Larkspur Cove (5 page)
“So, nobody hurt?” Any minute now, the lawyer would whip out an affidavit and want me to sign it. “No injuries?”
“They’re lucky,” I said, and then I let him know that I was willing to cut a deal, of a sort. In general, my policy on juvenile offenders was that I’d rather work with the parents than ticket the kid. Once I wrote a citation for something like Minor In Possession of Alcohol, the whole thing moved into juvenile court.
“I’ve got Max, here, for unlawfully operating the boat, evading arrest, and minor in possession of alcohol. There’s a Corps of Engineers water safety course starting two weeks from today. You sign him up, and I won’t ticket him.”
The kid’s mouth dropped open like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. “Football camp starts next week.” He gave me a look that said,
Whatever, dude. My daddy’s here now. You can’t do
anything to me.
I just handed Dad my card and a brochure for the course and said, “Think it over and let me know by five p.m. tomorrow.”
“We didn’t
do
anything,” the kid whined. “I know how to drive the stupid boat. I’m less than two flippin’ months away from getting my driver’s license. Big flippin’ deal that I didn’t take the boater course yet.”
Dad shot him a down-the-nose bewildered look that said he couldn’t figure how this kid he’d bought all the nice toys for could go sour. “Get in the car.”
While his dad was busy tucking away my card and the brochure, Max flashed a grin at his friends and headed for the door.
Pop Dorsey slapped a hand on the counter.“Son, you better show your daddy some more respect before you land in a heap of trouble.” Until then, Pop had kept quiet and stayed out of things.
“Daddy . . .” Sheila gasped under her breath. She gave me an apologetic look.
I just shook my head and watched Max go. Kids like him made me glad I didn’t have kids.
The rest of the parents showed up one by one, and we repeated the excuse-making and the begging and the smart-aleck looks and the thing about the water safety class. By the time I finally got down to the last kid – Dustin, the scrawny one in the corner – I’d pretty much run dry on diplomacy. Dealing with the public was the worst part of my job. Out in the Big Bend country, you could drive all day and never see another human soul. If it was deer season, we had some hunters, and in the winter a few snowbirds or families on vacation, and some hikers in the mountains, but mostly the job was you, the wildlife, the ranchers, and a lot of wide-open space.
But there were worse things than having to deal with the public all day – like having to deal with your own demons. It’s pretty much a given that it’s easier to sort out other people’s issues than your own.
In the far booth, Dustin looked like he didn’t want anyone in his business. Pressed into the corner so tight there wasn’t an inch between him and the wall, he sagged over the table like a potted plant left out in the sun too long. Pop Dorsey wheeled by and asked him if he wanted something to drink, and the kid just shook his head and drooped lower, picking at a crack in the Formica. Considering that he’d been sitting there for nearly two hours, waiting for a responsible adult to show up for him, he was probably thirsty.
“You sure someone’s coming for you?” I asked. I’d stood over their shoulders while each of the kids called Mom or Dad for a ride. Dustin took two or three tries at it before he got hold of anybody. Then he had to beg the person to come after him. Looked like his mom and dad were too busy for him, too.
The kid nodded, mumbling,“My aunt Megan’s coming.” Looping his arms on the table, he slid lower and let his forehead rest on his fists. “I guess.” The last words wallowed between his face and the Formica. Pop Dorsey gave a sympathetic look and shook his head, frowning.
“I’m not letting you go until somebody shows up for you.” It crossed my mind to wonder whether Dustin had faked the phone call. Maybe he thought if he held out long enough, I’d just give up and let him walk out of here. He could waltz on home and act like it had been a normal day at the lake.
Hey, Mom, what’s for dinner?
“I know,” he muttered.
I watched him a minute longer. Didn’t look like he cared whether anyone came for him or not. “I’ve got your name and address.” I took a step closer, figuring the easiest thing would be to take him on home and talk to the mom or dad. “Let’s just head on over there and be done with it, son.” The address he’d given me was in a gated community on Larkspur Cove that had been there since not long after the lake was opened to the public. Back in the day, Larkspur Estates was the place to be. The lots were old and large, and the houses sat up high, with a view of the whole county and long walkways down to private boathouses. When we were kids, we used to row over to the cove in our johnboat and drift along the shore looking at the rich girls and wishing they’d look back.
“Nobody’s home.” The kid lifted his head, then let it bounce off his fists like a tetherball, over, and over, and over. That had to hurt.
“We’ll just wait here, then.”
His shoulders inflated, then sank, and he shook his head, his face still buried in his arms. “I cannn-tell my mom-mat-hurfm-sahhh-bout-mrrff-class’n stuff ’m.” The tabletop probably heard him just fine, but all I could make out was a word or two. On my worst day as a potential juvenile delinquent, I wouldn’t have sat there talking to an adult with my face in the table like a kindergartner at nap-time. My mama taught me better than that. The problem was that these days too many kids hadn’t been taught a thing – not even the simple stuff, like how to sit up, look somebody in the eye, and take your trouble like a man.
You’re big enough to climb the rope; you’re big
enough to take the fall,
my daddy always said. Experimentation and hard knocks were the only two schools he had any faith in.
You hit
the dirt a few times, you’ll learn.
Dustin looked like he didn’t have a clue about hard knocks. He had arms about as big around as number-two pencils, and his skin had been sunburned raw-meat red where it stuck out of his T-shirt. He had about as much business climbing the Scissortail as I did dancing the
Nutcracker
ballet. Playing Nintendo probably didn’t teach you how far down a body goes when it hits the water with the kind of velocity you get from jumping off a tower like the Scissortail.
“Kid, you want to tell me something, you look me in the eye like a man. Otherwise, just sit there and be quiet.” I flipped the page over in my notebook and started working on the day’s log. No sense taking all the paperwork home. Then again, I probably wouldn’t go home until I had to – too quiet there. I’d hang around the lake, see if I could catch Len running unmarked lines or popping some dove out of season.
It was always a game – finding the guys who thought that if you didn’t get caught for something, it wasn’t wrong. Up until now, I just hadn’t had the heart to go after old Len too much. He’d be easy to catch. You didn’t have to cross paths with Len more than once to know he was a brick or two short of a load. If he had a hunting license, he probably couldn’t read the book that came with it. You had to feel a little sorry for the guys who were poaching so they could eat, though. Catching Len wouldn’t really be any fun. . . .
Maybe I’d settle for sliding Pop Dorsey’s screen door off the hinges, then hauling it home, putting some braces on the corners, and fixing a new latch.The thing was out there flapping in the breeze again, bouncing back and forth between the doorframe and the wall, making a steady rhythm that’d drive me buggy after a while. Sheila and Dorsey didn’t even seem to notice.
The kid kept lifting his head up and letting it bounce against his hand, making the table rattle between two legs that were missing the metal caps, and about a half inch shorter than the other two. Noisy half inch.
Sheila glanced up from cleaning the warmer in the café area and noticed me checking the lake. “Mart, you see anything unusual over there by the Big Boulders – any strange tracks or anything? Burt and Nester will want to know when they show up to play dominoes. They’re still arguing about what was over there earlier.”
“Didn’t get a chance to look. Busy bringing in this bunch of man-eaters.” I thumbed toward the kid. His leg was jitterbugging against the seat now, making the vinyl squeak along with the table rattling. If somebody didn’t come pick up Dustin soon, I’d have to go after some duct tape.
A sheriff ’s department call came in before the kid drove me all the way crazy. During a traffic stop, a deputy had nailed two guys transporting live alligators in a stock trailer. All four guys had different stories about where the gators came from, and the whole thing sounded like one of those redneck-brilliant ideas that seem good after a few days in the woods and one too many six-packs.
I asked how big the gators were, and the deputy said, “Heck if I know. Big. I’m not getting in there and measuring ’em. Big enough. These fellas are lucky they’ve still got all their hands and feet. They sober up a little, they’ll probably realize that.” As usual, the deputy only wanted to turn the whole thing over, which was typical of the sheriff ’s deputies in this particular county. Looked like my day was about to get a lot more interesting.
I hung up and thought,
Now what am I gonna do with this kid?
He’d sat himself up and perked an ear my way, listening in on the call about the gators. For about a half a second, he seemed interested, then as soon as I turned toward him, he slouched in his seat, remembering the two of us weren’t friends.
“Son, I’m leaving you here with Pop Dorsey and Sheila until your aunt shows up for you.You don’t move out of this bench until then. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he muttered, looking down at the table again. Now that his friends were gone, he’d lost some of the teenage attitude. Most of them do. You take their buddies away, they’re just scared little kids in bodies they still need to grow into.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”
He fluttered bloodshot brown eyes my way and fidgeted his hands around.
“I’m telling you the same thing I told the rest of your buddies. I don’t know what the bunch of you had in mind for later, but you’re lucky I caught you before y’all dipped into the beer and did something real stupid.”
He nodded but didn’t answer. Hard to say if he was scared or not. Really, the kid looked like he didn’t care if I threw him under the truck and ran over him on my way out.
“You can go on home when your aunt gets here.” No choice about that. By the time I made it to the other end of the county, went through the paperwork to press charges, and figured out what to do with the contraband gators, it’d be the middle of the night. “Your mom or dad home in the mornings?”
“My mom. They’re divorced.”
“You let her know I’ll be by at seven fifteen a.m. to talk to her. You make sure she’s there.” I couldn’t wait to see what kind of mom went with this kid.
“Okay.” He slumped over the table, folding his arms and sliding slowly forward again. I felt a pinch of pity for the kid, but pity wouldn’t do him any good. What he needed was a lesson – the kind that keeps you from doing something stupid, twice.
The rainbows of life come after the storms.
– Anonymous
(via Pop Dorsey, proprietor,
Waterbird Bait and Grocery)
Andrea Henderson
By the time I made it home to Larkspur Estates, limping along on the spare tire that Rowdy Ray had installed in a torrential downpour, I was damp, dirty, and emotionally numb. Rowdy Ray had been kind enough to send a text to Megan, letting her know I was all right, but as I entered the neighborhood, my mind spun ahead. My thoughts raced beyond the park and the tennis courts, past the private boat ramp, to the back of Sunrise Loop, where Highline Way jutted over the water on a finger of land surrounded by lake homes aging gracefully beneath cedars, live oaks, and crepe myrtles established long enough to have thick, knobby trunks.
In my childhood, a trip to the lake house had always meant freedom from an overly demanding private school in Dallas, a packed schedule of church activities, social engagements, piano lessons, ballet recitals, mother-daughter luncheons at the Lady’s Club, book reviews, and other activities Megan and I dreaded. The lake house had always been a place to get away from those things, to shuck off the straitjacket.
When Dustin was little, we’d enjoyed family vacations here, but after Karl and I moved to Houston, the lake house was relinquished to the capable hands of a rental agency until Megan’s twins came along and my parents regained their vacation home. Dustin and I were fortunate that it was there when we needed it. The lake house was a quiet place, a good place to heal, except for the pressure of being constantly under my parents’ scrutiny.
As I neared the driveway, anticipating their comments on today’s fiasco, I felt the air going out of me. Next door, two little blond-haired girls – the neighbor’s grandchildren, I presumed – had set up a lemonade stand, the way Megan and I might have in the past.Their sign read,
Ansley and Sydney’s Lemonade Copany
, sans
M
. They waved hopefully at me as I approached, then frowned and backed off when they saw where I was turning in. Shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Blue had bought the place last year, my mother had started a dispute regarding property lines and hedges. The Blues now steered clear of us, like all the rest of the neighbors. Sydney and Ansley watched like voyeurs at an alien landing as I parked behind my father’s vehicle, gathered my things, and made my way into the house.
