Breathing Water (9 page)
July 3, 1994
I
woke to the sounds of the summer people. The sun was hot on my legs. I had thrown off the covers and the fan at the foot of the bed spun hot air around and around the room. I heard cars and people, the roar of a motorboat and the squeals of children. I pulled on a T-shirt and cutoffs, lifted my hair off my neck, catching it with the other silver moon barrette.
woke to the sounds of the summer people. The sun was hot on my legs. I had thrown off the covers and the fan at the foot of the bed spun hot air around and around the room. I heard cars and people, the roar of a motorboat and the squeals of children. I pulled on a T-shirt and cutoffs, lifted my hair off my neck, catching it with the other silver moon barrette.
It was too hot for coffee. I yawned and filled a glass with ice cubes, pouring hot coffee and milk into the glass, watching the sugar melt and crystallize on the ice. I remembered the Bug, still parked down the road in front of the Hansel and Gretel house, and looked at the big yellow clock to see if it was too early to call Gussy: eight-thirty. She would be taking her morning bath, lukewarm water and lavender soap. Afterwards she would eat a peach and a soft-boiled egg balanced in a flower-edged china egg cup. I would call her at nine-thirty when she had had time to solve the crossword puzzle and put sugar water in the hummingbird feeder outside her kitchen window.
The front of the camp was finished now. The summer people might comment on how nice the McInnes camp looked. It was now time to start the sides, to paint the places no one could see. I got my brushes from the sink and checked on the polliwogs. They were alive, swimming furiously in the murky water. I rubbed a fingerprint smudge from the glass and peered at the water. I felt something like anticipation, like hope. I was remembering kindness. The way Magoo would shield the wind from my grandfather's match. His hand appearing to help Gussy out of the boat onto land. Magoo's gifts, these simple generous gestures filled me with a sense of expectation that I could only vaguely recollect. But beneath this, deeper than that night-before-Christmas sort of feeling was something sad. Anticipation of disappointment. Magoo was at his daughter's house, so there would be nothing on the step for me this morning. I opened the window and leaned out to look at the step anyway. No robin's egg. No tadpoles swimming in a jar. I leaned further, but all I saw were the curls of old paint and grass that needed to be cut.
I went back into the kitchen to gather my painting tools. I could probably get the shutters done before I called Gussy to help me go get gas. The ice in my coffee had melted, and the milky liquid was warm. I gathered paintbrushes and jars, slipped on my sneakers, and went outside into the humid morning.
There was an envelope tacked to the front door. I couldn't imagine who would be leaving me a note. I took it down and tore it open. Inside were my car keys, dangling from the tacky Space Needle key chain I had bought in Seattle. I went around the side of the camp and saw my Bug parked in the driveway. I ran to the car and opened the door. I looked for a clue, opening the glove box, the ashtray, looking in the very back where I usually kept a blanket, a flashlight, and a warm pair of socks. (I'd been stranded before, and had learned.) All three items were there. I sniffed for an unfamiliar scent, but it only smelled of the pine tree air freshener I had hung on the rearview mirror in June.
I closed the door and opened the front trunk.
Inside was a small bookcase. And inside the bookcase were the children's books I had bought at the yard sale. I lifted it out of the trunk and set it on the grass. I sat down and looked at every side. The wood was painted pale violet, the shelves forest green. I turned it around and caught my breath again when I saw the pictures painted on the sides. Alice falling down the rabbit hole, Huck Finn on the raft with Jim, Frog and Toad planting seeds, and Willy Wonka holding Charlie's hand. My eyes started to swell. My throat was thick. I ran my fingers over the intricate pictures, the smooth violet wood, the crumbling spines of the old books. I wiped at my eyes quickly and looked toward the lake, afraid that someone might see that I was crying on the lawn. Crying because there was no explanation. The gifts were not from Magoo. Crying into my hands because I had forgotten how to understand kindness.
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As I painted the shutters the shade of blue Gussy had chosen from the chips at the hardware store, I plotted how I might catch the gift giver. I could barely wait until the sun set so that I could begin with my plan. I felt like a child. Like a hunter, like a spy.
I painted until the air grew cooler, until my back ached from the day's work. Until the summer children were lighting sparklers, imitating fireflies in the night. I hadn't eaten anything and my stomach was begging me to feed it. It was the first time I had felt hunger in a very long time.
In the kitchen I cooked as if I were going to feed a family instead of just one very small person. I thumbed through Gussy's cookbook, held together with old flour, sugar, and rubber bands. I searched through the cupboards and refrigerator for the necessary things. Pasta, cream of mushroom soup, sour cream, mushrooms, thick red steak. I brushed the ice from the package of meat Gussy had brought over a month before to fatten me up.
In no time the sauce was bubbling in one pan, water in another. I had cooked enough for five people. I sat down and felt suddenly, sadly, alone. I thought about asking Magoo to come over, but it was well after ten o'clock, and his lights weren't on anymore. It was times like this that I thought about Tess, missed the familiarity of her. I even thought, in a panic, of calling Maggie from the diner. Inviting her entire family over for dinner. I wanted someone familiar here. Finally I spooned the stroganoff onto a big red plate and sat at the table trying to eat. After only a few minutes, my plate was still full and so was I. I scraped everything into a large Tupperware container and put it in the fridge. It took me two hours to make dinner and two minutes to eat it. I turned on the radio and checked on the tadpoles.
I turned off the light over the makeshift aquarium and started to gather the things I would need. In the closet I found an old army sleeping bag and an extra pillow. I took a book from Grampa's bookshelf, a bag of popcorn, a nightgown, and a sweatshirt. I found some candles in Gussy's junk drawer and got Grampa's binoculars from the loft. I turned out all of the lights in the camp and pulled the shades. After I got the flashlight from the car, I quietly walked through the wet grass to the tree house.
I closed the door after I had lit a candle and spread the sleeping bag out on the floor. There used to be mattresses on the bunks, but now there were only the metal springs. I didn't plan to sleep, though, until after I had figured out who was coming to my house in the middle of the night.
I tested the binoculars; I could see the front lawn perfectly. There was nothing left to do except to wait. The lake was calm; the summer people had all gone to bed.
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I woke up when I heard a car coming up the road. A radio was blaring Led Zeppelin, and I struggled out of a dream. My back was throbbing. I must have fallen asleep on the floor. My pelvic bone was sore from the wood. My head, at least, was cushioned by the pillow. The candle had burned down, and the wax had created a solid yellow puddle on the floor. I searched in the dark for the binoculars and knelt by the window. The car was parked on Gussy's front lawn. The headlights reflected off the porch windows. The door opened, and the music became louder. I looked through the binoculars, but it was still too dark.
I was confused by the noise. There had been no noise before tonight. I hadn't even heard my own car pull into the driveway. I pressed the binoculars against the glass and saw four dark shapes get out of the car. They stumbled across the grass; I heard
shhh
and then giggles. It took me only a moment longer before I realized that they were teenagers.
shhh
and then giggles. It took me only a moment longer before I realized that they were teenagers.
They opened the porch window quickly. They had been here before. They disappeared into the house, and in only moments I saw lights go on and their shadows moved behind the shades. I stared in disbelief at their figures. I was paralyzed. I watched them from the tree house window until they were finished with my home. Until the girl was vomiting by the picnic table, and one of the boys was streaking down the road toward the lake. It felt like hours before they stopped setting off fireworks. Until they all piled back into the car and the song resumed as they drove away.
I felt sick as I walked back to the camp in the early morning light. I left the sleeping bag and flashlight in the tree house. My hunt had been interrupted by poachers. I was still wearing my nightgown and my sweatshirt. I didn't care what the summer people thought.
The kitchen smelled of cigarettes. The Tupperware container with the leftover stroganoff sat on the counter with three forks sticking out of the stiff noddles. The refrigerator door was open. The bathroom smelled of hair spray, and the toilet seat was left up. I picked up the empty beer cans, threw the rest of the stroganoff away, and poured bleach into the toilet.
I walked slowly to the porch, afraid of what they might have done to the polliwogs. But I found them safe inside their artificial world. I grabbed a garbage bag to go clean up the mess the girl made as well as the empty shells of the fireworks from the front yard.
Sitting on the steps were three terra-cotta planters. They were each filled with soil, but there were no plants in them. I picked each one up, inspecting it for something, some evidence of who had put it here. Could they have arrived before the break-in kids? I could only have been asleep for a little while. But surely they would have broken them when they crawled in through the window. I brought them inside one by one and set them next to the nest. I trusted that something was planted in each pot. I trusted that something would grow.
My family descended on me like a swarm of black flies at 10:00
A.M.
I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, to ignore the holiday and be left alone. The commotion of my family was too much for me today. But when my father's car pulled up, I found myself feeling excited to see him despite myself. It had been such a long time.
A.M.
I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, to ignore the holiday and be left alone. The commotion of my family was too much for me today. But when my father's car pulled up, I found myself feeling excited to see him despite myself. It had been such a long time.
“Hi, Effie,” he said. He closed the car door and came to me.
“Hi,” I said and hugged him. Unlike my mother, he held on to me.
“I missed you, Daddy,” I whispered.
“Let's get the charcoal burning.” He smiled and pulled away. He opened up the trunk and started to unload everything.
The Foresters stopped throwing the Fourth of July picnic after the little girl drowned. They sold their camp and bought a condo in Tucson. Since then, Gussy and my parents have had to throw their own Independence Day celebration. I think it's ironic, really. My father, the history professor, the man who claims to know the truth about what really happened way back when. The man who equates the word
forefather
with
rapist.
With
pillager.
The first to criticize all American traditions, particularly Thanksgiving, the so-called Feast of the Uninvited. We ate chickens in protest each November when I was growing up. But he loves to barbecue. To marinate. To tend the fire, to coax the coals. It is primitive, this need to cook over an open flame. While my mother unwrapped the deli packages of potato salad and made careful platters of graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey bars for S'mores, my father donned the apron of his ancestors.
forefather
with
rapist.
With
pillager.
The first to criticize all American traditions, particularly Thanksgiving, the so-called Feast of the Uninvited. We ate chickens in protest each November when I was growing up. But he loves to barbecue. To marinate. To tend the fire, to coax the coals. It is primitive, this need to cook over an open flame. While my mother unwrapped the deli packages of potato salad and made careful platters of graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey bars for S'mores, my father donned the apron of his ancestors.
In the kitchen I helped him with the grocery bags.
“Honey, get me the Worcestershire sauce?” he said, grabbing bowls from the cupboards.
I got the brown bottle from the refrigerator and handed it to him.
“Thanks.” He smiled.
My father looks like a comedian. He always looks as though he is about to present a punch line, eager and smiling. He is always smiling. It's hard to tell sometimes what he's thinking.
“How does it feel to be home?” he asked.
“It's good to be back here,” I said, nodding.
“I talked to Roy Oliver the other day. He knows the chair of the English department,” he started. “He helped Colette get into Bennington. He's very influential.”
My heart dropped. Why couldn't they leave this alone?
“Are these fish?” My mother's voice floated from the other room.
I left my father peeling garlic cloves in the kitchen and went to the porch where Gussy and my mother were staring earnestly at my aquarium.
“Frogs,” I said.
“Tadpoles?” Gussy asked, taking my hand. I could feel her veins, like thin ropes of blood under her skin.
“Um-hum.”
“Do you remember the sea monkeys?” my mother asked.
“Colette killed them,” I said and sat down in the wicker chair. The wicker was cool against my back.
“She didn't mean to,” my mother said.
“She did
too
mean to. She poured Clorox into the fishbowl.”
too
mean to. She poured Clorox into the fishbowl.”
“That's not what she said. She said she was feeding them.”
“Feeding them
bleach,”
I said.
bleach,”
I said.
“The point I was trying to make,” my mother said, “is that you were so cute with them. I bought them for you at the drugstore, and you treated them like they were pets. You even named them.”
“Bow Top Green and Purple Monkey.” I smiled.
“That's right.” My mother nodded.
“How is Colette?” I asked, sitting down on the daybed. I hadn't talked to my sister since I arrived back in Vermont. She was living in New York with her ballet dancer boyfriend, Yari.
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