Three Bird Summer (6 page)

She gave me a concerned maternal look. “You should come over to our place!” she said.

I stole a glance at Alice, who looked uneasy. I should have guessed. Girls had that way of smiling sweetly in front of other people but showing their claws when grown-ups turned their heads.

“You have a lot of guests,” I said, trying to find a polite way out.

“Not anymore,” Mrs. Jensen said. “It’s back to Alice, her dad, and me. We have games. TV. Ping-Pong. Wireless. What else are you supposed to do in all this rain?”

I nodded uncomfortably. Alice stared out the window.

“So visit us!” she said. “It’s either that or — what? Read the dictionary?” She burst out laughing at her own joke.

“Thanks. I’ll think about it,” I finally mumbled.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I think it was Grandma’s moment to invite Alice and her mom to stay for a cup of tea or something. But Grandma seemed to have reached the limits of her sociability.

“Well, it was nice of you to stop by,” she said. “You probably want to get back and put those groceries away.”

Luckily, Mrs. Jensen didn’t seem to take offense. “Oh, these are for you! Your daughter mentioned that you’d be without a driver while she was away, so Alice and I thought we’d pick you up a few things while we were out.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” Grandma said. I eyed her nervously, wondering if she was going to get grumpy with Mrs. Jensen the way she did with Mom.

“Oh, it was our pleasure!” Mrs. Jensen said. She turned to me. “There’s ice cream in one of those bags. You’ll want to put that in the freezer right away.”

“We got chocolate chocolate chip,” Alice said to me. “Hope that works for you.”

Chocolate chocolate chip was one of my favorites, but I didn’t feel like mentioning that to Alice.

“Sure,” I said.

“You really shouldn’t be worrying about us,” Grandma said. “Bobbie only left yesterday. And she’ll be home the day after tomorrow!”

“Well, it’s hard to keep the milk fresh,” said Mrs. Jensen. “Now, call if you need anything else.” She turned to me. “And I meant that about coming over. Alice gets lonely these days, too!”

Alice didn’t look like the kind of girl who ever got lonely. And, in fact, I caught her rolling her eyes again.

“Good-bye now,” Mrs. Jensen called. “You two take care!”

“Bye,” Alice said.

We watched them get back into their car, turn around, and disappear down the drive. Then we stayed staring for a few moments longer . . . still a couple of dumb chickens, I guess, trying to figure out what had just happened. We headed back into the cabin, which felt strangely empty now without Mrs. Jensen’s big laughter filling up every corner.

I closed the dictionary. After four more days of rain, I was getting to know boredom so well, I hardly needed the dictionary: I could have written a whole encyclopedia.

At home, there’d been an itchy restless kind of boredom, like when Mom delivered a monologue about the “fascinating” trip her colleague had taken to a French monastery.

At school, there’d been the zoned-out kind of boredom of listening to a bad teacher drone on for an hour, making my brain sink into sleep mode like an idle computer.

On the road, there’d been the kind of suffocating boredom that comes from being inside a car with the windows rolled up and nothing to look at but the dust on the dashboard and the yellow and white lines on the pavement.

But here at the cabin, there was a different kind of boredom altogether — a monotony that made time slow down in a crazy way. I didn’t feel itchy or tired or suffocated. I just felt emptied out. Was this how the pioneers felt living day after day with nothing but the trees for company? Except they had the drama of survival, and I didn’t even have that, what with a snug cabin, electricity, and a stocked fridge.

Across the room, Grandma had her head tilted back on the sofa cushion and was taking her afternoon siesta. Mom was cleaning out the storage area under the cabin. She’d come home late Thursday night, and now we were back to healthy dinners and not-so-healthy bickering. Maybe the bickering was why she’d decided to clean the storage area. It was as far away as someone could get from the main part of the cabin without having to be out in the rain.

After slipping the dictionary back onto the bookshelf, I spent a little while staring at my toes and trying to imagine how much farther they were away from my head than they used to be. I got out an old marker and drew fake freckles on my arm. I leaned my head back against the chair and stared at the Three Bird Lake banner, then closed my eyes to see if I could remember the placement of each beak, every feather. I opened my eyes and checked my accuracy. Closed them and tried again. Finally I stood up. I had to get out of here. So what if it was raining? A little rain couldn’t be worse than this.

I went outside and walked to the end of the dock. The lake was dark and gray like the sky above. Raindrops stippled the surface of the water, but there wasn’t much of a wind.

I walked up to the storage area, where I could hear my mom shoving boxes around on the concrete floor. “Want to go for a paddle?” I called.

“What’s that?” she asked, popping up from behind Uncle Martin’s old catamaran. Her hair was pulled back in a bandanna, and she wore work gloves. She was taking this cleaning job very seriously.

“Want to go for a paddle?” I asked again.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Adam, but I’m really in the middle of things here. And I vowed I’d get all the deep cleaning done this week so I can get back to my editing.”

“I guess I’ll go out on my own, then,” I told her, hoping she’d feel sorry for me and change her mind.

But all she said was “Good for you.”

I hesitated, then picked up a life jacket and a paddle from the hooks on the wall.

Down at the dock, I hauled the canoe into the water and climbed inside, sitting backward in the bow seat as Grandma had taught me to do. One quick push off the dock, and I was on my way.

The rain wasn’t so bad even on the lake. It felt more like a tickly kind of mist than a real shower. I started paddling along the edge of Grandma’s property, staying close to the shoreline. The bluff rose so steeply here that all I could see on my right was a wall of green — no cabin, no people. It felt strangely wild, as if I’d entered a different world, where anything was possible. Would I come upon a nesting loon? Would a moose suddenly rise up out of the shrubs, water dripping from its antlers? I paddled quietly and looked hard. But all I saw were a lot of wet shrubs without so much as a grasshopper in sight. Maybe the animals, too, had decided to make it a cabin day.

Eventually Grandma’s woods gave way to the grounds of the neighboring church camp. I had to turn away from the shoreline and head out into open water to avoid the camp swimming area, bounded off by ropes. None of the campers were out now, but I heard the faint sound of singing coming from one of the buildings. I stopped paddling and floated offshore. I was the only person on the water. I was an explorer. I was a spy.

I suppose if I’d been really brave, I would have taken off for the marsh on the other side of the lake. But in a way it was more fun to linger on the edge of civilization. Besides, when I turned the canoe back in the direction of Grandma’s cabin, I discovered that the rain was blowing straight into my face. I had to paddle hard, pausing now and then to wipe the water out of my eyes.

As I rounded the last bend in the shoreline, I saw a figure sitting on the edge of the Jensens’ dock. I dipped my paddle gently into the water, hoping to be silent and blend in with the curtain of mist. But it was Alice, and she had no trouble spotting me. When I turned the canoe in for a landing, she stood up and waved, beckoning me over. Reluctantly, I shifted course and paddled over to her dock. At least I’d had some time to practice my skills before paddling solo in front of her.

“Hi,” she said. Her hair was loose, and she was wearing a T-shirt, cutoffs, and faded Converse sneakers. “You’re soaked!”

I shrugged. “It’s raining.”

She laughed, a junior version of her mother’s big laugh. She thought I was making a deadpan joke. I tried to look like someone who said funny, deadpan things.

She eyed the canoe. “Can I get in?” she asked.

“Um, OK,” I said uncomfortably. “You don’t mind getting wet?”

“I’m not exactly staying dry sitting here!” Alice said, laughing again.

“Oh, right,” I said. “You need a paddle, though. And a life jacket.”

“How very Boy Scouty of you,” she responded. “Let me go check our storage box.”

She started to turn away, but I stopped her.

“Um, you know what?” I said. “I was actually just about to go in. I mean, I’m pretty soaked, like you said . . .”

“Oh, OK,” she said. “Sure thing.”

It was a relief to be off the hook. Or sort of, anyway. Alice looked at me like she was sizing me up, girl style. Those X-ray eyes.

“Would you be interested in trying again tomorrow, or not so much?” she ventured.

“Sure,” I said, out of excuses.

“If you bring an extra paddle, I’ll be sure to have my life jacket on,” she said. “Scout’s honor,” she added, holding up her hand in a mock pledge.

I smiled. “Okeydoke,” I said, sounding just like my mom. But Alice let it go.

“We have this bell,” she said, pointing to an old black bell hanging on the end of the dock. “Just ring!”

I nodded and paddled home. I really was soaked, and I felt cold, shivery, and strangely unsettled now.

But I didn’t feel bored. Definitely not bored.

“I’M GOING IN
to take a shower,” I called to my mom as I returned the life jacket and paddle to the storage area.

She was standing over my grandfather’s old workbench, dropping nails and screws into rusty coffee cans. “How was your paddle?” she asked, not bothering to look up.

“Good,” I said.

“See anything interesting out there?”

“Nope,” I said, turning away. My ears had a habit of turning red when I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to take a chance that Mom would see them now.

“I’m going to take a break in a minute,” she said. “I need to go to town for more cleaning supplies. Want me to wait for you?”

“Nah, you go ahead,” I said.

I went inside and took a long, hot shower. Afterward I stood in front of the mirror over my dresser. I combed my wet hair, then checked out my arm muscles again. So far the paddling hadn’t had any visible effect; I was still the proud owner of a pair of egg-size muscles. I frowned and pulled on a clean T-shirt. It was then that I noticed something new tucked into the corner of the mirror. Below the postcard and the picture of me from kindergarten was a folded-up piece of paper, like the note that had fallen off the bookcase. I tugged it out and opened it up. Sure enough, it was a note from Grandma. But not the same one as before.

I sat on my bed and read it through.

I reread the note, then looked up at the mirror. Could it have been there all along, and I just hadn’t noticed it till now? Doubtful but not impossible. But why would Grandma store old personal notes in such a public place? She was usually much more private than that.

Or maybe the note wasn’t old. The paper was crisp and white, and the handwriting was Grandma’s shaky old-lady cursive. This wasn’t an old note to my grandfather. It was a
new
note to him. And he’d been dead for twenty years!