At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

  I counted again, silently. Twelve hours. So much had happened. It was all going so fast.

  ‘Seems longer,’ I said.

  Jonah nodded, like he understood. It seemed like we’d been here forever. He must have felt that way too.

  PETER

  It took Peter half an hour to clean the bath out properly. Three years’ worth of dead bugs, some old grimy soap scum that had never been rinsed off, a thin layer of rust and limescale – it was disgusting.

  He’d put the hot water on first thing, as it said on the instructions written out in Mum’s handwriting. Power – check. Hot water heater – check. Pilot light on the furnace and the stove – check. It felt easy, as though he knew exactly what to do, as if that sequence had been encoded into his DNA.

  He gave the tub one last rinse and turned the hot tap on. Out came a rusty spew, like something coughed out of a dying man’s lungs. The stream of steaming water cleared in a minute, and Peter ran a capful of bubble bath. He sat on the edge of the bath, listening to the gurgling spray, trying to block the sound of more laughter from outside.

  The bubbly bath stuff smelled like something Mum would’ve bought – a herbal and woody scent that reminded him not only of her, but of his night in the forest with that girl who was now outside trying to pull an Indian bloke.

  Stop it. Why was he thinking these things? The feeling that burned inside him shouldn’t have been there, and the fact that it was there, clogging his throat, twisting his gut as if he’d just swallowed poison, made him hate himself.

  Maybe it was just the exhaustion. Once he was clean again, once he’d had something more to eat, once he could ‘take stock’ as his father was always doing, he’d be able to figure out a way to get his plan on track again, to get his time here, his life here, sorted.

  He had to peel off his clothes, they were so dirty. His shirt hit the floor with a thud, dropping like a chunk of masonry from a building. His hardened shorts skidded down his legs, the belt clanking onto the tiles. He dipped a foot into the bath. It was almost painfully hot – that was good. Slowly, he put both legs in, ankle-deep in the near-scalding water, watching his skin redden as he sat down in a crouch, letting out short gasps of breath like a child cooling down a spoonful of too-hot soup.

  Steam rose around him, making the bathroom as foggy as a primeval swamp. It felt good. Even the hot, wet air seemed to be cleaning him, inside his lungs, into his mouth, his ears. As he breathed in deeply, the air seemed to enter his bloodstream, his heart and his brain, clearing him out, calming him, making him relax, making him feel as lethargic and dopey as he had when he’d smoked that joint with one of his stoner second cousins after Mum’s funeral – the only thing that had seemed to dull the misery, dull the anger, dull everything, dull, dull.

  He wasn’t thinking, really. Definitely not praying or meditating, he was just being warm and getting clean. It was like what happened at his uncle Ken’s condo, only dreamier. Thoughts of Mum – clear, vivid memories – rose up out of the steam and brushed over him like gentle waves, like warm, wet, transparent clouds.

  Home. England.

  The sound of words.

  Not an argument, but sharp, heartfelt words, that seemed to divide his mother and father even as they brought them together. Whenever they talked like this, she became more agitated, brasher, more American with every syllable. His father would take the opposite tack, narrowing his voice to a near whisper that was clipped and precise, as English as could be. Quiet but powerful. Not aggressive, but not giving an inch. On and on they would go, using words that he hadn’t understood. Rapprochement, what the hell was that? Realpolitik? And why were these words coming into his head now?

  Then, despite the inevitable slammed doors, despite the tears, the walks to the corner shop and back, they would always end up on the sofa, kissing. At least Mum kissed. His father accepted her kisses, her laughter, her cajolery, her rapprochement? Was that what it meant – making up, being friends again? Then the following night, it would be something else, usually accompanied by the clinks of wine bottles, or friends round the candle-lit oak table in the dining room. There’d be laughter and then those words again, getting louder as the night wore on, making it impossible for him to sleep upstairs, but not loud enough for him to totally hear the conversation.

  He remembered once going out to the landing to eavesdrop. His mother’s voice was a foghorn cutting through the English pleasantries and sophistication. He heard what she was saying – that rapprochement thing again, co-existence, co-operation, rapprochement, conciliation – but he had no context to match what she was saying. This wasn’t a story or a speech, it was just words flying out of her mouth like birds, up the stairs in a flutter of wings, into his ear, squawking, feathers flying.

  Then he saw her face clearly, as if he were looking into a mirror and it was she, not he, who was reflected back. Her face before she was ill. Her freckles, even on her lips, the ones she hated and complained about every summer when the sun brought them out. The crinkles around her eyes when she laughed, the deepening folds around her mouth, the lines on her forehead that she jokingly threatened to have botoxed. Her eyes, like his, such a pale pastel blue.

  Her hair, blonde like his, but wavy – a wiry nest of curls.

  Her hair. He’d forgotten about the hair.

  Rapprochement. What the hell was that?

  He must have fallen asleep. When he opened his eyes the water was lukewarm, a horrible dishwater grey. Something had woken him up with a start – the sound of a car door slamming shut.

  JONAH

  Etta heard it first.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like tyres.’

  Instinctively, she moved away from the entrance flap, edged back toward the forest side of the wigwam. Jonah noticed for the first time the colour of her dark eyes – deep blue, like the lapis lazuli earrings his mom always wore. Now they flashed out so much fear, they seemed hot, like shiny pieces of overgrown buckshot.

  He opened the flap and peered outside. A car was in the driveway – a banged-up, rusty, white four door. A man got out, slammed the door, leaned against it, lighting a cigarette. He wasn’t a cop – thank God – or one of the drunk teenagers. He was older, in his forties maybe, although it was hard to tell because he was so fat. His thin grey T-shirt was stretched over a huge belly, then tucked into faded, low-hanging jeans. He was looking around, taking everything in – the cabin, the driveway.

  The woods.

  ‘Who is it?’ Etta whimpered in the corner like a lost child or a trapped animal.

  ‘Don’t know. Some guys.’

  Another door opened and closed. The second man was younger, maybe in his early twenties, with straw-coloured hair and a long, skinny face that made him look like a weasel. He was carrying something – a kind of shovel, a pointed garden spade that you’d use for digging or spreading.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Etta was curled up in a little ball, her head between her knees, cradling herself. ‘Jonah?’ Her voice was hoarse, wheezy.

  ‘Nothing. Just looking around. It’s OK.’

  The fat man waddled towards the front door of the cabin, checking out the driveway, glancing back, as if he wanted to make sure no one followed them in or could see them from the highway. The skinny-faced kid, lighter on his feet, took off the other way, towards the wigwam, towards them.

  Jonah’s heart pounded. Even from a hundred yards away, he could smell bad intentions. Whoever these guys were, whatever they were up to, they weren’t the type who took kindly to long-haired Indians hanging out in wigwams with underage white girls. He had to get out of here, before it was too late, for Etta’s sake too. A local girl hanging out with a dark-skinned stranger? There was no telling what these yahoos might do.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going to clear out, OK?’ Etta’s eyes got wider, but she didn’t say anything. ‘In case they come looking.’

  He inched toward the flap of the wigwam an
d pulled back the flimsy tarpaulin.

  ‘It’ll be better if you’re all alone.’

  Without saying anything else, he slipped through the flap and loped away from the wigwam. Would Etta scream, he wondered. Would she beg him to come back?

  No. She was too scared. She wouldn’t make a peep.

  As he slipped into the deep cover of ferns and brush he tried not to think about the fear in her voice or the burning look on her face. What he was doing was for her good too. He’d explain it all later when he got back. She’d understand.

  ‘Hey!’ A man’s voice – could somebody see him?

  ‘Hey, Charlie!’

  Jonah dropped behind a fallen tree and crouched down onto the damp ground. He rubbed his hands into the wet dirt and spat on them to make a muddy paste that he wiped onto his face as camouflage. He looked through the leafy branches that stuck out from the tree. He had a clear view of the driveway, the lawn, the side of the cabin.

  The fat man was at the kitchen door. He tried the handle and backed away when it wouldn’t open. He looked up at the roof, back at the car that was parked in the driveway. He strolled towards the side of the cabin, closer to the wigwam, and peered through the bedroom window.

  From somewhere else in the front yard the other voice called out. ‘Still empty, Charlie?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ the fat man said.

  ‘Why don’t you go inside and check it out?’ The other voice – the boy’s – sounded louder now, closer. Jonah couldn’t see him, though, so he stretched his neck above the cover of branches and leaned over the log, trying not to rustle any leaves.

  ‘Door’s locked,’ the fat man shouted. ‘Thought you guys kicked it in.’

  ‘The boss musta come out and fixed it.’

  Jonah ducked back down – the boy was less than twenty metres away, standing next to the propane gas tank on the edge of the scrubby lawn, taking a piss.

  ‘Why don’t we look inside?’ he said. ‘Must be something worth taking.’

  ‘You heard what the boss told us. That ain’t what we’re here for.’

  When he was finished, the kid picked up his shovel and stepped into the woods. Jonah held his breath. He could hear the boy, walking around, crunching the leaves underfoot. Maybe these guys were gardeners, Jonah thought, or tree surgeons checking for ash borer. That made sense.

  Then the weasel started to do something else. Jonah listened – stone and twig scraping against metal, the gentle thunk of fresh soil dropping onto the ground.

  Digging.

  ‘Everything’s checking out, Charlie. Ground’s good and soft.’

  A few cuts later and the boy stepped back onto the grass, carrying the dirt-covered spade as though he were brandishing a spear. He spat out the cigarette he’d been smoking and trudged back to the car.

  Charlie, the fat man, waddled towards the driveway. He was carrying something too. What was it? Jonah hadn’t noticed it before – Charlie must’ve gone back to the car to get it, or maybe he’d been holding it by his side so it was hidden by his enormous belly. Jonah squinted to get a better look. Long and skinny. Metal. Another shovel?

  A gun.

  Something twisted in the pit of Jonah’s stomach.

  Charlie moved the gun to his other hand, and Jonah could see it more clearly. It was a shotgun – clunky, heavy-looking, a long barrel with two black holes at the end. Was that the kind of gun that hunters used? Is that what these guys were doing – hunting, looking for squirrels or rabbits? Did they know the place was empty so they thought they’d take some potshots?

  Yeah, Jonah thought. Hunters. That was it.

  Shooting practice. It had to be.

  He took a deep breath. He needed to slow his racing heartbeat, control the pitiful fear that made him want to puke, smooth away his shameful desire to curl up on the ground and cry like a baby.

  The weasel-faced boy was back in the car, waiting for the fat man. He leaned on the horn, and the sudden racket set a flock of blackbirds squawking and flapping through the air. Charlie stopped walking, and as soon as the birds were clear of the trees, he turned, looked, lifted his gun and took aim—

  Too late. Before he could open fire, the birds scattered, flew out over the cabin, towards the lake.

  Charlie opened the back seat and tossed the gun onto the floor of the car. He said something to the boy, stretched the seatbelt over his belly, closed the door, turned on the car’s engine.

  And then they were gone. Jonah watched the battered car disappear at the end of the long driveway and get swallowed up by the trees that loomed over the main road. The sounds of the woods got louder – insects droned, a pine cone dropped to the forest floor.

  Jonah stood up, stepped over the log he’d been hiding behind. Somewhere near the lake, the flock of blackbirds squawked angrily – had they been watching him from their perch high in the trees? Had they seen him slink away from the wigwam and tremble like an old woman at the sight of the white man’s gun?

  He’d come back to the forest later – after he’d talked to the girl, after explaining himself. He’d find medicine in the earth – healing herbs, powerful plants. He’d build a fire with them, make an offering that might smudge and burn away what he had just done.

  Behind him, a twig snapped, making him jump and gasp. He turned around – waited, watched. It was nothing, nothing – just squirrels or chipmunks. As he loped back towards the wigwam, Jonah heard their mocking chatter.

  ‘Some Anishinaabe this one is,’ they seemed to be saying.

  ‘Frightened white boy,’ they seemed to laugh.

  ETTA

  The quiet was creepy, like one of those stagnant ponds full of nasty garbage just below the surface. There’d be other cars. The men – Charlie and whoever the other guy was – would come back.

  I stayed in my snug little burrow at the back. Without Jonah inside, the wigwam looked flimsy. The pictures he had put up were hanging on by thin string. The skinny branches that supported the bark walls looked like they could snap back any second. This was like one of the three little pigs’ houses, the one made out of twigs. It would’ve been safer if I’d stayed in the cabin with Peter. Real wood. Solid walls.

  I needed to get into the cabin – the safest place, even if it wasn’t made out of bricks – but I didn’t dare move. Charlie might be waiting till I let my guard down so that he could pounce on me as soon as I slithered out of my cocoon.

  Something rustled outside. Footsteps.

  ‘Etta?’

  A few seconds later Jonah came in, hesitating as he opened the door flap. What was he waiting for? Did he think they’d killed me or something? Was he scared my blood-soaked body would be dripping all over his precious wigwam floor? He must have known what those guys were capable of. That’s why he ran. Because he knew.

  In movies or books, when people bail they don’t last long. Anyone who’s ever seen a monster movie knows the rules – you abandon the kids, you get eaten by a T. rex. You leave the girl with the twisted ankle behind, you get your limbs hacked off with an axe or a chainsaw – it’s as simple as that.

  Still, Jonah came into the wigwam, like he thought he could snivel his way out of his fate. He sat in the middle of the floor, legs crossed, the same as before, only it wasn’t the same.

  ‘What do you think they’d have done if they found us together?’ he asked.

  I stayed where I was – curled up, at the back of the wigwam, as far away from him as I could get.

  ‘One guy had a gun,’ he said. ‘Another guy was holding a shovel.’

  A gun. A shovel. And they were looking for me.

  ‘What d’you think they’d have done?’

  ‘I know what they’d have done,’ I said. ‘You know.’

  He leaned over, tried to touch me, a little pat on the arm to show how sorry he felt. He might as well have lashed out with a poisoned tentacle. I pushed him away, backed further into the corner.

  ‘Me and you together?’ he said. ‘Local white g
irl, dark-skinned boy? That’s why I ran out. I thought you’d be safer on your own.’

  ‘You did, did you?’ I said. Those big, dark eyes of his, the ones I’d thought were so awesome – I couldn’t even bear to look at them.

  ‘They wouldn’t have hurt you. Not on your own, a helpless girl.’

  ‘Is that what you think? Men don’t hurt girls.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘You think men like Charlie need a reason?’

  He tried to touch me again, like that would make me feel better. Like a gentle rub on the shoulder could wipe away what’d he’d done.

  ‘Sorry, Etta,’ he said. His voice sounded funny – choked up. What was he trying now? Tears?

  ‘A gun and a shovel,’ I said. ‘That’s what they had.’

  ‘Please, please, Etta, I just thought. . .’

  A gun and a shovel, and he still couldn’t figure it out.

  PETER

  The car was gone. He’d waited, hiding under the bed – the bed, for God’s sake, as if that wouldn’t have been the first place they’d look – for ten minutes after the car’s engine started up. He felt stupid, standing at the window, pulling cobwebs and dustballs out of his hair, now that there weren’t any dodgy-looking blokes peeking inside or lurking in the woods.

  Everything looked so calm – a squirrel climbed up the side of a pine tree, a sparrow swooped to the ground and picked up a piece of dried twig. Could he have imagined the whole thing – had some kind of post-traumatic hallucination? Maybe it was a vision – a message from the spirit world, just as his mother’s face had come to him so clearly, voicing such strange and unfamiliar words.

  Maybe it was a warning.

  Two figures appeared in the window – Jesus! Peter jumped back, heart catching, voice gasping. It was nobody dangerous, though – just Etta and that new boyfriend of hers. Hunkered down, more crouching than standing, they passed like fast-moving shadows, creeping towards the door.

  So it must have been real. They must have seen the men, too. They must be scared – like him – must want to come back inside.