Asylum Lake (3 page)
Frank
Brady smiled; Michiganders always go north to get away from it all, even those already living in the northern-most parts of the state.
The Griggs, year-rounder’s on nearby Bass Lake, were no exception. Mackinaw Island, located midway between the state’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas, had been their favorite vacation place for years.
Padding into the house, Gruff brushed past Brady, stirring him from his thoughts. Brady's gaze rose from the note. Opening that door had been like breaking the seal on a time capsule. Brady’s life had moved on, yet inside these all-too-familiar walls, it was 1995 all over again.
Brady scanned the den. Trophies and photos lined the shelves and walls, each capturing a moment in time, freezing it for display. His eyes retraced the years of his life, from diapers and toothless smiles to kindergarten graduation, Little League, family vacations and…braces. God, how I hated those braces, he mused. Brady had spent the better part of two years not smiling because of those damn braces, convinced that he looked like James Bond's steel-toothed, arch-nemesis Jaws. To this day he turned the channel in disgust any time a Bond movie came on TV.
A loud clatter, issued simultaneously with a sharp bark and low growl summoned Brady from his musings and sent him sprinting down the hall and through the kitchen to the source of the commotion.
The shadows gave way to light as the afternoon sun poured itself in through the massive windows overlooking the lake. Gruff with hackles raised and tail lowered, stood in the center of the room staring at the coffee table. Scrabble pieces were spread across its surface while others lay scattered on the floor.
“It’s okay, boy,” Brady said leaning down to soothe the dog with a scratch behind its ears. “That tail of yours just swept ‘em right off the table.” Chuckling, he continued “We’d solve the world’s energy problems if we could harness the power of that wag.” Brady stretched out his hand and picked the pieces up from the floor and tossed them on the table.
Scrabble had been a Tanner family tradition. Instead of church on Sunday mornings, it had been dad’s chocolate-chip pancakes followed by a heated game of Scrabble. The game had remained a coffee table fixture both here, at the Up North House, as well as at their home in Grand Rapids. While Brady and his father had spent countless hours debating the rules surrounding the usage of slang and proper names, mom used her background as a nurse for an endless supply of medical terminology that proved insurmountable to the Tanner men. Brady could count on one hand the number of times either of them had beaten her at a game of Scrabble.
T
he memory lifted Brady’s spirits as his focus drifted to the board, a bit surprised that Dad hadn’t packed it away. Why would he keep it out after Mom was gone? Then, from among the tile pieces scattered across the tabletop, five squares stared up at Brady. Starting from the center square and traveling downward was a single, perfectly-placed word:
The blood drained from Brady’s face, as a strange yet familiar sensation crept over him. Gruff’s rumbling growl returned.
In an instant his mind leapt from one possibility to the next.
The tiles in the middle of the board would be the least likely to get disturbed when bumped. Simple physics, right? Or maybe dad had started a game and never finished it, but with whom? No, Maddie probably set the pieces there when she was dusting, it would be like her clever way of welcoming me back.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste,” The Rolling Stones lyric erupted from out of nowhere, causing him to jump with a girlish squeal. The tension broken, Brady fished his i-Phone from his pocket. Sympathy for the Devil was the ring-tone he had assigned to his in-laws. He was far more impressed with the selection than Karen had been and promised to change it out for something less dramatic, but…
“
Ooh, Ooh -- hope you guess my name,” the song continued.
Only because you saved us from this B horror movie Gruff and I were trapped in do I answer this.
He thought to the phone, as he reluctantly pressed the button to accept the call.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice containing more contempt than he intended to reveal.
“Brady, Thomas Greene, Karen’s father. I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” His tenor clearly implied that he could care less if Brady was performing brain surgery. There was a message to be delivered and deliver it this moment he would.
“No, Tom,” Brady replied emphasizing the name. He imagined steam pouring from his father-in-law's ears. He was ‘Thomas’; he had told Brady the first time they had met, which had been shaking hands across a crowded Thanksgiving table packed with Karen’s relatives.
“Thomas Greene,” was the introduction. Both the words and the handshake were cold and brief. “Welcome to our table.”
“Thanks for inviting me, Tom,” Brady replied, a lopsided grin sealing his fate. Karen had warned him about her father. But like watching a movie despite its negative reviews, Brady had refused to believe all that Karen had warned about her father. Determined to sit through scene after awkward scene, Brady would undoubtedly learn the long and hard way.
“It’s Thomas, Mr. Tanner,” was the curt reply. Then in a sudden move the man straightened his posture nearly to the point of snapping his spine, and then he continued, “As my father and his father before him were named. Not Tom. A Tom is a cat of some sort I believe,” he had smirked darkly. Soft snickers from around the table trailed the remark. The home crowd, if you will, was a receptive one. Brady's face reddened as Karen’s father had looked down his long nose at him.
“Or a turkey,” Brady said, his tongue outpacing his brain. He averted his eyes and looked at the enormous bird gracing the center of the table, packed with stuffing. The silence that followed was deafening and seemed to last forever. From the far end of the table however, laughter broke, conquering the tension.
“Cheers, Brady. Come, sit here by me. Fill your plate and your glass. It’s Thanksgiving for heaven’s sake.”
Brady turned to see a lanky, suit-clad thirty-something-year-old standing and motioning with one hand toward an empty chair to his left. In the other, he held a glass of wine. Brady recognized Will immediately from the countless photo albums Karen kept. She spoke of him often, and kindly.
“Let Karen catch up down there with mom and dad,” he added. “I'm Will." He said, extending his hand, "Karen's brother. Welcome to our happy home.” With the last syllables he shot a brief, yet frosty glare at his father.
Brady's grip on the phone tightened as he tried to bring his anger under control before continuing. "What can I do for you, sir?"
“It’s regarding the Trust, Brady,” the contempt thick in his voice. “We must get this resolved. Did you receive the paperwork from my attorneys? They assured me that everything was hand delivered.”
Hand delivered my ass.
Brady thought. If by hand delivered he was referring to the three suits with matching briefcases and attitudes that came to The Tribune last month to bully him into signing a set of documents that made War and Peace look like a children’s book, then yes, it had been hand delivered.
“Yes, yes, of course I received them,” he said, “right to my desk at work; all very convenient.” And right at deadline, Brady wanted to add, but didn’t. Why give him the satisfaction?
“Good. Good,” Greene continued and then added a long pause for dramatic effect. “Then may I ask what the problem is? I assure you it is all very straight forward, and generous I might add.”
The Trust that Mr. Greene had been part of Karen's inheritance from her grandparents. The stipulations divided the payments into three installments, the first to be made available to Karen on her twenty-fifth birthday. The second installment would be paid out when she reached thirty years of age, and the last, thirty-five.
Brady and Karen had been married shortly before Karen’s 24th birthday. Just over a year later they had celebrated her 25th birthday in their tiny apartment while watching Jeopardy and eating frozen pizza. Brady had even sprung for a bottle of wine. Her inheritance was never mentioned. Less than a week later Karen was dead and Brady was named as sole beneficiary in her will.
“No problem at all, Tom,” now Brady was emphasizing the name, poking at the angry grizzly bear with a very short stick. “I’m sure you can understand that a decision like this should be given time to... marinate." He smiled, feeling quite proud of his word choice. It was a self-important word, one that Thomas Greene would have chosen. “My attorney is currently looking into the matter and I plan to discuss it with him in the very near future. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
A long silence ensued, and when he spoke, his words carried the weight of a man who was not used to being trifled with. “Tanner, let’s not mince words here. My daughter’s…curiosity with you aside, we both know the right thing to do here is to settle this Trust. Fifty thousand dollars is more than fair compensation for a single year of marriage, wouldn’t you agree?”
The nerve of this man discussing Brady’s marriage as if it had been little more than a business transaction infuriated him. Hell, Brady didn’t want the money. He’d love nothing more than to give it to Gilda’s Club, the cancer support organization his mother had joined after her breast cancer diagnosis. What a difference $5.3 million could make there. But the money was locked in probate, and would be for years, or so the attorneys had assured him. Years for Thomas Greene and his cronies to peer under every rock, to find anything and everything they could use against him and the people he cared about.
People like Greene disgusted Brady. The prick had money to waste on armies of attorneys and could afford to wage imaginary wars and fight petty battles. Brady’s attorney advised him to settle and move on. Not surprisingly, Brady was just stubborn enough not to heed the advice.
“Sorry, Tom, I’m getting another call,” Brady lied. In his best Thomas Greene impression he added, “It’s my accountant. We’re discussing some very exciting investment opportunities. Strike while the iron is hot, right? What do you say we put a pin in this and reconnect in about a week? I’ll have my people get in touch with your people.” Brady hit END, silencing his former father in law in mind rant.
Brady wanted to scream, but instead lost his breath in laughter. In the span of five minutes he had gone from nearly wetting himself over an uncompleted game of Scrabble to basically telling the man who served on the Boards of Directors of some of the most prestigious Fortune 500 companies and cultural foundations to go fuck himself! Already he felt more alive than he had in ages.
D
espite the interruption of the heated phone call, Gruff was still staring intently at the coffee table. "Come on, boy,” Brady said, reaching over and sorting through the Scrabble tiles, “nothing to be afraid of.” Pleased with himself, Brady laid out six tiles on the board.
“Double word score that, TOM!” he announced triumphantly to the empty room. "Now Gruff, let’s go get some of Maddie’s pie.”
By 4:30 p.m. Brady could barely keep his eyes open. After the long drive from Chicago to Bedlam Falls and the rollercoaster of emotions of the afternoon, not to mention the devouring of half of Maddie’s famous apple pie, he wanted nothing more than to rest his eyes. Gruff shared the same thought and had already claimed a patch of floor in the den near the stone fireplace.
Brady retrieved his bags from the car and migrated upstairs to what used to be his old bedroom. Maddie must have anticipated his choice of sleeping arrangements and had his bed ready with fresh linens and blankets. Kicking off his boots, he plopped down on the twin bed and stretched out, arms resting behind his head and feet nearly dangling off the edge.
Cindy Crawford, wearing nothing but a tiny black bikini and a smile, stared down at him from the poster that was stapled to the ceiling.
Ms. Crawford, fancy meeting you here
. He thought. He stared into her deep brown paper eyes and instantly felt like a teenager again.
The walls were covered with the eclectic interests of his misspent youth. A Pearl Jam poster hung prominently over the small desk by the window. Many fans and musicians, both past and contemporary, considered them to be the Led Zeppelin of his generation. Brady’s iPod was filled with every track they had ever recorded, even the unreleased versions that he secretly pirated off the Internet. He and his roommate had spent an entire summer after their sophomore year in college following the band on tour.
An autographed Barry Sanders Lions jersey hung unaccompanied in the open closet. Mere words couldn’t describe the best running back the NFL had ever seen. Of course, the Lions had still sucked, but at least with Barry they sucked with style. Now that the star running back was retired, they weren’t even worth watching.
Brady’s gaze settled on his once-impressive, now horribly outdated boom-box resting on the dresser. He rose and approached the dust covered radio wondering which CD had been entombed in the machine for over a decade. Pressing the PLAY button made him feel like he was playing an odd version of Russian Roulette.
Please, no Vanilla Ice
, he jokingly pleads, as the soothing voice of Darius Rucker from Hootie and the Blowfish began to drift from the tinny-sounding speakers. Closing his eyes with relief, he collapsed back onto the bed to dream the dreams of a teenage boy celebrating summer vacation.
It was nearly midnight when Brady woke. Gruff had tracked him down, settling into the space at the foot of the bed. It was a habit he had picked up after Karen’s death, letting Gruff sleep in the bed with him. He wasn’t sure who felt more comforted him or the dog.
Brady swung his feet off the bed, careful not to disturb his loyal companion, and stepped into his boots. Guiding himself by moonlight and memory, he made his way down the hall to the bathroom. He hoped a quick splash of cold water on his face would wash the sleep from his eyes.
Why do I let that prick get to me?
Brady wondered. But as much as he would like to blame his former father-in-law for the growing anxiety he was feeling, Brady was insightful enough to recognize that their heated exchange about Karen’s trust was only part of what had his mind doing somersaults. He knew it had much more to do with being back here with all of these…memories.
Sadly, Brady was only partially right about the cold water; the fog of partial wakefulness still clouded his vision as he emerged from the bathroom and paused in the hallway. To the left waited his parent’s bedroom. Back to the right would take him past the guest room to his own, and then beyond to the stairs.
Some things are best tackled in the light of day.
He thought as he turned back to his right.
“Come on, boy,” he called from the doorway. “Let’s take a walk.” Gruff responded with all of the energy a one-year-old lab could muster and bounded from the bed. Apparently the dog’s slumber had been more peaceful than Brady’s own.
Together, the pair made their way down the stairs and through the kitchen. The half-eaten pie remained on the counter. There was no plate in sight, just an apple-encrusted fork resting in the pie pan.
Brady couldn’t remember the last time he had used something other than paper plates. Most of the time he ate his meals standing at the kitchen sink a leftover piece of cold pizza or take out Chinese from the night before. Surprisingly, Gruff preferred the Szechwan Beef to pizza. “You’ll be the first dog to master the art of chopsticks,” Brady often joked as the dog sat at his feet licking the remnants of rice and vegetables from the carryout containers.
French doors opened off the kitchen to a small deck overlooking the lake. He had helped his father hang the doors during spring break of his freshman year of high school. The old maple tree along the side of the house had been split by lightning during one of the worst storms to hit the area since the Big One of 1958, famous for knocking out power for three months across three counties.
The strike had sent the business end of the tree crashing through the roof, demolishing half the house. Between the mess in the kitchen, the wind-blown rain, and the resulting water damage throughout, the place was a complete and utter disaster. Surprisingly, his father took it all in stride. He had seemed almost excited by the family’s misfortune. His parents had talked for years about wanting to remodel the kitchen, fix the aging roof, and maybe even adding some extra space for an office.
Brady wasn’t sure how much his parents had sunk into the renovations, but there was no way insurance had covered everything. His father had used that lightning strike as an excuse to rebuild that old log cabin into his mother’s dream house. In the span of a few short months The Up North House was transformed from the place they spent their summers and long weekends, to the home where his parents would someday spend their retirement. Not that any of that mattered now.
Brady walked through the French doors with Gruff in tow. Wind blew in from across the lake causing the tree limbs overhead to bend and sway. A set of chimes fashioned from old forks and spoons hung from the deck’s lattice overhang. Sixth-grade Bible camp, Brady thought, as the rusty silverware clanked in the breeze above him, worst week of my life.
While Brady was growing up, a Seventh Day Adventist family had moved in next door to their house in Grand Rapids. The much-too-friendly neighbors made it their mission to “save” the Tanner family. His parents were able to politely decline their repeated invitations to attend Bible studies or Saturday services, but somehow they convinced Brady’s mother that a week at Bible camp would be “a good thing.” Seven days without television, radio or anything that resembled real food, equated to the worst form of torture a young boy could endure. Not to mention all of the singing and praying. The only lasting impressions Brady had taken from the experience were those damn chimes and a severe distaste for organized religion.
Stairs descended from the deck to an area of brick pavers with a fire-pit ringed with stones. His father had carefully arranged a collection of tree stumps around the pit for seating. A few short strides from the fire-pit led to the beach where an old wooden dock extended out over the lake.
Brady paused at the fire pit. The remnants of fires past still lay inside; the charred logs and debris covered memories were burned recognition. The wind off the lake warned of a coming storm, and the gathering clouds played hide-and-seek with the moon allowing just enough filtered light to reflect off the lake’s choppy surface. In the distance, the Asylum stood silhouetted against a backdrop of trees and hills. Brady was surprised to see that the building, which had shuttered its doors and windows half a century before, hadn't been leveled and replaced with a condo development or golf course.
Sweeping his gaze across the lake’s shadowed waves, Brady was struck by surprise, the float is gone.
When Brady was eleven, he and his father had strapped sections of the old dock to a couple of barrels and swam them out to the middle of the lake. They used chains tied around cement blocks to keep them in place. Most mornings they would race from the beach, swim to the float, then stretch out to bake in the sun. They’d talk about sports, life…and girls. He was twelve when Dad tried to give him “the talk” out on that float; he wasn’t sure who had been more horrified. Now, like his dad, the float was merely one of a collection of memories that Brady rarely, if ever, revisited.
I guess I don’t blame them. It would have been a tough reminder to have around.
He sighed, this was the part he had been dreading for the past fourteen years; standing here and looking out as the lake brought the memories of his last days at the Up North House all rushing back.
It was 1995 and shaping up to be the best summer of his young life. A summer of firsts, he thought, and almost of lasts. His first beer and kiss happened within a week of each other. Her name was April Mayer, a combination which Brady had found so cute, yet April had hated with a passion. To this day the smell of cherries reminded him of her chapstick. The stale, albeit exciting, taste of that warm beer came in a distant second to that kiss.
They had met at Charlie’s, the small ice cream place in town. Summer never officially began for his family until they enjoyed their first cone from Charlie’s. Maybe it was the way she kept tucking her light brown hair behind her ear as it fell across her face when she leaned over to scoop ice cream. Or how her blue eyes sparkled under the visor she wore, but April took both his order, medium chocolate chip in a sugar cone, and his breath away.
It was a wonderfully uncomfortable feeling; much like getting the wind knocked out of you from a punch to the stomach only a million times better.
Every day for the next week he pedaled more than five miles each way for a banana split. His rationale: a banana split takes much longer to prepare than a simple cone, giving him more time to steal glances at her from behind his sunglasses. Twice he had waited in line only to have Maude, the heavyset woman who owned the place, swap-out April’s station behind the counter to take his order. Aside from the obvious disappointment, Maude was also known for being very stingy with the toppings.
It took a week and nearly all of the birthday money from his grandmother, to muster the courage to say something other than “Banana split, please.” And even then, it wasn’t as if he had cleverly delivered a witty ice-breaker; although he had spent enough time in front of his mirror practicing. The best he could do was, “I like bananas.” He cringed as he thought back to what he had pathetically said so many years ago.
Brady nearly fainted when she replied with her own nervous giggle. “That’s good, because you sure do eat a lot of them.”
She noticed!
He shouted inside his head and smiled. From that moment on they were nearly inseparable.
Gruff walked down to the water’s edge, careful to keep Brady within sight. Ever since Karen’s death the dog had suffered from some kind of canine anxiety disorder. Sometimes, he would pace from room to room in that small apartment; as if he would somehow find her if he just kept searching. And whenever Gruff was left alone for more than a few hours he became destructive, chewing and clawing at the flooring and curtains.
Dateline did a segment on pet anxiety disorders once and Brady remembered sitting on the couch with Karen and laughing at the people who took their pets to psychiatrists who treated them with antidepressants. But on the advice of a friend, Brady had set up his camera and caught it all on video. Watching it made him crumble inside. Although, in some odd way seeing Gruff grieve for Karen gave him permission to grieve, too. Part of his grieving process was letting her go in ways both big and small.
Maybe that’s why I’m here.
He pondered, still unsure of why he had decided to come back to the Up North House to put some distance between him and his memories of Karen.
That’s the funny thing about memories; however, they can attach themselves to places…and things. No matter how much time or distance you give them, they wait for you to return and since his return to the Up North House Brady could feel the memories pulling at him. Fourteen years is a long time to wait, and some memories are less patient than others. The impatient memories, he had learned, eventually start searching for you.
Now, staring out at the windswept lake, Brady knew they had found him and it was finally time to remember.
