At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

‘There’s a huge tree, way up to the ceiling, covered in coloured lights that twinkle on and off, and there are piles of presents stuffed underneath. Not just cheap toys. I’m talking about expensive stuff – a Nintendo, a racing car set, a pink bassinet for me, and a stroller and clothes and dolls and rattles.

  ‘Guess who did it?’ I said. ‘Guess who brought all that stuff over?’

  Nobody answered. A burnt log dropped to the bottom of the fire. Peter glanced at Jonah, who picked up his stick and poked at the fire.

  ‘Some elves?’ Jonah said.

  ‘No,’ I laughed. ‘My dad.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jonah said. Peter made a little ‘hmmm’ sound.

  ‘My real dad,’ I said, in case they didn’t get it.

  It was like a miracle, Grandpa always said, all those presents – like out of a movie.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ I said. ‘That’s my story.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jonah mumbled, still staring at the fire.

  ‘Yeah. Cheers, Etta.’

  There was something weird in Peter’s voice, like he couldn’t wait for me to change the subject and talk about something else. My throat tightened and my face got hot. My stomach fluttered a little. I’d never told anyone that story before – that was one for Grandpa to tell me. That was my story, not theirs. Our story – mine and Grandpa’s.

  I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  It sounded stupid when I told them. My dad? Buying presents? Putting them under the tree like some crack-head Santa? What was the matter with me? That was probably what Peter and Jonah were thinking, too – how could Etta believe such a ridiculous lie?

  Poor Grandpa. I couldn’t blame him. My dad was a dead junkie and my mom was a good-for-nothing slut. No wonder he wanted to make me feel better about things. But, somehow, the lie – his lie – hurt more than the truth.

  Outside, a bird thumped against the window. I gasped and jumped, started to get up so I could run and hide.

  Peter touched my leg, rubbed his hand along my calf.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he whispered. ‘It’s OK.’

  I wanted to laugh. Nothing? OK?

  I pushed his hand away. He could say whatever he wanted about hunters or trappers – I knew the truth. This time it was a bird banging at the window, next time it would be the barrel of a gun. I might as well hit the road right now, make my way back to Welmer, walk into the trailer acting all apologetic, tell Mom another bunch of lies about how I’d run away and how it was all my fault.

  I looked into the fire and pictured it: me and Mom – like in the old days, before we had to move all the time. I saw a beige tiled kitchen in some tiny apartment. She was cooking spaghetti sauce, splattering grease and tomato juice all over the wall, and we were singing along to the radio.

  That was another memory that probably never even happened. But it made me think about how alike we were, me and Mom. The way we both talked like smart-asses but then did exactly what people told us to do. ‘Get in the car.’ I got in the car. ‘Stay in the wigwam.’ I stayed put. ‘Believe a bunch of stupid crap.’ I swallowed every word.

  By now the fire was just a single wave of flickering light and most of the firewood had turned to ashes. Jonah sat up again, gave the last glowing log one more push.

  No. I wouldn’t go home. Not now. Not ever. I wouldn’t fall for any more lies, either, or listen to stupid fairy tales about things turning out for the best. I wasn’t going to pay any attention to what other people said. From now on I’d do what I wanted to do. And if people did bad things to me, well, I’d do bad things right back.

  PETER

  He shouldn’t have touched her. The way she had slapped his hand off – could she have made her revulsion any more obvious?

  He should’ve listened to her story, too. He caught bits of what she said – drugs, birth, something about icicles – but his mind was still plagued by a different story. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Etta and Jonah had been doing out in the wigwam. They’d been out there for how long – an hour? They’d had time to get up to all sorts. Kissing. Touching. More if they’d wanted to, and they probably did.

  Worse than all that, he kept imagining Jonah’s bravery as the gun guy’s car pulled in. No cowering behind curtains or hiding under a bed like a poncey Englishman. No, Jonah would’ve used his body as a shield, offered to give up his own life to protect Etta’s honour, manfully wielding his decorated club.

  It hurt Peter even to look at Jonah now. It wasn’t fair – the looks, the muscles. He was tall, dark and handsome, like a bronze statue in the glow of the fire. How could Peter’s pale skin and nondescript features ever compete with that? And with Jonah’s bravery thrown into the mix, Peter didn’t stand a chance.

  It was stupid – he knew that – worrying about what he looked like, when twice in the past twenty-four hours he had thought he was going to be killed. Maybe the nasty jolt of seeing the gun guy was starting to wear off, along with the other shocks he’d had since he left England – Etta tumbling out of the car in the darkness, their flight through the woods, the discovery of Jonah squatting on his mother’s land in a ramshackle shed.

  Had that only been yesterday? Only this morning? It didn’t make sense.

  Funny how it wasn’t those things that were playing on his mind, but the fact that some other bloke had stolen his girl. And that was the funniest of the lot – until that moment, he hadn’t realised that he thought of Etta that way, as his girl. Up to now, they had been friends, companions in a crisis, nothing more.

  But she seemed different tonight. Sitting against the firelight, he noticed things. Her eyes were dark and intense as she told her story. Her hair was lovely too, since she’d had a bath – soft and feathery, so light and smooth that he wanted to touch it. Her clean clothes were just cast-offs from one of the cupboards – cropped denims, a faded American football vest, but he could see the small, gentle curves under the thin, loose top. So when she got up in panic after the bird hit the glass he’d wanted to put his arms around her, not just lamely brush her leg, and not just to calm her down or soothe her fears. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to. . .

  Peter shook his head. This was stupid. No, worse than that, it was wrong – Etta trusted him, Etta was his friend, and here he was thinking about her like some. . .

  He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see her any more. That was all he could do for the moment – turn away, squeeze his eyes as tightly as he could, try not to think of her, try to erase all the beautiful images that popped into his head.

  JONAH

  Jonah inched toward the dying fire. The embers were still hot and his bare chest felt as though it was getting burned – a good feeling. He moved closer still. The pain became more intense. Even better.

  He stayed still, changed his breathing when the pain got unbearable, remembering, weirdly, his mother’s birth story that she thought was so funny – the nurses telling her to breathe through the pain, her swearing at them and demanding drugs, them refusing to give her any, her having to pant frantically like a demented chimp.

  He tried it, silently – short, sharp bursts of air through rounded lips. No relief. Even the satisfying sensation of self-punishment was disappearing. It just hurt, making his eyes well up with tears, making his body flinch and twist away from the fire.

  He gave up, scuttling away from the tormenting heat. It wouldn’t be enough, anyway, not enough to burn away the shame he felt about what he’d done.

  ‘You want me to put another log on?’

  Peter grunted sleepily. Etta shrugged.

  Was it deliberate, this cold shoulder treatment? Hadn’t he grovelled enough out in the wigwam? He’d said sorry, hadn’t he – to both of them. He was trying to make it up to them now, couldn’t they see that? What more could he do?

  ‘I’ll go out to the porch and get one.’

  Another grunt. Another shrug.

  To hell with them, Jonah thought. He stepped over Etta’s legs. He sidled past the chair that Peter prete
nded to be sleeping against so he wouldn’t have to look at him.

  The back porch creaked as he stepped onto it, seeming to list even further away from the cabin, down the hill and toward the lake, which was just visible through the scraggly fringe of pine trees that grew along the path to the water’s edge. Jonah longed to be there again, alone, cross-legged on the sand, around an open fire, looking up at the multitude of bright stars, no company other than the sound of fish jumping on the lake, leaping for joy at the pale light of the silvery moon. He was tired of being cooped up in the cabin, the white man’s cabin, just because he was afraid of a couple of hunters.

  Dutifully, he reached into the rotting barrel containing the logs. He took one out, shook off the cobwebs, brushed away the bugs, carried it back inside.

  Again, he got no thanks. Again, he got nothing but a glance and nod from Etta.

  ‘Look, I’m getting sick of being locked up here like a prisoner. I’m going down to the lake. Anybody want to come along?’

  Neither of them seemed to hear him. Etta eventually shook her head. Peter didn’t move.

  ‘Whatever.’

  He dumped the log onto the fire, causing the embers to leap back into life and lick the log with hungry tongues. He jabbed it with the poker, centring it snugly. This would burn until they were asleep.

  ‘I’ll probably sleep in the wigwam tonight. I doubt if those hunting guys’ll be back.’

  Why wouldn’t one of them just talk to him? His mother would do this sometimes, sit in the living room with no lights on, for hours sometimes, smoking cigarette after cigarette, swilling red wine in an oversized glass, watching the ruby liquid glow in the dim light that shone through from outside. There was nothing he could do to pull her out of it, no words of apology or comfort that would make her open up again, let him near her again.

  He waited at the doorway for one of them to open their mouths.

  ‘OK then. If that’s how it is.’

  He let the screen door slam on his way out.

  The lake was calling him, gently, like his only friend. The insects droned a chant of welcome.

  PETER

  Peter felt a twinge of triumph. Etta hadn’t begged Jonah to stay. She hadn’t thrown herself at him or volunteered to join him outside.

  He was still able to play his ace. All right, so he wasn’t handsome or strong or brave, like Jonah, but he had something to offer that the alpha male Indian couldn’t match – solid walls, a cabin with proper locks on the doors.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be all right out there?’ Etta asked. She looked at Peter, her eyes wide with concern. God, she was so lovely in this light.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You really think those guys are just hunters?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Etta looked anxiously at the back door as if she wanted to go out onto the porch and call Jonah back. He should have said, ‘Definitely.’ That would have sounded manlier, more authoritative.

  ‘Listen, if Kyle had really wanted to find you, wouldn’t he have come himself?’

  Etta nodded. ‘I guess so.’ She relaxed a bit, sat back against the chair that Jonah had just been crouching in front of.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ Peter said.

  ‘Please don’t say that,’ she whispered. ‘No more lies.’

  She looked like she was going to cry again. If only he dared move closer to her, put his arm around her reassuringly. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Mum used to say nothing bad could ever happen at Yellow Lake.’

  Etta breathed in deeply, let out a half-sung sigh.

  ‘Tell me about your mom. Your mum, I mean.’

  Peter edged back, leaned away from the glowing embers that now seemed dangerously hot. Once again, his eyes stung with tears. He remembered that morning – this morning – on the beach. The wracking sobs, the uncontrollable crying – he couldn’t give her a repeat performance now. He wanted to show Etta strength, not weakness – bravery, not grief.

  ‘What did she die of?’

  He swallowed. Just say it. ‘Cancer.’

  Hopefully that would be enough for her.

  ‘What kind of cancer?’

  ‘The kind that kills you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He could tell from her voice that he’d hurt her. What the hell was the matter with him? All she did was ask an innocent question. All she did was offer a bit of kindness, so why did he have to sound so nasty? Why did he snap back at her like a vicious dog?

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.’

  She looked so small beside the huge open fire, so vulnerable. He wouldn’t blame her if she moved away from him, or if she slipped outside to spend the night with Jonah.

  She sighed again, edging back towards him. Maybe he was just imagining this. He could hardly believe it, after the way he’d spoken. But it seemed that she wanted him to touch her, that she wanted him to put his arms around her.

  So that’s what he did. He wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders as if he were a huge bird with enormous wings that could shield her, warm her, protect her. As she fell into his body like a limp doll, her head collapsed onto his chest, and she cried.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Peter whispered. ‘It’s just . . . it happened so fast, she died before I had the chance. . .’

  Etta didn’t say any more, and Peter realised that it probably wasn’t Mum she was talking about. But what did she have to be sorry for? What had Etta ever done wrong?

  Whatever it was, it didn’t matter any more. Whatever either of them had said or done in the past wasn’t important. They were together, safe. Peter and Etta at Yellow Lake. That’s what counted – nothing else.

  He smoothed her hair until she settled, like he had the night before in the woods, as a comfort, another layer of protection. She was so close to him now. His mouth was nearly touching her soft, plump lips but he didn’t dare kiss her. It was as if the darkness had paralysed him, or as if Etta had cast a magical spell that made time stand still and movement impossible.

  The moment was melted away by the fire’s warmth, but they stayed like that – together, but still apart – until Peter felt something moist soak through his thin T-shirt onto his skin. Peter looked down, gently lifted Etta’s head.

  She wasn’t crying any more. She was asleep, and snoring. Her pretty mouth was open, and she was drooling on him.

  Chapter Twelve

  ETTA

  Morning was shining through the window. I sat up and looked out. Sunshine sparkled on Yellow Lake like millions of diamonds. The sky was pale blue, cloudless.

  Like Peter’s eyes.

  Even before I opened my eyes, I sensed him across the room, moving, breathing. He was asleep in the small bed in the corner, snoring gently. The covers were pulled over his head, so just a tuft of spiky white hair stuck out, like the tassel on a stalk of corn.

  He must have stayed in the room with me so I’d feel safer. After last night, we were back to being Hansel and Gretel again. Brother and sister. Friends. At least that’s how it seemed in the perfect light that was bringing me peace and calm.

  Or was it more than that now? Were we more than that? I couldn’t tell. Something had happened last night, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I tried to piece things together. Jonah had left to go down to the lake. Peter and I had talked. He had told me something about his mother. I had cried. He had dried my tears, held me.

  And after that? What had happened?

  Remember, I thought. Remember.

  It came to me then. His arms, the way they trembled, like he was scared of hurting me. His face. The sweet smell of his warm breath against my cheek. Had he kissed me then?

  I pulled the blanket around me, closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the trees – that gentle brushing noise, like a dry tinkling. Under the windows something scuffled. A harmless creature – a tiny mouse or a soft squirrel – was rooting for food.

  I looke
d out onto the lake – a shimmering sheet of gold and silver – and I knew that everything was different, better.

  We would start again – me, Peter.

  Jonah, too, if he wanted.

  JONAH

  Jonah was on the beach, curled up, shivering in the damp coolness of early morning. Something nudged his senses out of sleep – the smell of oil and metal, the sound of a motor churning up water along the shoreline, whirring and buzzing like an angry wasp.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  Completely awake now, Jonah kept his eyes closed, faking sleep while he tried desperately to recognise the voice, place it somewhere in his memory.

  ‘Hey! Whatcha doing?’

  Slowly, he opened his eyes to a narrow slit, allowing in a hazy image of harsh silhouettes against the low sun. Two men were in a bobbing boat, the engine still running, ten feet from where he was huddled. It was too late to run and hide in the woods. No, he’d have to sit up and speak to these men – one of them slim, sitting, the other one fat, standing with stumpy legs wide apart for balance, fishing rod in his hand, held like a weapon.

  ‘This here’s private property, you know, so you better get moving.’

  The skinny one, whose hand was on the motor, revved it a couple of times for effect. The fat man made waving motions with his fishing rod that left circular traces on the lids of Jonah’s squinting eyes.

  Slowly, Jonah sat up, the words ‘no sudden moves’ lodging themselves into his head, as if this were a movie, the men were armed cops, and he was about to be cuffed and restrained. He smiled and gave a little wave.

  ‘Morning, guys. How’s it going out there today?’

  The fat man looked at him suspiciously. He eyed the fat man, too – was this the guy with the gun? It could’ve been, but this man had sunglasses and a baseball cap on and besides, all fat white guys looked pretty much the same. The skinny kid wasn’t the weasel boy, though. This kid was younger, twitchier, red-faced, more of a chipmunk.

  ‘You from the Cities?’