Black Otter Bay (6 page)

He looked across the table at his daughter. Whenever he looked into her glittering dark eyes, pondered her thick black hair and spotless, fair complexion, he hardly dared to believe that this beautiful child was a part of him. People always remarked at how much she looked like him, and he agreed as far as the fact that they both had black hair, large dark eyes, and fair complexions. But whereas these things were a simple description of his looks, on Abby they came together to form beautiful lines and exquisite features. She was growing up fast, and soon she'd have her own trials and predicaments to deal with. Matt knew he wouldn't have the words to help her through it; a girl needed her mother for those things. That's why he'd tried so hard to keep communications open with his
ex-wife, Jackie. Looking ahead, he'd admit that these mysterious adolescent years were going to be too much for him to handle alone. But Jackie had drifted farther and farther away, until the children hardly saw their mother at all anymore, and rarely even asked about her. So, while Matt diligently performed his duties as household provider, the role of parental confidante came to him about as easily as a foreign language on an alien planet. For that reason, he'd decided that if Jackie couldn't be there for her daughter, he'd ask Marcy to talk to Abby. She was great with the kids, and she'd do anything to help. She'd even been their babysitter at one time. But whenever he tried to see her, like today at the café, people surrounded her, and there was no way he could talk to her about Abby in front of others.

On the other hand, Abby had been his fishing buddy ever since day one. She'd ridden on his chest in a homemade sling while he walked the North Shore streams casting for steelhead trout. She rode along quietly for hours, her bright-eyed stare following ripples in the current, as if watching fish below the surface. When he'd hold up a thrashing trout for her, she'd giggle and poke at it. Even more than her brother, Abby begged her way in on every fishing excursion that came along. And now he hoped that passion could be his ticket out of this dilemma.

Reaching for the spoon in the taco goulash, he said, “I've been thinking about that lost fishing trip last weekend.” He flicked a glance at both kids, but their eyes remained focused on their plates. Carefully, he scooped a second helping, then reached for the dinner rolls. “It seems that warmer weather is finally here. The lakes are opening up. If you don't have plans for the weekend yet, how about we wet a line? Maybe set up camp somewhere. You guys pick the lake. What do you say?”

Ben prodded his mound of goulash, but Abby sat back, eyeing her father. Matt could see the wheels turning. She'd never walked away from a fishing trip in her life, but she'd never been this age before, either—an age where fishing with your father would take a backseat to just about anything on her social calendar.

“What do you think, Abby?” he asked. “Can you get away for the weekend to try out that new fishing rod of yours?”

Her reply surprised him. “I vote we stay mobile. Maybe set up camp out by Lake Oja.” Ben's head popped up, and Matt thought he looked as surprised at her response as he was. Abby explained, “That way, if the walleyes aren't biting, we can run over to Big Island. If nothing else, I bet the rainbows are active.”

Matt had to smile. He never should have doubted her. She even had a plan. He said, “Well, how about Friday night, then? We'll drive up to Oja, set up camp, and get out on the water first thing in the morning.”

“Ben and I'll dig some worms out of the compost,” Abby offered. “We can stop by Rosie's Friday night for minnows.”

By now, Matt was almost laughing. “What makes you think the compost will be thawed out? The frost only came out of the ground this week.”

“Oh, the compost will be fine,” she replied, as if she'd already been digging in it. “But if it isn't, I'd rather use minnows this time of year anyway.”

Matt nodded. Turning to his son, he asked, “How about you, Ben? Are you in?”

It took a moment for Ben to look away from his sister, but then he shrugged and mumbled, “Sure. I guess so.”

“Good, then. It's a plan.” They discussed the details a bit longer, with Matt gratified to see some animation returning to Abby's face. Whatever had been on her mind had either been resolved or put away for the time being.

“You're on clean-up tonight, right, Abby?” he asked. “I have a union meeting, and I'll probably be out late. Round two of our cribbage tournament is after the meeting. Will you guys be okay here alone?”

“Of course,” Abby said. “How late you going to be?”

“Probably after dark. You can stay up if you want. But have all your chores done.” He looked at Ben. “You have any homework for tomorrow?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at his father like he hadn't understood a word he'd said. Matt stood up, stacking dishes for a trip to the kitchen sink. “Go through your backpack, Ben,” he said. “I'll check with you when I get home to see that your schoolwork is ready. Okay?”

Ben nodded, and Matt carried his load to the kitchen. When he returned, the children were clearing the rest of the table. “I'll see you later tonight, then,” he said, passing through the room toward the front door. “If you need me, I'll be up at the Hall.”

“Dad,” Abby called after him. “Try to remember, you don't cut the cards in cribbage. That's poker.”

Matt laughed. “You just get your fishing gear ready. I'm collecting a buck from each of you for first fish and biggest fish.”

“You're on.”

Abby Simon

“Y
ou're crazy,” Ben said when they were alone in the kitchen. “Did you forget that you no longer have a new fishing rod? And that I don't have any homework, or even a backpack anymore?”

“I'm going to fix all that,” Abby replied, stashing leftover goulash in the refrigerator.

“When?”

“Can you do the dishes for me?”

Ben looked at his sister, dumbfounded. “You really are crazy. You're going back up there, aren't you?”

“The timing is perfect. It doesn't get dark until ten o'clock this time of year.” She looked at the old round-faced clock above the sink. “That's a good four hours from now. If I cut straight up over the ridge, I can make the round trip in less than three hours.”

“There's a dead person up there, Abby, remember?”

“I know. But our backpacks are up there, too. I'll be back before Dad gets home.”

“I'm not staying here alone, Abby. I'm going with you.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Retrieving her Minnesota Twins cap from the hook at the back door, she fed her braid through the adjustable strap at the back, placed the cap on her head, then tightened up the rubber band securing the end of her braid.

“You can't carry both backpacks,” Ben argued. His eyes strayed past his sister, through the kitchen doorway to the empty expanse of dining room beyond. Color dissolved from his cheeks as he looked into the deserted space.

“Come on, Ben. It's just a couple hours. Turn on the TV. I'll be back before dark.”

“But we saw a dead body, Abby. And that big man carrying it over his shoulders.”

“None of that concerns us. The only things I'm worried about are that stupid fishing pole of mine and our backpacks. We have to go to school tomorrow.”

“But you almost got caught by that bad guy. What if he's still up there?”

Abby closed a cupboard door and looked at her brother. He seemed so young and vulnerable standing at the sink, hands hanging at his sides, fingers twitching with apprehension. “He won't be up there now, Ben. There's nothing to worry about. I'm just going to grab our backpacks and get out of there.” She could see her words weren't having any effect on her brother, so she walked over to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes, she said, “The guy was some kind of city slicker. Did you see his big shiny car and fancy clothes? I'm sure he's long gone by now, but if not, he'll be keeping to the road, in his car. I'll be in the woods. Our paths won't ever cross. Besides, do you know anyone that can outrun me in the woods?”

She took his lack of response as a positive sign. “It'll be totally safe, Ben. Honest.”

“I'm coming, too.”

“No you're not.” Looking at the dishes in the sink, another idea occurred to her. “Do the dishes for me tonight, and I'll take your turn for the rest of the month.”

Ultimately, before Abby charged out the back door and into the woods behind their house, Ben had negotiated away not only his clean-up duties for the month, but his cooking chores as well.

Ten minutes after Abby left, there was a knock at the front door.

• • • • •

T
he ridge running along the backside of Black Otter Bay was no trifling little hill. Rising several hundred feet above the shoreline of Lake Superior, it boasted a steep craggy face with huge bedrock boulder outcroppings, as well as knarly old white cedars that had taken up residence there about the time of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Deer trails zigzagged the slope, although not too many animals chose to travel over this treacherous stretch. The Moose Lake Road cut over the ridge where it wound up from Highway 61 about a half-mile outside of town, but for someone on foot, and in a hurry, the ridge provided the quickest access to the lake district inland from Lake Superior. An old black bear might occasionally den up for the winter on this slope facing away from the prevailing Canadian northwesterlies, and the howling of wolves could often be heard in town when they hunted the ridgeline. But neither of these things worried Abby, even now with the sun behind the crest of the ridge and shadows growing longer by the minute. In a way, this wilderness remnant of the ancient Sawtooth Mountains represented home to her. She knew their geologic history, the habits of the wild creatures that lived here, and many of the plants and trees, including their useful attributes.

Over the top of the ridge she angled along an old animal path that soon intersected the Superior Hiking Trail. Roughly following the spine of the old mountain range, day hikers, as well as more serious long distance backpackers, used this trail all summer long. In the winter, cross-country skiers and snow-shoers kept the trail open. Abby remembered hiking here as a young girl, exploring the woodlands behind their house with her father. One time, he'd cut across to the Trail while Abby stayed on the animal path. Looking back at her, he'd called, “I'll race you, Abby. Up to where the trails meet.”

She took off running, her short little seven-year-old legs kicking out hard on the dirt track. Off to the side, she saw her father swinging his arms in an exaggerated fashion, showing
off how fast he could run. But at the last instant she darted ahead of him to win the race.

Abby bragged about her victory for days, and couldn't understand why her schoolmates didn't see the wonder of it. Even her mother hadn't made much of a fuss over it. Of course, now she knew that her father couldn't have lost that race without letting her win. But at seven years old, she'd been convinced that she was easily the fastest creature in the woods.

And Abby still loved to run the forest paths. Even now, whenever the trail headed downhill, it was virtually impossible to keep from breaking into a run. So when she picked up the Big Island Lake Trail where it sloped away from the Superior Hiking Trail, she set a quick jogging pace for herself and let her mind wander.

Remembering that footrace with her father brought up images of her mother. Jackie Simon had never been the type to spend time in the woods. She'd gone camping with them a few times when Abby was very young, but at some point she'd given it up, and as mean as it may have been to even think about in private, Abby had to admit that camping was a lot more fun without her. Jackie always complained: it was too cold, or it rained too much, or the mosquitoes were going to eat her alive. The last time she'd gone with them, probably two or three years ago, she'd thrown her dinner into the campfire, exclaiming, “This is disgusting!”

Abby remembered getting mad about it, because she and Ben had worked hard to keep the fire going in the damp woods. And Ben had been just a little kid then. Stick by stick they'd built up the campfire, both of them getting soaked as they ranged far out from the campsite to find dry tinder under blow-downs or at the base of rocky outcroppings. But she'd felt especially bad for her father, the designated cook for these excursions. Dinner had been a freeze-dried stroganoff dish, but with a fire that was either too large and hot, or threatening to die out at any moment, the meat had been a little tough and the pasta undercooked. But, hey, Abby conceded, that's what
happened sometimes in the woods. As far as she was concerned, after portaging the canoe, fishing all day, and tending to the campfire, she could have eaten the food straight out of the vacuum-sealed pouch.

A day trip to the mall down in Duluth was a whole different matter for Jackie. She had a knack for finding the best deals, just as Abby knew how to find fish in any given lake. And while Abby could cast a lure all day, Jackie somehow found the stamina to walk through dozens of shops while wearing high heels, taking breaks in trendy coffee shops, seemingly able to reenergize herself off the artificial lights, or perhaps the thrill of the hunt for a good deal. The trouble was that the rest of the family had no interest in driving fifty miles to Duluth just to go shopping with her. One time, Abby overheard her father say, “If I wanted to spend my free time hanging out in the mall, I'd live in Duluth, or better yet, down in the Cities, where they have that monster Mall of America place.”

When Abby's mother discovered the casinos, however, small-town Minnesota quickly lost whatever appeal it may have had for her. Flashing lights, plush surroundings, and piles of money—Jackie had finally found her true home.