The Girl of the Lake Page 24

  “Is there a doctor?”

  “In Keene, I said.”

  Chick began to panic. He said, “How do I find it?”

  “Oh dear,” Philomena said. She patted his arm, eyes sparkling with care. In a rush, she said, “I’ll go with you!” She called to her father, who hurried from the garage at her tone, wrenches in hand. The girl quickly explained: Mrs. Flexhardt was ill. Her father was as urgent as she, tears starting to his eyes. Everyone loved Grandma. Philomena climbed in the back seat and gave directions. Chick had never driven on a highway but found it easy once he got used to all the cars passing him, all the honking.

  Mena leaned forward, held Grandma’s shoulder, said, “Speed up a little,” but it was hard for Chick to go over the speed limit Mr. Parmenter had told him for Race Road, thirty miles an hour. The girl smelled of gasoline. She put a hand on Chick’s shoulder, too. Her hair was red in the mirror, her cheeks streaked with engine grease. He used the mirror to catch her bright green eye for reassurance. Grandma sat very still. Thinking of other disasters and with no preamble, Chick unburdened himself, said, “I saw the Shaunessey girl out there.”

  “I’ve seen her, too,” Mena said matter of fact, knowing what he meant by “out there”: Spruce Island, of course. She said, “Aine Shaunessey. She’s so very beautiful, isn’t she? Wasn’t she? And her dog! I was frightened of them, though. Purely silent. That loverly dress. I dropped my bucket and ran back to the boat. No one believed me.” She tightened her grip on his shoulder.

  The trip took forty minutes, but they made Keene, Grandma’s posture perfect the whole ride. She was silent and unblinking, but she breathed well and Chick knew she’d be okay.

  At the emergency-room entrance he pulled up perfectly, set the parking brake. He and Mena went to help Grandma out, but despite the straight spine and high chin, the open eyes, she was unmoving. Boy and girl hefted the old woman, carried her into the emergency-room lobby. Two nurses scurried to their sides as they lay their burden on the floor. A doctor rushed in, and then a couple of orderlies in blue scrubs who lifted Grandma onto their gurney in a calm hurry. But after a busy few minutes the doctor just stopped. He set his chin, looked at Chick. The orderlies relaxed.

  “I’m sorry,” one of the nurses said.

  Philomena burst into hot tears. Chick, then, too. Shocked and weeping, standing among strangers, it was only natural that he and Mena caught one another in a tight embrace, the nurse then folding them both in her own arms, then an orderly joining in, then the doctor, a long group hug, protocol abandoned, all of them in their humanity.

  Mena’s father arrived with Mr. Parmenter in short order. Chick had never seen a man cry like Mr. Parmenter cried when he heard the news. The old bird dropped to his knees, held his face, sobbed and gulped inconsolably, so devastated that even an hour later he couldn’t drive the jeep home but had to ride with Mr. Hardy, Mena and Chick in the broad back seat of the mechanic’s ancient woodie, her foot hooked stealthily round Chick’s calf, their fingers tightly interlaced, sweaty after a while, almost painful, too—didn’t matter, they weren’t going to let go.

  CHICK’S PARENTS WERE SO far unreachable in Kenya, though Grandma’s lawyer sent off a telegram. Uncle Philip, deeply saddened, said he’d find the next flight, a long phone conversation originated at Chick’s end from the lawyer’s office. The jeep had been Uncle Philip’s, and he said he knew it well—he’d fly into Keene tomorrow first thing, get a cab to the hospital, deal with any bills, simply drive himself up to Beemis Corners and to the funeral home to make arrangements, and then head out to camp.

  Uncle Bob, disturbed at work in Houston, asked after Grandma’s will first thing, and the lawyer, quick and direct and mighty as a twelve-man rowing shell, told him of the changes, read from the document at length. “It’s ironclad,” he said to each query. “Witnessed by the probate judge here, as it happens.” After a while, Chick could hear Uncle Bob shouting, but the lawyer kept his professional demeanor, finally said, “Why don’t you call when you’re feeling better, Mr. Flexhardt,” hung up in the midst of the next fulmination.

  So they wouldn’t be seeing Uncle Bob until the funeral, if then. The lawyer had already put it in motion, and the minister was on board—they both knew Grandma’s wishes—service to be that coming Saturday at the Congregational church, burial in the olden churchyard beside Grandpa, the last two people, as it happened, who would ever be buried there.

  Chick was to stay with Mr. Parmenter overnight, and it was like staying in a tool museum, grilled cheese sandwiches cooked directly on the old man’s smithy forge, Chick’s bed nothing but a cot in the warm workshop, Mr. Parmenter’s not much fancier, upstairs, those great, gulping sobs in the night.

  MENA’S DAD DROPPED CHICK and Mena at the lake the next morning. He’d given his daughter the day off, but the station had to stay open, not a word about behaving: Mena lived in a world of trust.

  Alone at the cabin, hot day, they were shy with one another, new friendship in the newly bereft setting, oddly sweet. Chick showed her around a little, then they made a lunch to bring in the sailboat, hardly had to say where they were going. She had a one-piece suit that didn’t fit anymore, just like her church dress. Chick’s heart leapt to her, how bare she looked, so pale. They launched the boat—she knew just what to do—sat shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip sailing, not much to say, though her fingers found his. There was little wind, just desultory breezes, and it was going to take forever to get out there.

  “I always liked when you came to the shop with your grandpa,” she said.

  “We’d play in your sandbox.”

  “Yeah, and I’d see you in church.”

  They ate one of their bacon and tomato sandwiches. Grandma had been holding the bacon when she froze, Chick recalled. He’d had to take it from her hands.

  Mena’s hair was so red in the sun. She had freckles—a lot of freckles. She looked about half-mischievous, half-studious, all a little sad in the moment, studied him, some kind of plan back there behind those green eyes. “I had a dream we were married,” she said after a long time.

  Chick didn’t know what to say to that.

  “We were married and lived on Spruce Island,” she said. “We had a big golden retriever, the sweetest dog.”

  He squeezed her hand. She picked his up and kissed it. He held the tiller and turned to her and tried to kiss her cheek but instead as the boat pitched bumped her eyebrow with his lips. No matter, she turned her mouth up to his and after a couple of tries they were kissing and the boat fell into irons and they kissed a long time. He hadn’t done it much, just tried his best. It felt nice. It felt really nice. That she liked it, too. That it was new to her, too.

  On the island there was no ghostly dog, no sign of anyone. They walked to the big meadow, crossed it in Queen Anne’s lace. At the other end, Chick showed Mena the foundation of the Shaunessey mansion, showed her where he’d dug up the spoon. They dug a little more, didn’t find anything. But it was her territory, too, and she showed him the giant, broken swimming pool—he’d never seen or heard of that—all grown in, filled with leaves and sticks and a deep layer of mud, a beautiful cement fountain at the far end. “You have to imagine,” she said, and together they closed their eyes.

  “She was naked,” he said. That seemed too bold. So: “Skinny-dipping, I mean.”

  “In a sundress,” Mena said. “And carrying a book. When I saw her.” And then they opened their eyes and walked and she showed him where—the remains of an outbuilding, maybe a carriage house, a big building, anyway, or must have been.

  He told her about the island. That he was the owner now. She seemed to know it already. She seemed to know a lot, and they chatted, walking. Back at the little beach they ate more, and then swam—increasingly sweltering day—and then as a breeze came up they stood face to face and neck deep in the lapping wavelets. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. And then she let him kiss her. And then they kissed and shared a full embrace, the wat
er so nice. But after a while Chick fell into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Mena said, not shushing him, just holding on. “Your grandma was really, really nice,” she said, tears of her own.

  Chick was okay. Chick was fine. So was Mena. They pressed up against one another, as close as two people could get, kissing. After a long time they started laughing, and then splashed one another, then spontaneously fell into an awkward, splattering race back to shore, Chick surprised to find himself far in the lead. But when they got to the beach he saw why: Mena was holding her suit in her hands, stood there naked as Aine.

  “I just wanted you to see,” she said, and he saw. She walked back into the water, neither slow nor fast, turned and walked toward him one more time, stood in her innocence neither close nor far.

  “Later we’ll do more,” she said. “But let’s not be too fast.”

  “Okay,” Chick said, not even embarrassed, his bathing suit standing out. She was just that nice, easy to be with, not surprised by the truth of him, like they’d known each other a hundred years.

  “We’ll build a house over there,” he said as she put her suit back on.

  “And we’ll have three children,” she said.

  And they said a lot more, fomenting a plan for Chick to attend high school there, fomenting all sorts of plans, lay on the beach and predicted a whole life in Beemis Corners and on the lake, the two of them and then a growing family caretaking all of Chick’s land and Mena’s father’s acreage, too, not nearly so much but an important piece down by town, caretaking the lake and their property for all their years, which would be uncommonly long, caretaking for conservation, caretaking for increasing use, a detailed conversation, a subject they’d both thought about a great deal, and something new they were only feeling now, that they were in love and that their love would be part of the whole process, dreamy talk, not knowing, of course, that everything they said would come true but believing it truly. And they kissed all the while, the sun crossing the sky, and then when it seemed a danger that they’d go too far—an ache for the ages, and they with all the time in the world—they straightened up their suits, rolled up their towels, launched the little sailboat, and Mena at the tiller, sailed back to the storied old Flexhardt cabin, where Uncle Philip had arrived in the jeep, expansive wave, their ally for all the days to come.

  Acknowledgments

  THESE STORIES HAVE FOUND form over many years and continued to grow even as they came together here. I thank all the editors who touched them along the way, but especially Kathy Pories, my editor at Algonquin, who touched them last, and is a treasure. “Harbinger Hall” first appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. “Kiva” appeared under the title “Investigation” in Iron Horse. “The Fall” first appeared in Playboy. “Princesa” appeared in the Missouri Review and is offered in homage to the Elizabeth Bowen story “Contessa.” “Broadax, Inc.” and “The Girl of the Lake” first appeared in Ecotone. “Some Should” appeared as “Confession” as part of the Ploughshares Solos series, where it is still available. I thank my beautiful cadre of first readers, especially Katherine Heiny, Nina DeGramont, David Gessner, Melissa Falcon, and Debra Spark. Thanks to everyone at Algonquin, still my favorite publisher—it takes not only a village but a small army to make a book happen, and they are the very best at what they do, from acquisition to edit to design to cover to publicity to marketing to management, and just plain humanity overall. And finally, of course, thanks to Juliet and Elysia, the main characters every day of my life. Here’s to the short story, long may it live!

  About the Author

  BILL ROORBACH’s previous books from Algonquin are The Remedy for Love, one of six finalists for the 2015 Kirkus Fiction Prize, and the bestselling Life Among Giants, which won the Maine Literary Award for fiction in 2012. His story “Big Bend” won an O. Henry Award, and his collection by the same name won the Flannery O’Connor Award, both in 2000. His trio of memoirs in nature, Temple Stream, Into Woods, and Summers with Juliet, have been released in new paperback editions, and his craft book, Writing Life Stories, is used in writing programs around the world. Roorbach has been named a 2018 Civitella Ranieri Foundation fellow. He lives in Maine, where he writes full time. More at www.billroorbach.com.

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  Published by

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  © 2017 by Bill Roorbach.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  eISBN 978-1-61620-709-0