Bird Lake Moon (10 page)

“Jasper would never bite anyone,” said Spencer.

“I know that now, but that night I didn't.” He yawned. “Let's get out of here.”

As they crawled out into the light, Mitch said, “I didn't hurt anyone. I didn't break anything. I didn't abandon anyone.”

Spencer knew that Mitch was referring to his father.

“I never would have done it if I'd known you,” Mitch repeated.

They dillydallied around the border of the yard. Silently, Spencer recalled how he'd sensed he was being watched that first night at the lake. Things were coming into clear focus. Spencer could feel his body relax. The anger faded away and was replaced by a wave of relief that buoyed him.

It didn't happen all at once, but before they'd completed one full circle, Spencer knew some things. Deeply. He knew that there was no ghost. He knew that Mitch hadn't meant to do anything mean to him, to make fun of him. And he knew that he wanted to keep the house at Bird Lake more than ever.

“So there's no ghost,” said Spencer. He sounded almost jolly, the relief lightening his voice.

“No ghost,” said Mitch.

After a few quiet moments passed, Spencer asked, “Are you hungry? Do you want to have lunch?”

Spencer was glad that he hadn't told his parents or Lolly about the ghost. And he knew he wouldn't tell them about what had happened with Mitch, either. He'd squirrel away this information, this piece of his life. Keeping it private. A secret. As he became older, he was doing this more and more.

He saw and heard something else that day that he would squirrel away.

It was late. Night. He couldn't sleep, and he'd heard voices, so he crept downstairs. All the lights were off. The narrow hallway that led to the kitchen had no windows and was so dark he groped along, taking small steps to avoid stumbling. This is what it must feel like, he thought, to be at the bottom of the lake at the deepest part at midnight. As he entered the kitchen, the voices became more distinct. His parents were talking, out on the screened porch. His mother sounded as if she were crying.

The moon, already starting to recede on its right side, was blotchy but bright against the obsidian sky. It provided enough illumination so that Spencer could identify outlines, shapes. He pressed himself against the refrigerator and angled his head until he could see his parents.

His mother said, “I just don't know. I don't know if I can stay here. I really wanted to. You know how much I used to love this place.”

His father said, “Do you want to go home tomorrow?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Let's see how you feel in the morning.”

Spencer heard something fall and clatter across the floor. It had to be something small, because the noise it made was small. He saw his mother bend to pick the thing up.

It was the little turtle. He was certain.

He left, quietly moving through the house and back to bed. Parents have secrets, too, he thought. He'd never known exactly how Matty had drowned, what had actually happened. Was it someone's fault? He didn't want to know. Ever.

Maybe some things are worse than ghosts, he thought.

Mitch's night was marked by fitful, shallow sleep. In the morning, the dream from which he awoke left him ragged. The dream—the fragment he could remember—had been ordinary but turned surreal.

In it, he and Spencer were swimming in the lake on a sunny day. With jarring abruptness, the sky darkened to an eerie silver, the full moon rose, and Spencer was the size of a giant. Wielding a dip net, he lumbered after Mitch, bellowing, “Where's my dog? Where's my dog?” He swiped at Mitch, creating monumental waves and high winds. Reflected light from the moon danced upon the surface of the churning water like blinding, dazzling stars cast down from above. Just as the net lowered over Mitch, he emerged from sleep with a start.

Trying to shake the dream, Mitch quickly got out of bed and pulled on his clothes. He trudged through the house to the kitchen window like an old man.

In the east, the sky was pink, but the top of the sky was still a deep, smoky blue. Mitch didn't need to check a clock or a watch to know that it was early, very early, and yet lights were already on at Spencer's house. Many of the windows were aglow—yellow, unblinking jack-o'-lantern eyes staring down the dawn.

From upstairs came the sound of footfalls. Cherry? He didn't feel like talking to anyone, so he went outside, to the lake. Without a jacket or shoes on, the morning chill and the cold, dewy grass made him shiver. Clumps of gray-brown foam lapped at the shore, reminding him of some piece of his dream, but the dream was slipping away.

Would it be rude to go to Spencer's house this early? he wondered. The lights were beckoning, and yet something held him back.

He yawned. Not a soul was around. He was entirely alone. That the truth had come out yesterday had been a relief, but the issue of unhooking Jasper's leash still hung over him. Poor Lolly, blamed for something she hadn't done, and the real culprit deemed a hero. When Spencer had questioned him about Jasper, Mitch's heart had pounded, taking over his chest. And, too, there were his initials he'd carved into the front-porch railing. He hoped that they hadn't been discovered. He didn't know how to deal with this either. And to make matters worse, by carving his initials he'd implicated himself. Stupid.

Shut your mind, he told himself. Snap it tight.

A door creaked in the near distance. A noisy spring expanded and compressed. Recognizing the sounds, Mitch turned to look at Spencer's house. Jasper trotted out into the yard, disappeared behind a bush, then trotted back inside. Taking this as a signal, Mitch walked to Spencer's.

As he mounted the steps Mitch was tempted to bend low and steal a peek at his initials. But he didn't. He knocked softly on the door and stepped back and off to the side. He heard Jasper bark, but Spencer's father answered the door alone.

“Good morning, Mitch,” said Spencer's father.

“Hi. Can Spencer play football or swim or something?”

“He can't right now.” Another series of barks from Jasper. “You're up early.”

“I saw lights,” said Mitch, “so I thought it was okay to come over.”

“Oh, we're all up.” Then with a noticeable drop to his voice, he said, “We're having a family meeting right now.”

Suddenly Mitch became wary. Because of me? he wondered. Had Spencer told his parents about yesterday? Was that what they were meeting about? “Oh,” he said, blinking rapidly.

“I'll have him stop over when we're done.”

“Okay.”

Spencer's father nodded. There was a grim set to his mouth.

Without meaning to or realizing it, Mitch nodded in return, mirroring the expression.

Mitch was off the stoop in one long, quick stride. He roamed the yard, working his way home. To him, a family meeting always meant something bad: a discussion of unacceptable grades or new chores, or the announcement of a canceled vacation. A disappointment that, in his parents' view, needed an official setting in which to be presented.

He decided to eat breakfast and wait for Spencer. Maybe they could go to the public beach today. Or to the general store. Or to—

Another piece of his dream flashed to the surface of his awareness. Something was looming above him, closing in. A mesh cage? The net. In a nanosecond, the odd sensation had vanished. He looked over his shoulder. Here and gone in the blink of an eye.

His mother was waiting when he entered the kitchen. “Pancakes?” she asked. On the counter, which was dusted with flour and gave the impression that a miniature snow squall had blustered through, stood a bowl of batter. The griddle was on the stove, ready. A bottle of maple syrup was on the table, opened.

“Sure. Thanks. Where are Papa Carl and Cherry?”

“Cherry's in the basement doing laundry. She declined my offer of pancakes. And as far as I know, Papa Carl's still in bed.”

Mitch sat at the table. He loved pancakes and chewed his lower lip in anticipation. The kitchen soon filled with good, warm smells.

“We're going to Madison today to look at apartments,” his mother said as she checked the underside of a pancake with a spatula. “You and I.” She kept her head bent, her attention focused on her task, and if Mitch hadn't known better, he might have thought that she was talking to the stove.

“Do I have to go?” he asked in a low voice.

Batter sizzled. Waves of heat and steam rose between mother and son, marbling a shaft of sunlight. The clock on the wall ticked in judgment—
tsk, tsk, tsk
.

She took a moment to compose herself, it seemed, turning away before turning back and saying, “Yes.” She smiled blandly, holding the spatula the stiff way a crossing guard holds a stop sign. “It'll be your home, too. I want you to help choose it.”

His intent was not to make her angry or to irritate her. And the implications of what she was proposing hadn't sunk in. He just wanted to stay at Bird Lake. “Okay,” he replied, resigned. “But when will we get back?”

“I don't know. What's the rush?”

Mitch shrugged. He watched her flip pancakes and stack them on a plate and carry the plate over to him. “Thanks,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

“Aren't you eating?” he asked.

“I'm not very hungry. My breakfast,” she said, picking up her coffee mug from the counter and raising it as if she was toasting him.

After a few bites, he said, “They're good.”

“Good.”

“Do you think we'll be back in the late afternoon? Before dark? I wanted to hang out with Spencer.”

“I don't know.” Her voice had become icy. She tossed some silverware into the sink. The silverware clattered and clinked, speaking for her, words he imagined her thinking: You frustrate me.

After a weighty silence, she said, “One of the apartments has a pool.” Her voice had been transformed, had become the equivalent of tiptoeing. “I thought that might be nice for you.”

Within twenty minutes, Mitch and his mother were in their car en route to Madison. As the car lurched from the driveway onto the road, Mitch saw that Spencer's family's kayak was leaning against their car. His heart fell. They're going to have fun today, he thought. Without me.

Mitch's mother signed a lease for the first apartment they looked at, the one with a swimming pool. It wasn't far from Mitch's old house, so he'd go to the same school as last year. They could move in on August fifteenth, which gave them time to work at getting the house ready to sell.

“Dad will help, right?” asked Mitch.

“Yes,” his mother replied. Then she quickly changed the subject. “I like it. Do you like it?”

“It's okay.” Mitch was slumped in the backseat of the car. They were driving away from the apartment complex, weaving through blanched, orderly streets he'd traveled on hundreds of times before.

“I need to check on a few things at home,” his mother said, glancing over her shoulder toward him.

Mitch didn't want to go into the house, and the closer they came to it, the lower he slumped. He didn't want to see anyone he knew. “I'll wait in the car,” he told her.

His mother steered the car into the driveway and turned off the engine. “Is there anything you'd like me to get for you inside?”

“Nah.”

“Why don't you run over to Aaron's or Sam's? That might cheer you up, I'm sure they'd be happy to see you.”

“No.”

“They know about Dad and me. They'd like to see you.”

He straightened up a little. “I don't want to see anyone.”

“Okay. I just want us to get back to normal as soon as possible. The longer you . . . we . . . avoid things, the harder it will be.”

Absently, Mitch unbuckled his seat belt and toyed with it, moving the silver latch so that it glinted and, in turn, projected a white, elongated star onto his mother's hair. He felt an undercurrent of muted sadness encroaching upon and controlling the day.

The rearview mirror connected them—it was where their eyes met. His mother's eyes widened when she said, “Will you talk to me? You can tell me anything, you know.”

Mitch shrugged. “I don't feel like talking.”

“Okay. I understand.” She smiled gently and kissed the air. “Inarticulateness,” she said with no emotion in her voice, “is the language of men and boys.” She opened the car door.

“What's that mean?” asked Mitch.

“Nothing.” The door closed quietly.

Yawning, Mitch lay facedown in a rectangle of hot sun, his arms folded into a pretzel, his head buried in the upholstery. He pictured Spencer and his father driving to the public boat landing and paddling their kayak around the end of the lake by the general store and the library.

Slowly Mitch lifted his head and stared at the house. It looked the same and different at once. He wondered if it smelled the same. When they'd come home from a trip, the familiar smell would greet them, a genuine presence as they walked into the front hallway. He'd been away from the house for longer periods of time than this, although it seemed the longest.

When his mother returned, she was carrying a stack of file folders and an overflowing canvas bag. She placed the items in the trunk and got into the car. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “It's lunchtime.”

“Sort of.”

“You can pick where we go. We can go to State Street or to the food court at the mall. Anywhere you like.”

“Let's just go to a fast-food place on the highway. That way we'll get back sooner.”

So that's what they did.

The only real bright spot for Mitch that entire morning and afternoon came after lunch, when they stopped for gas. “Here,” said his mother, slipping both a twenty-dollar bill and a five-dollar bill into his hand. “Go pay for the gas, please. I'm getting twenty dollars' worth. Use the five to get a snack for the drive to the lake.”