The door handle rattled in the kitchen. A fist pounded the glass.
‘Peter?’ The boy’s voice.
Peter held his breath – waiting, thinking.
Seconds passed. A minute. The banging got louder.
‘Come on, man. Give us a break.’
It was odd, this power. He could let them in, or he could keep them locked out. It was entirely up to him. He could force them to go back to that useless wigwam if he wanted, or he could let them into the cabin – his cabin – where there was a telephone, where there was food and water, where you could shutter the windows and lock the doors.
More pounding.
Idiots. Why wouldn’t they stop? Why wouldn’t they just piss off and leave him alone? People might hear them. Fishermen out on the lake, the neighbours the other side of the woods – what was their name? Nussbaum.
The fat guy with the gun. He’d hear the noise and come back. Is that what they wanted?
‘Peter?’ Etta was whining for him too. ‘Could you let us in please?’
He hurried to the kitchen to open the door, not out of kindness or concern, he told himself, not because he was a decent bloke or a caring person. It wasn’t that English sense of fair play, either.
No. He just needed to shut the wankers up.
As soon as the door was open, Etta pushed past him, shoved the Indian boy out of the way, and ran out of the kitchen, through the living room, off to the bedroom. Her face was red – had she been crying again?
Peter looked at Jonah, who seemed pretty messed up too – his face dirty, his hair all tangled. ‘What the hell did you do out there?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jonah stood back, flinching, as if he thought Peter was about to hit him.
‘You know what I mean,’ Peter whispered through clenched teeth. He stepped forward again, his cheeks burning with jealousy and rage.
‘No, I don’t know.’ Jonah had his hands out, playing the innocent.
Peter felt like spitting. ‘Are you taking the piss or something?’
‘The what?’ Jonah pulled a face – still mocking him, still acting dumb.
‘Do you want me to spell it out?’
The Indian boy shook his head.
Well, Peter wouldn’t spell it out. Etta and Jonah. Alone. Laughing. He couldn’t even bear to think about what else they might have been doing.
While Jonah glared at him, his lips curled in contempt, Peter backed away and stumbled through the kitchen doorway into the living room. He looked out the living room windows – his living room windows. Tall pine trees framed the view. The lake looked electric, glowing deep blue – the colour of Etta’s eyes – in the afternoon sun.
Jonah came into the room, stood beside him. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It was a stupid thing to do, I admit that. But I told her I was sorry, OK?’
‘That’s all you could do?’ Peter sputtered. ‘Apologise?’
‘Look, I know what I did wasn’t right, but I explained it to her – I tried to, at least – only she wouldn’t listen.’
‘And can you blame her?’ The anger was welling up inside him again. ‘After all the things she’s been through, for you to go and. . .’
He couldn’t say it. He didn’t even want to think it.
‘OK,’ Jonah sighed. He put his hands up, pretending to surrender, as he backed toward the door to the porch. ‘OK. That’s enough. You win.’
Jonah tapped the door open with his foot, letting the screen slam behind him. He jumped over the rotten, spongy steps, landing gracefully on the lawn. Peter thought about locking the door, refusing to let him come in again. It would serve him right, after what he’d done. Serve him right for spoiling things, for—
There was a noise in the bedroom – a gentle cough, Etta’s footsteps, water running in the bath. Well, Etta was safe, at least. That was the main thing. The men, whoever they were, were gone.
Peter went to the door, looked out at the lake again. A family of ducks skimmed the shoreline, leaving tiny ripples in their wake. Jonah was at the edge of the woods, halfway down the hill. He was hunched over, back bent, digging his fingers into the soil at the base of a huge oak tree. He pulled something out of the earth, held it gently – a small plant, with a cluster of pink and white flowers. He put it to his lips, took a tiny bite before moving further towards the beach. He made it look so natural, Peter thought – pick up a plant, smell it, eat it. That gnawing bitterness in his stomach twisted again. What had he been able to offer? A mouldy sandwich. Two pieces of bruised English fruit.
Halfway down to the lake, Jonah stopped and looked out. Had he seen something, Peter wondered? Had the men come back? Jonah looked around restlessly, as though he weren’t sure where he should go – back to the cabin, down to the lake, into the woods. He inched slowly up the hill, never taking his eyes off the water, never missing a backward step.
A second later, Peter heard what Jonah did – the sound of a boat, like the one from this morning, a clunky engine sputtering close to the shore. He moved towards the door and looked out onto the lake. The sound got louder, but Peter still couldn’t see anything. Where was the bloody thing? Why wasn’t it moving away?
Jonah stepped onto the porch and slipped silently through the door. ‘Fishermen?’ he whispered.
Peter’s heart was still pounding and his throat was dry. He didn’t dare answer, in case his voice cracked, so he just nodded, while he waited, holding his breath.
The engine sounds got smoother, the noise drifted away and, down on the beach, wavelets caused by the boat’s wake lapped against the sand.
‘And those other guys,’ Jonah said, ‘the ones with the shotgun – they were, like, hunters, right?’
Peter grunted something that sounded vaguely like ‘yes’.
‘They sure scared the hell out of Etta.’ Jonah nodded toward the bedroom. ‘She kinda flipped when that car pulled up – got all weird.’
‘She must have thought they were the men she’s running from.’
‘What men?’
‘Her mum’s boyfriend and his gang – you know, the ones who shoved her into their car and. . .’
Jonah’s face went red. Obviously, he didn’t know about the men. That meant Etta hadn’t told him. Suddenly, Peter felt a rush of pride, a swell of self-importance – the biggest loser on the football team had finally scored a goal.
‘You know that’s why she’s here, don’t you?’ Peter didn’t even try to get rid of the nasty, sneering tone in his voice.
‘Woah,’ Jonah said. ‘She got, like, abducted? God, that’s just—’
‘Appalling? Disgusting?’ He knew he sounded like some rent-a-Brit baddy in a cheap Hollywood film, but it was good – for once – to feel so superior.
‘I said I was sorry, OK?’ Jonah put his hands up – for real, this time. Then he turned around, went through the kitchen to the back door.
‘I’m going out to the wigwam for a while,’ he said, sighing. ‘You should lock this place up, just in case those guys come back.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ Peter said.
‘No, seriously, you should—’
‘I said we’ll be all right.’
As Peter followed Jonah through the kitchen, something churned inside him again. What was it this time? Anger? ‘You win,’ Jonah had said. So why didn’t he feel like a winner now, watching Jonah go outside and skulk back to the wigwam?
As he heard the door slam, he picked up the telephone receiver that had been left on the worktop. He listened for a dial tone to make sure it was still working, and carefully put it back in its proper place. Then he crept to the door and waited, counting one, two, three – all the way to ten – before turning the lock. He lifted the curtain and peeked out – at the empty driveway, the scrubby lawn, the scraggy line of trees at the edge of the forest.
He remembered what Etta had said that morning – trying to big him up while he sat on the sand and sobbed like a baby.
Thank you for saving me.
&nb
sp; What if she’d seen him when the men came? It was almost funny, thinking back on it. The way he’d dived under the bed as soon as they got out of their car. The way he’d cowered in fear, trying desperately not to wet himself. And what would she think if she saw him now – hiding behind a locked door, twitching the curtains like a terrified old man?
Thank you for saving me.
Ha bloody ha.
Chapter Eleven
ETTA
The girl in the mirror – brushing her hair, working out the dried-stiff knots and tangles with her fingers – looked almost like me. Clean, clear-faced – no dirt or make-up streaks. She smelled nice, too, with that piny bath stuff still on her skin.
But she was wearing clothes she’d found in a stranger’s closet. Frayed denim shorts that had to be held up with a safety pin and a Green Bay Packers tank top. And there was something different in her eyes – my eyes. They looked darker in the dim light – almost grey instead of blue. They seemed older, too, ‘tired’, like they say on TV, and I wanted to do what Mom did every time she passed a mirror – pull the skin back, make my face tighter and smoother, so I could go back to looking the way I did before.
I put down the brush. The clock by the side of the bed said 7.00, and it was getting dark outside, so I must have crashed out straight after taking the bath. 7.00. What would Mom be doing now? Sitting on the couch with Kyle. Putting on her uniform, if she got another waitress shift. Was she worried about me yet? Had she called the sheriff or the town cops? Maybe she had, maybe they’d be the next ones to come up the driveway. I could tell them everything then – about Kyle and the men and the guns and. . .
No. Kyle must have been telling the truth about her being in on it. Otherwise, a patrol car would have turned up by now. Isn’t that what they did if somebody went missing – checked out all the barns and cabins and abandoned houses?
It was quiet outside. Bugs banged on the window, desperate to get through the screen to the bedside table lamp, bashing and crashing, like they just couldn’t wait to get burned up. I listened for sounds from inside the cabin – Peter and Jonah were still here, weren’t they? They hadn’t bailed?
There was a clanging in the kitchen – somebody rattling pots and pans, running water in the sink. And there were voices, soft, at first – whispering – then getting louder, then somebody saying, ‘Shoosh.’
I went to the door, opened it a crack. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I recognised Peter’s accent, so the other guy must have been Jonah. I crept down into the living room. It was like a dungeon, eerie and silent. The curtains on the big windows were closed. The door to the porch was locked, a shade pulled down over the glass part. Only one light was on – a bright yellow rectangle spilled in from the kitchen doorway.
‘Hey? You guys still here?’
‘In here, Etta.’ Peter’s voice was hoarse, strained.
I stumbled through the dark room and felt my way to the kitchen. Jonah was at the sink, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. Peter was in front of the stove, watching a pan of water boil. Neither one of them looked up when I came in. It was like they were mad at me, like I’d done something wrong.
‘I’ll get those logs in,’ Jonah said. He turned around and dropped the damp towel on the counter. ‘See if they’re dry enough for a fire.’
He still had his shirt off. When he saw me looking, he put his hands up over his bare chest and turned his back to me before sliding past. Peter acted embarrassed, too, even with all his clothes on. He fumbled with the pan on the stove, fiddled with the height of the flame. He dug around in a drawer and pulled out a big beat-up metal spoon. When it clattered onto the floor he let out a stream of swear words – the usual ones, plus a few English-sounding extras – as if dropping a kitchen utensil was the worst thing he’d ever done.
He was calmer by the time he picked up the spoon. It could have been the swearing – maybe he thought it made cooking more manly, like those British chefs on TV who are always having their words bleeped out.
‘I told Jonah he could come in for some food,’ Peter said, reaching into the cupboard above the stove, taking out the box of macaroni and cheese mix. He tore the top of the box with his fingers and poured the macaroni into the bubbling water.
‘We were talking,’ he said, ‘Jonah and me.’
Uh-oh, I thought. That must have been what they were arguing about – me, about kicking me out, making me go back to Welmer because of the trouble I’d caused.
‘Oh, yeah?’ I tried to sound cocky, like I didn’t give a damn what anybody said. If they wanted me to go, then fine, I’d just take off. No fussing, no whining, no begging to stay.
‘Yeah, and, um. . .’
Why was he stammering? Why wouldn’t he look at me?
‘Well, we don’t think those guys with the gun were looking for you.’
‘Oh,’ I said casually. So that was it. They weren’t about to kick me out, but they didn’t actually believe me, either.
‘Jonah was saying they were just hunters – setting bait out for the autumn or something – and I think that must be right.’ Peter jiggled the pan, lowered the flame. ‘And that Charlie bloke. I mean, you didn’t actually see him, did you?’
Peter turned around and looked at me. He had dark circles under his eyes like I did – the same hollow cheeks, too. ‘What I’m thinking is that even if it was Charlie – even if he was your Charlie and he was looking for you, well he didn’t find you, did he?’
I didn’t say anything. I looked at the kitchen door. Locked tight. Good.
‘So why would they come back?’ Peter said. ‘Those men with the gun. I mean, either way – what would be the point?’
We sat on the floor, eating Peter’s macaroni and cheese in front of Jonah’s fire.
Jonah was cross-legged, same as in the wigwam, but he seemed antsy, getting up every five minutes to poke the logs with a big metal stick. Once or twice he looked at me, his big eyes like dark pools, but he still didn’t say anything about what had happened outside. No more explanations. No more excuses.
Peter leaned against the sofa that faced the big window. He didn’t talk either. He gazed into the fire, lost in his own world. Jonah wanting to keep his mouth shut I could understand, but what was Peter’s problem?
At least the fear had worn off a little. It had been six hours since the men had left, so what Peter said about them being hunters made sense. And even if it was Kyle’s Charlie, he and the shovel kid would have come back by now if they thought we were here, wouldn’t they?
Still, the silence – the not talking – made me nervous. There were too many strange noises from outside – crackles on the ground and swooshes in the wind and weird animal cries. Sounds from inside would be better, but there wasn’t a TV, there wasn’t a radio.
‘I guess we’ll have to tell each other stories,’ I said, ‘like in the olden days.’
‘Don’t know any,’ Jonah muttered, his eyes fixed on the fire.
Peter coughed. Jonah looked at him sharply.
‘Me neither,’ Peter said. ‘It’ll have to be you.’
A story. I’d already told Peter about Kyle, and about Mom, and about all those other boyfriends of hers. There was the ghost of Grandma Hanson, but who wanted to hear about an old Norwegian lady who cleaned all the time? There was the story that Grandpa Vernon always told me about the night I was born. My dad was in it. A real story about my real dad – that was better than nothing, wasn’t it?
‘OK,’ I said, ‘but it’s a Christmas story, so you have to imagine that it’s cold outside, right? There’s snow on the ground and there are icicles hanging down from the roof. And all the stores have Christmas decorations in the windows.’
Peter leaned back onto the sofa behind him, got comfortable. Jonah uncurled his legs. His eyes were closed – maybe that would help him listen. If it didn’t, that was all right, too – I was only talking so I wouldn’t have to hear.
‘The real person who tells this story is my g
randpa, because he was there when it happened. It was the night I was born and my mom went into labour. Nobody knew where my dad was so Grandpa had to go with Mom to the hospital and some babysitter was with my brothers in our apartment building.
‘It didn’t look much like Christmas at our place, Grandpa said. There was a crooked little artificial tree and a couple decorations but no lights, no tinsel, no angel on the top. There wasn’t a single present under the tree, except the ones Grandpa brought.
‘Anyway, I’m about to get born and Grandpa’s at the hospital, signing all the papers and paying the bills – as usual – and he goes to the waiting room. And he waits, and he waits. And there are all these nervous fathers pacing the floor and Grandpa feels so bad that Mom hooked up with a loser like my dad. You know, like she deserved better and all that.’
Jonah opened his eyes. He picked up his stick, poked the fire.
‘And then who turns up?’ I asked.
‘Your dad?’ Jonah said, putting the stick down, interested now.
‘Yep. High as a kite, Grandpa figured, and he had to go into the bathroom to do some kind of drug every five minutes, but he was there, that was the main thing. And he waited – same as the other dads. When I was born, the nurses let him hold me for a few minutes, and he cried. My own dad. He was so happy, Grandpa said. He broke right down and sobbed.’
‘That’s cool,’ Jonah said.
Peter sat up straighter, shook his head like he was trying to keep awake.
‘That’s not the best part of the story, though. The really awesome part is when Grandpa goes back to the apartment to pick up my brothers at the neighbour’s and tell them they had a baby sister. You’ll never guess what he finds.’
I had to stop for a second, build up the suspense. This was my favourite part of the story. I didn’t even have to close my eyes to see it. It was in front of me, like a picture on a TV screen, so real I could reach out and touch everything.
At Yellow Lake Page 12