The Seasons of the EmmaLee

by Michael Lindley

  “Catherine wanted to come along. I told her there wasn’t any damn room for a sister on Horton Creek.” Catherine Hansen was George’s younger sister by a year.

  Jonathan was thinking it might have been nice for her to come along tonight. He thought about his first kiss with Catherine earlier this summer.

  “Come on, McKendry. Get this tug started.”

  Jonathan lifted the engine cover to air out the gas fumes and then after a few moments, turned the key to start the old wooden runabout. It had been partially restored by his father, but the engine was still running a bit rough. They gave it a few minutes to warm up before they pushed away from the docks. There were a few other boats on the water and the Higgins rocked gently in their wake as they made their way slowly out away from the dock.

  Jonathan heard some commotion off to his left. He looked over his shoulder and saw that there was a large crowd of people milling around on the rear deck of the EmmaLee. It looked like a party of some sort. Everyone was holding drinks and talking in small groups. The old Higgins seemed to steer by itself back toward the big ship.

  “Where you goin’?” George asked.

  Jonathan didn’t answer.

  “Come on. We need to get down to the creek,” his friend pleaded. “I’m gettin’ worried about you and this thing you’ve got for that boat. You’re damn crazy if you think you got a sniff of a chance to ever get on a boat like that.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.”

  They cruised slowly back along the docks toward the big ship. It dwarfed his small runabout. The sun was beginning to ride low over the town and he squinted looking into the sun, trying to make out who was up on the deck. They came alongside about twenty yards out and kept moving slowly past.

  Then, Jonathan saw Emily Compton at the front of the boat. She was talking to a boy who looked about the same age in a dark blue jacket and tie. She was dressed in something peach colored.

  He watched them smile and talk comfortably. The boy reached over and touched her arm as they laughed together at something he’d said. The small boat was alongside the young couple now. The noise from the engine caught their attention and they both looked down at Jonathan and his friend passing in the old wood boat. The boy in the suit quickly looked back to Emily Compton, not much interested in two locals in an old wreck.

  Emily held her glance a little longer. Their eyes met again, as they had a few mornings ago when he had been drenched by her ship’s crew. There didn’t seem to be any sense of recognition in her eyes, Jonathan thought. Maybe it was so dark that morning, she didn’t see me getting soaked.

  He finally realized he was staring and quickly looked away. He glanced back over his shoulder a moment later and saw the couple had returned to their conversation as if nothing eventful had happened.

  He slowly turned the boat back to the center of the harbor.

  “Let’s go find some trout.”

  Emily Compton knew she should be more interested in the conversation. She was trying to be pleasant. Connor Harris had been a good friend for many summers now. They had shared their summer months with other families vacationing in Charlevoix since they were both in grade school. She and Connor had always had a special bond.

  This summer had been different. They had both turned eighteen earlier this year. It was clear he saw her now as a desirable young woman, no longer as a childhood friend. At times, she found the new, more amorous Connor to be attractive and charming and fun to be around. As the summer had progressed though, she had found his advances to be clumsy. She realized she didn’t have those kinds of feelings for him.

  Emily had graduated from high school in Grosse Pointe in June. She was planning to start college in the fall at the university in Ann Arbor. She had known for many years she wanted to be a doctor. She was volunteering this summer at the hospital in Charlevoix and she found tremendous satisfaction in helping people in this way. Her parents were supportive of her ambitions. Connor and some of her other friends were less tolerant. They couldn’t understand why she was spending so much of her summer vacation down at the hospital with sick people.

  As she thought back on her interest in medicine, the time she had spent in the hospital as a small child had always stood out in her memory. She had become quite ill one evening with an extreme temperature and severe pain in her neck. Her father rushed her to the hospital that night and the doctors quickly diagnosed a dangerous case of spinal meningitis. Fortunately, they had caught the illness quite early, and though she had spent two weeks in the hospital, she had recovered completely. She remembered the doctors and nurses who had worked with her and made her feel so loved and comforted. Since that time, she had always hoped she could learn to help people in a similar way.

  Connor Harris hadn’t determined his calling. When he and Emily had spoken about it, he was uncertain and evasive. He was clearly not ready to deal with what the future might hold for him.

  He was the son of Warren Harris, one of the more successful real estate developers in Chicago. His father’s company had been involved in the construction of some of Chicago’s most noteworthy buildings. At times, he had admitted he would likely join his father in the business. Other times he wasn’t sure.

  He had decided to attend Northwestern University near his home in Lake Forest in September. Beyond that, he had said he wasn’t particularly interested in worrying about the future.

  Emily stood and listened to Connor continue on about the previous night’s adventure when he and some of his friends had taken his car over to Boyne City on the other end of the lake. Connor and his parents had been invited to the party on the EmmaLee tonight. Her parents had been friends of the Harris family for many years.

  “We pulled up in front of the movie house last night over in Boyne,” Connor said. “There wasn’t much of a crowd, just a few people going in. We were trying to decide if we wanted to see this Cary Grant picture when this old pick-up truck pulled in behind us making the most god-awful noises…sounded like the whole engine was going to fall out of it. So, this farm boy gets out with his girlfriend. As they’re walking by, one of our guys makes a smart aleck comment about the truck. Well, the old farm boy gets all in a lather, like we’ve insulted his mother, or something. A few words are exchanged. The next thing you know we’re all out on the lake road heading out to Advance, lined up side by side to race this old farm wreck against my Packard.” Connor paused to take a sip from his lemonade.

  “We bet him five bucks we could beat him out to the old market at Advance. He had to show us he had the money. His girlfriend was really angry at the whole thing, but she stayed in the truck with him. We started in front of the old leather tannery. It was just before dark. You know how twisty that road is out there along the lake. We couldn’t stay two abreast around some of those turns because you couldn’t see if anyone was coming. That damn truck had some engine in it. He was keeping up with us, even passed us a couple of times.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t kill each other,” Emily said with true concern.

  Connor laughed and continued. “We were about a quarter mile from Advance when he decides to pass us again. There’s a sharp turn coming to the left and this crazy idiot tries to pass. I guess he really didn’t want to lose his five bucks. He manages to get by me again, then I see him swerve hard to the right. He almost takes us into the lake trying to avoid this car coming the other way around the bend. I slammed on my brakes and watched his pickup head off the road into the gravel. He tried to save it and hit the brakes hard, but he lost it in the gravel. It looked like he almost had it under control when the bank fell away into the lake and he slid down out of sight as we passed. When I stopped and backed up it was the funniest thing you’ve ever seen. This guy’s standing on the hood of his truck. The truck’s sitting in two feet of water, steam coming out of the hot engine like an old steamship. The girl is yelling at him from inside and we’re laughing so hard it hurts. We called down to him to keep his five bucks and turned around
and went back into town. It was a pretty good picture by the way, Cary Grant, I mean. I’ll take you if you’d like.”

  “Connor, I can’t believe you left them out there,” Emily said. Were they hurt?”

  “No, they were fine. I’m sure they had some explaining to do when they got hauled out of the lake, but at least he still had his five bucks to pay for the tow,” Connor said.

  Emily just shook her head. She noticed a small boat coming up alongside. There were two boys onboard. It was an old wooden inboard that looked like it needed a little more work. They were cruising slowly past the EmmaLee like so many boats do, trying to get a closer look.

  Connor turned when he saw the boat. “That engine sounds like the farm boy’s truck last night,” he said and then laughed.

  Emily continued to watch as it passed. She saw two fishing poles in the back of the boat, then noticed that the boy driving the boat was looking up at her. It wasn’t a face she recognized, but she was struck by his gaze. Then, she looked back to Connor as he continued on about the race last night. She heard the old inboard heading away, but didn’t think much more of it.

  Luke McKendry sat on a worn stool at the bar. Glenn Miller was playing on the juke box. A few others sat down from him, but The Helm was fairly empty this early in the evening. It was one of a few bars along Bridge Street, this one appealing more to the locals. He held a cigarette in his left hand and watched the smoke rise slowly to join the haze above him. A shot of whiskey and a mug of beer sat in front of him, both half empty.

  The place smelled of stale beer and the sweat of working men. The bartender, Bud, was down at the end of the bar talking to a couple of other patrons. Luke knew them from the waterfront, but wasn’t much interested in conversation tonight. He took another sip from the shot glass and followed that with a long drink from the cold beer. He felt the heat from the whiskey and chill from the beer merge together as it made its way down into his belly. He shook his head and grimaced at the shock to his body, then took another pull on his smoke.

  His father’s words from their argument were still ringing in his ears. It was getting to be a regular occurrence. I have to get out of this damned town, he thought.

  “Jesus!” he said under his breath, thinking about the latest skirmish.

  His father had tried to stop him from leaving and going into town again tonight. He knew Luke was coming down to The Helm. He told him there was no room for a drunk in the McKendry home, or in the business either. Luke had told him to go to hell. They had almost come to blows before Luke had pulled himself away and stormed up the hill to Belvedere Avenue to walk into town.

  He looked down at this left leg hanging limply alongside the stool. He felt the old anger burn within him. From his earliest days, he could remember the shame that leg had caused him. He found himself talking to it like it was some foreign object, unattached, but always lingering nearby. He looked up into the mirror behind the bar in disgust. The face looking back at him in the dim light was almost unrecognizable. His face was drawn and gaunt and the circles under his eyes had grown as dark as his newly grown beard. He shook his head and looked away out into the street through the open front door.

  Flies were buzzing around his drinks and he waved them away with his hand, taking another drink. He finished both glasses and held the beer mug up to Bud to signal for a refill. Bud eventually came down and poured another shot and beer. He slid them across the bar in front of Luke.

  “So, it’s going to be another night like that is it, McKendry?” said the old bartender.

  “Go to hell!”

  The two boys in the old Higgins had just made their way clear of the channel and out into Lake Charlevoix. The wind was calm and the lake was rolling gently with swells from boat wakes earlier in the day. The sun was almost down below the trees behind them.

  Jonathan pushed the throttle forward and felt the engine catch hold. The low grumble from the engine built to a loud roar as they powered up into the lake. Slowly, the boat planed out and they could see the vast lake out ahead of them as the bow settled down at cruising speed, cutting into the chop. It was over ten miles down to the end of the lake at Boyne City. Horton Bay was a little over half way down, tucked into the north shore of the lake. There were only a few other boats out. Jonathan turned the running lights on and settled in for the run down to the bay.

  Off to their right and fading away behind them was the beach along the Belvedere Club with its small beach cabanas lined up side by side, each painted in different pastel colors. Closer to the channel was the Casino, sitting down on the waterfront below the big hotel. The Casino was painted a soft pea soup green and Jonathan could see several cars parked along the road in front of the old building. He had never been inside, but he had walked by on Saturday nights and had seen the crowds going in. The only locals inside were the waiters and the musicians in the band. He had caught a glimpse of the people dancing inside, hearing the band playing the latest dance tunes.

  He had always wondered why they called it the Casino. He had asked his dad about it, but his father didn’t know either. The only gambling up this way was out on a couple of boats that cruised the lake in the summers, taking people out for a night of dinner, drinking and illegal gambling. An old lumber barge had been refitted and sailed the lake most weekends with a large party of gamblers and their women who came from far away to enjoy a night of poker and whiskey. Somehow the Feds never seemed to go after the old ship. Jonathan’s father had explained that the owner knew which palms to grease, whatever the hell that meant.

  The run down to Horton Bay was invigorating and the two friends rode without talking, enjoying the night out and the freedom of the trip. The few clouds in the sky glowed a bright red from the fading sun. Two gulls swept maniacally above, chasing at each other.

  As they approached the point at the bay, Jonathan slowed the engine. They came around the point and glided on the smooth water, the engine sputtering at low idle. There were just a few old cabins in the bay, spread far apart and mostly hidden up in the heavy cedars. There was a brown painted boathouse and a few boats tied at a dock along the south shore. The bay was well-protected from the wind and the water was almost glass calm. The boys saw fish rising already down to their left at the mouth of the creek.

  Jonathan steered away just to the north of the creek. In about two feet of water, just offshore, he cut the engine and let it ease to a slow stop. George was upfront and threw an anchor over the bow and tied the rope off. They both grabbed their rods and gear and jumped over the side into the cool shock of the lake. In bare feet and wet pants, they waded up to the shore, the sand and small gravel squished under them. Walking along the sandy shore, they approached the small creek that emptied down into the bay. Tall grasses grew alongside on both banks. They walked down into the shallow water and when they got to the creek the familiar chill of the colder water from the stream hit their legs.

  A few mosquitoes buzzed at their heads, but they ignored them. They were more interested in the big lake mayflies that the fish were feeding on. Jonathan looked up into the sky that was rapidly fading to a dull blue gray. He could see the big bugs hovering all around them. As they fell to the water, the trout quickly made a meal of them. Quiet slurps could be heard emerging from the rings of water spreading out from each rising fish. A large pod of fish was working about thirty paces out into the lake. George and Jonathan spread out to cast to the fish from opposite sides.

  Jonathan waded out until he was up to his waist in the cool water. He reached down and pulled the big feather fly loose from the cork handle of his rod. It was a big mayfly imitation his father had taught him to tie. He pulled some greasy floatant from a container in his vest and rubbed it into the fly. Pulling line out, he enjoyed the sound of the click drag as the reel spun in his hands. The worn green fly line lay in circles on the surface in front of him and he began to cast the rod rhythmically, forward and back to throw more line out.

  He had his eye on a soft circle fad
ing on the quiet bay’s surface where a trout had risen just a few moments before. He felt the pull of the heavy line with each false cast. When he knew he had enough line out, he let go with a long smooth cast toward where the fish had last come up. The line rolled out, placing the fly down lightly on the water. It sat there riding high on the surface. Jonathan waited without moving, almost without breathing. He felt a soft drumming in his ears as the anticipation of a strike grew. The fly still sat there unbothered. He pulled sharply on the fly line two times and sent the fly skittering a few inches across the surface.

  The water erupted in a startling splash that Jonathan answered with an instinctive strike of the rod. He felt the hook of the fly set solidly in the big trout’s mouth. The fish dove hard and away and Jonathan yelped, “Good fish! Good fish!”

  George yelled back in encouragement.

  The fly reel screamed in protest as the fish ripped off line trying to escape. Jonathan felt the line slow, knowing the fish would jump. Then he saw it explode up from the calm surface sending water in all directions as it twisted and bucked, trying to free the hook from its mouth. He could see the bright red side of the rainbow trout gleam in the last light of the evening. It fell back into the lake with a thunderous splash and went deep again to the bottom of the bay.

  Jonathan began working the fish hard, pulling back to the side, then reeling hard to gain line. The boy and the fish went back and forth at each other. The trout would gain a bit, then fall back under the steady pull of the bamboo rod.

  This is a good fish, Jonathan thought. His hands trembled and he felt sweat dripping down his nose, even in the cool of the coming night.

  “You need some help over there?” his friend yelled.

  “I don’t need you comin’ over here and breakin’ this fish off, if that’s what you mean,” Jonathan answered with a laugh.

  He could feel the fish slowly giving in. It was circling now out in front of him just below the surface. It made a couple of last drastic attempts to pull away, but Jonathan was prepared for this and patiently reined the fish back in. It was close now, beginning to roll on its side in exhaustion. It had enough energy left to splash its tail weakly on the surface as Jonathan reeled it in within reach.