “I fix all sorts of stuff.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, bikes and all kinds of other mechanical crap—I mean, stuff, sir.”

  “Mechanical, eh? Like what?”

  “Lawn mowers,” I said and then thought of something more impressive. “And I fixed a clock that I bought at a junk shop—with gears and everything.”

  “A clock, did you?”

  This time I detected a distinct glint of approval. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re Ben, the lad from Safe Haven on the crest.”

  “Yes, Mr. Burns.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. You sprouted a few inches this past year.”

  “Yes, sir.” I tried to keep my face from cracking a too-eager smile.

  He extended his meaty hand and enveloped mine like a baseball mitt. “Good to see you, son.”

  I squeezed with all I had, a tiny mouse in a steel trap.

  One corner of his mouth curled. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got.”

  My ears flashed hot and I nodded my modest best.

  “How’s your family?” he asked.

  “Good, sir,” I said, suddenly aware of how often I had uttered the word sir in the past two minutes.

  He winked. “You come on by my house tomorrow morning. I’ve got an old clock that my brother-in-law gave me, years ago—a relic as far as I’m concerned. But if you can fix it, you can have it.”

  My jaw dropped. Nothing came out. I needed to reply with something clever—something memorable, something that didn’t include the word sir, but all I could come up with was, “Gosh, sir, I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “Don’t say a thing. Just come by before noon, ’cause I’ve got an appointment after that.”

  My ears flamed hotter. “Yes, sir.”

  “Will that be okay with your parents?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” I lied.

  “Alright then. You sure you’re okay?”

  Gravel still clung to my bloody knee. “Yeah�
�I get these all the time. Thank you, sir.”

  As he drove away, I reveled in having just received an invitation from the most impressive man alive.

  Chapter 6

  Years of mildew constrict my airways. Exerting some muscle and leverage, I pry open the window sash above the sink. Gah! More insect carcasses and spiderwebs. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dim light, it’s easier to make out other features of the dining-kitchen area. Aside from a ‘new’ avocado-colored refrigerator replacing the old, white Frigidaire, much of the cottage appears the same. Scuffs and gouges mark the 1950s kitchen linoleum, and the tired old floorboards in the dining area don’t show a whole lot of extra wear. There doesn’t appear to be any structural alteration, which provides an illusion of stability, of unchangeableness, as if everything about that last summer would continue like all the summers before it.

  When I jump a little to see if the floor still bounces, the glass in the front door rattles, and the bare bulb sways overhead. A huge water stain sags the sheetrock ceiling above me. I fear it may give way, splitting open and dumping eighteen years of vermin feces and fallout. Metaphor and filth aside, now that would be funny. I hop again, just to tempt lingering ghosts. Nothing? I guess it’s safe to proceed.

  Making my way through the kitchen and down the short hall, I pass Penny’s closed door—I will visit there, but not now. At the end of the hall is my parents’ room. I would rather not go in there. It’s not the focal point of why I’m here; just the same, I stare at their door—eyes twitching—wishing for X-ray vision. At least that way I would know if there was any reason worth my venturing in. No hurry. I’ll think about that later.

  The room I shared with Frankie is nestled between my parents’ and Penny’s rooms, which always seemed stupid to me. What sane parent puts a pair of rambunctious boys only two sheetrock layers away and the quiet little bookworm out of earshot? Granted, Penny’s floor space was four inches less than ours was, and we boys needed every bit of elbowroom available.