All-Season Edie (4 page)

A small boy has two peacocks on leashes, like dogs. They're strutting and pecking and dragging their tail feathers on the muddy ground. They have feathers like crowns, and their throats are the world's most beautiful blue. Several of the long, rich tail feathers stand propped in an umbrella stand.

“Twenty-five cents,” the boy says shyly.

When we get home, I collar Robert and bring him into the cottage to admire my find. We've been avoiding each other since the worms.

“Wow,” Robert says, fingering the wispy threads of one of the feathers. “Nice.”

“You want one?” I say suddenly. Robert looks at me, not sure if I'm being serious. I'm not sure if I'm being serious either, but I've said it now, and, after all, I do have three. “Go on,” I say. He chooses the smallest one and picks it up gingerly between his finger and thumb, supporting its huge unwinking sapphire eye with the palm of his other hand. He looks like someone who isn't much used to holding babies. He just stands there holding the stupid thing until it gets embarrassing.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's go dump it at your cottage and go fishing or something.” So we do.

A couple of days later, Edie the Human Killer Whale is terrorizing the jetty when someone starts shouting.

“DUSTY!” It's Robert. He's running and puffing and shouting. I stop floating and stand up, wondering what's happened. At the jetty, he bends over and puts his hands on his knees to breathe. He's winded, and it takes a couple of seconds before he can talk. “My mom says you can come over to our cottage after supper tonight and watch a movie if your mom says it's okay.”

“Yay,” says Edie the Human Killer Whale, scrambling up onto the sand and jiggling furiously and squeezing her hair and shaking little sparks of water in all directions, like a dog. “I'll go ask.”

Mom insists on going and talking to Robert's mom, who smokes and wears sunglasses and shorts. They stand outside under the pine trees and chat for quite a while as Robert and I fidget and squirm and make faces at each other. Robert's mom assures my mom that Robert is Very Responsible, and Mom says that's a good thing because Edie is A Bit Of A Handful Sometimes, and Robert's mom says isn't it great that the two of us Seem To Be Getting Along, and Mom says that it's so nice to see that Edie is Finally Socializing With Her Peers.

“Shut up,” I say under my breath because Imaginary Dexter is leaning against a tree, laughing at me. She hasn't been around in a couple of days, but trust her to show up when things get humiliating.

“Edie has a date,” Imaginary Dexter says, giggling. “With a fat boy.”

“It's not a date,” I say.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Imaginary Dexter says. “A
play
date.”

“Shut up!” I say. Mom and Robert's mom look at me in surprise. “Bee!” I say, swatting at my ear. “Buzzing too close! Too loud! Shut up, bee!”

“So cute,” Robert's mom says and seems to mean it, but Mom gives me a narrow look that says You Will Be Explaining Yourself, Young Lady, in the Very Near Future.

Once we're back at the cottage, she gives me that eyebrows-up look that means The Future Is Now. “Sometimes I hear Dexter making fun of me,” I tell her. “I hear her actual voice.”

Mom's face goes soft. “Me too,” she says.

“Dexter makes fun of you too?”

Mom laughs. “She tells me what she likes. She likes your peacock feathers. She liked the jewelry table at the craft fair. She can't believe you have a boyfriend. I think she's jealous.”

“STOP IT!” I say. “He's not my boyfriend!”

Mom holds her hands up like she's surrendering. “I didn't say it, Dexter did!” she says, and then we both start laughing because, let's face it, one Imaginary Dexter is a pain, but two Imaginary Dexters is just weird.

After supper, I walk over to Robert's cottage and knock on the door. Robert's mom answers and calls me honey. She says Robert has just gone out for a second to get some ice, but I should come right in. She says she's just going to go put on her face. Then I'm on my own in the living room.

Robert's cottage ought to look just like my cottage, only it doesn't. For one thing, it's very messy, with clothes and magazines strewn around, and dishes from dinner that no one has bothered washing up yet. For another thing, the dark green curtains are closed so the living room looks like it's underwater. The whole place smells musty.

“Hello?” says a voice. I look up and see the man who isn't Robert's father peering out of the bedroom door. He has sunglasses and a silver bracelet and a lot of chest hair.

“What has cottage cheese got to do with cottages?” I ask. This has been bothering me all day.

There's a brief uncertain pause. “I have no idea,” he says and goes back into the bedroom. Then Robert comes back with the ice, and Robert's mom comes back out looking just the way she did when she said she needed to put on her face. “We're just going to the pub up the road,” she says. “If you have problems, Edie's parents are right up there.” She waves her hand vaguely. I feel a little irritated that this woman is telling me where my own cottage is.

The man who isn't Robert's father comes out of the bedroom and jingles his car keys. “C'mon, hon,” he says to Robert's mom.

“Well, you have a nice time, kids,” Robert's mom says.

“Bye, Mom,” Robert says. That's the first thing he's said since he came in.

The movie is in black and white. There are shadows and gunshots and beautiful women in hats, and men sipping drinks, but nobody bleeding or swearing at all. It's from the forties, Robert says. The men tip their hats back with their guns and sip their drinks some more and grimace.

“Bourbon,” Robert informs me seriously. “Someday I'm going to try some.”

“I snuck some once,” I offer, my eyes still fixed on the screen. I'm wondering if the women will get to shoot anybody.

“YOU DID?” Robert shouts, making me jump. He struggles to sit up. “WOW. What was it like?” He studies me intently.

“Awful,” I say. “Worse than medicine.”

Robert looks incredulous. “No,” he says. “That can't be right. They drink it in the movies.”

“Honest,” I say. “I think it's what they give you at the dentist. It hurts your tongue.”

“Wow,” Robert says, but thoughtfully this time. He looks disappointed. “I can't believe it. Are you sure? I bet you're fibbing. I bet you never really.”

“Ask my dad,” I say. “He caught me.”

“Oooh,” Robert says, flinching in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“Yup,” I say grimly, remembering. “And it wasn't even worth it, either.”

“Wow,” Robert says for the third time, and I see he's finally starting to believe me. “No kidding?” He squints at me, and I can tell he just thought of something else. “Do you always get caught?” he asks. “Don't you ever get away with anything?”

“No,” I say. I figure getting away with something would be like catching a fish: it never really happens, not really.

After the movie is over, Robert and I walk back to my cottage. Mom and Dad are sitting in deck chairs under the pines, sipping something from juice glasses. Robert and I look at each other significantly, but I notice that Dad has his glasses off again and Mom's lips are tight, and they're not talking or looking at anything in particular until we're practically on top of them. When Dad notices us, he blinks and says, “Okay.”

Robert asks, “Fishing in the morning?”

“Yup,” I say.

Dad says, “Better fit it in while you have time. We're leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“No we're not,” I say. “We have another week.”

“Change of plan,” Mom says. “Grandpa's feeling just a little, little, tiny bit worse and we're going to go home early just to help out.”

“Grandma phoned while you were watching your movie,” Dad says.

“Tiny, tiny,” Mom says because I'm looking hard at her, and she knows why.

I go to bed pondering and dream Dad is fishing from the jetty with a jam jar tied to the end of his line while the diamond girl aims a gun at him. Then he catches an immense killer whale, which drags him into the water and down to the bottom of the lake. When they drag him up again, he has black lips and there are shells in his eyes and the lake glows blindingly in the late afternoon sun with a color like laughing. It doesn't feel like a nightmare.

It seems as though my last full day at the lake will be like all the others: fishless.

“Grade six,” I'm saying. “I start French immersion this year.” We're talking about school. Robert lives in the city and goes to a school I have never even heard of. He has violin lessons and a pass to the planetarium. He says he can walk to the planetarium from his house and his mom can walk to Safeway, but I don't believe it. Nobody just walks to places like that.

“Grade seven,” he's saying. “I like French. What I hate is gym.” Then he gets a funny look on his face and tugs at the rod. “Oh no,” he says.

“FISH!” I yell.

The rod jerks like a live thing. Robert starts reeling in, faster and faster. I'm practically standing up in the boat until I remember the rule and sit down with a bump. “Whack it on the head with my soda!” Robert shouts. It's hanging in the air on the end of his rod, alive.

“FISH!” I yell. Robert maneuvers it onto the floor of the boat, where it flops and heaves mightily. It's about a foot long and silver. It has eyes.

“OH MY GOD!” I yell. I grab Robert's soda can and whack the fish's head, once, to stop the awful flopping. It lies still, the hook and line still in its mouth. Robert and I are panting.

“Fish,” I say.

Robert nods, speechless.

When we get to the jetty, a crowd has gathered: our parents and the old man who rents the boats, and some people from other cottages. They all heard the yelling. The old man gets the hook out of the fish's mouth (Robert and I haven't touched it yet) and weighs it by hanging it on a contraption he pulls out of his pocket and seeing how far over the needle goes. People are patting us on the back. The old man wants to gut it for us, but Mom says, “I know how.”

I stare at her. “You do?”

“I grew up in Newfoundland,” Mom says. “I guess I know how to gut a fish.”

“You're from NEWFOUNDLAND?” I shout. I knew it, but it didn't really mean anything to me before now.

“Fish for supper,” Mom says, grinning.

“Is it supposed to have this many bones?” I ask.

Mom has fried the fish in butter and breadcrumbs. It smells good, but it's impossible to eat. Dad keeps clearing his throat and glancing at Mom and eating his bread and salad. Robert, who's over for supper, is politely pulling things out of his mouth like somebody taking hairs off his tongue. I can see he's trying not to look at anybody.

However, for dessert, Robert's mom made chocolate cake. So it isn't all bad. Although a chocolate cheesecake would have been even better.

On my last morning at the lake, I sit with Robert on the jetty. I'm not even allowed to get my feet wet, and there isn't much to say. Robert asks if we'll be coming back next year. “I imagine,” I say wistfully. I'm thinking about the fish. “Are you?” I ask.

“Yes,” Robert says. “We're here every year.” After that we watch the lake for a long time.

“EEEEEE-DIIIIIIE!” Mom's voice yells.

“EEEEEE-DIIIIIIE!” Dad's voice yells.

“Why are they calling you that?” Robert asks.

“Well,” I explain, “it's my name.”

“Oh,” Robert says. “Well. See you next year, Edie.”

“Bye, Robert.”

“Bye.”

I run up the path from the jetty through the pine trees to the parking lot, where Mom and Dad stand by our car with the old man. Some other people who have just arrived are unpacking, and everybody has about a million hands on their hips. “Young lady,” Mom says, “where have you been we have been calling you for half an hour and you could at least have packed your own suitcase and you know Grandma and Grandpa are waiting and we have probably missed the ferry by now.” Dad says, “No cheese for you tonight, young lady.”

“Ha, ha,” Imaginary Dexter says.

“Just you wait,” I say. I climb into the back seat of the station wagon and whack my knee on the cooler and wedge myself down in between the sleeping bags and the electric kettle and sulk all the way home.

A Charm of Powerful Trouble

“Fat aristocrat cat sat on the brat mat,” I say. I roll Dusty onto his back and make his legs do a little dance. “Dusty the Habitat Cat.”

“Shut up, you troll,” Dexter says.

It's Sunday afternoon. Grandma and Grandpa are coming to visit, which is why Dex and I are in the same room. Usually we manage to avoid this. Mom told us to wait together in the living room because she doesn't want to have to round us up later.