Who Is Frances Rain? (4 page)

Chapter Eight

LUNCH was the usual dismal affair. Rain Island could only be better. I was lowering my little canoe, Water Beetle, over the side of the dock when Gran called out from the veranda.

“Lizzie! Don't go far, now. I feel electricity in the air. Could be a storm building up.”

The lake was hazy under a trembling heat and the breeze had dropped a little. The waves were tiny ripples of black and silver. A fine film of wispy clouds was stretched low over the water.

Gran had a real feel for the weather most times, but it couldn't possibly rain on a day like this. Bram had plunked himself down on the floor of the canoe, and his flat ears with their fragrant curls shifted gently as we moved forward. Rain Island shimmered through the haze ahead.

When we neared its shadow, a breeze suddenly gusted around the corner and pushed at the Beetle. It was almost as if something was telling me to go back. I shifted my knees and settled down to keep us dead into the oncoming gusts. I hadn't come this far to give up now.

When we finally rounded the tip of the island, the wind suddenly died. I found a good place to land on the northwestern end, where a long rock sloped into the open waters behind me. A small break in the shoreline seemed made for the Beetle. I looked down. Could those strange dark shapes wavering below the surface be the broken pilings of an old dock? Maybe someone had actually lived on the island in days gone by. I liked that idea.

Bram hopped out and ran off, searching eagerly for new squirrels to terrorize. I pulled the Beetle up onto a mossy spot behind a clump of bushes and walked up the sun-scorched rocky slope towards the dark stand of trees.

The ground rose sharply towards the middle of the island. I came to the edge of the woods and walked through to the centre. Shafts of dusty yellow light cut through the ceiling of trees, laying patches of warm sunlight across the cool mossy bed below. The buzz of flies and piping of birds slowly faded, until I could hear nothing but my own breathing.

Bram was nowhere in sight. I opened my mouth to call him, but something made me stop. Everything was so peaceful. Ahead of me in a clearing, I noticed a flat rectangle of sunken moss, about twelve by sixteen feet. The rim around it was uneven and bulging, as if a green blanket had been thrown over a low open box.

It had to be the remains of a small cabin. I wasn't surprised. Somehow I knew it would be there. I crouched down at one corner of the box and pulled away a handful of moss. The pungent smell of moist red earth and rotting logs filled my nostrils.

Sitting down on a small flat rock, I cleared a spot where two logs had been notched to create a corner. I felt the uneven planes of the cut where an axe had chopped out chunks of hard white wood. Now, many years later, the logs were grey and spongy and crumbled in my fingers.

Who cut these logs? A trapper? A prospector? If I carefully dug my way around the cabin site over the next few weeks, it would be like an archaeological dig. Maybe I'd find some old bottles or tools.

Just then the sun disappeared. Everything was suddenly thrown into murky shadows. A cold mist seemed to push up from the ground around me.

I stood up and brushed off the back of my jeans. They were damp and soggy against my skin. When I leaned forward to put back the bits of moss, I heard a soft sigh beside my shoulder. My scalp prickled and goose bumps ran up and down my arms. Slowly and fearfully, I turned my head. There was nobody there. I started to breathe again.

All at once, a strong wind whistled a high-pitched warning above the trees, then swung lower to push around their branches. The trees slowly began to rock back and forth, their trunks swaying. I looked up uneasily, then fell forward when a rumble of thunder tailgating the wind brought something crashing through the bushes.

It was Bram. He ran as far as the edge of the cabin's buried skeleton. Then, hackles up, stiff-legged, he edged around the outside, looking at the sunken spot with rolling eyes. I had to laugh.

Bram hates thunder and usually turns into a bag of chicken bones at the first faint sounds of a storm. Overreaction is his middle name. He whimpered from a distance, his large brown eyes begging me to listen to reason and to get out of there.

“Bram,” I said, “don't worry, boy. It's just a storm building up. Come here, boy, this way.”

He was staring wild-eyed at something beside me, backing away and growling deep in his throat. When I took a step towards him, he bared his teeth and snarled.

“Bram? Cut it out!” Suddenly he was making me awfully nervous. “Stop it.”

He growled again, showing the whites of his eyes, and began to mince around himself in a stiff-legged circle. I inched towards him, not daring to look over my shoulder where his eyes were glued.

A clap of thunder hammering above our heads did it. I scurried past Bram towards the rocky slope. He lunged after me, snapping and snarling like a rabid wolf.

We were both out of breath when we reached the canoe. Bram sat down beside it, a dumb bewildered look on his face. I pushed the Beetle into the water and held it steady for the killer dog. He walked around me first, sniffing and whining, put one paw on my leg and gazed adoringly into my eyes before climbing slowly into the canoe, shivering and shaking like an old, old man with a chill.

Across the bay the trees were shaking their branches over dark choppy waves, and the sky was full of black, swirling clouds. How could all of this have happened in the short time I'd been in the clearing? Was I going to sit out the storm or try for home? Sensible had never been
my
middle name, so naturally I pushed out from shore.

Crawling into the middle of the Beetle, I stayed on my knees and dug the paddle deep. By now, the wind was gusting in every direction, and because it hadn't made up its mind which way it wanted to blow, the waves in the sheltered strip between the two islands were still fairly small.

As I edged my way around Little Island's tip about twenty minutes later, a crack of lightning followed by a roller coaster of thunder threw Bram into another fit of the shakes. He crouched low on the bottom of the canoe, waiting for the Big Dog Catcher in the sky to come and get him. That was fine with me, because he'd been pacing back and forth, and the waves were getting bigger. I'd had to rap him a couple of times with the paddle and shout death threats to keep him from tipping us over.

The west wind had got a toe-hold between Gran's shore and us, and I knew that I'd never make it. The waves crashed against the rocks on Little Island. Despite my frantic paddling, we hardly moved, and my arms were aching so badly I had to give them a rest. I raised the paddle, slammed it across the gunwales, and watched helplessly as Gran's shore steadily moved away from us.

Chapter Nine

ANOTHER white-hot streak of lightning and deep roll of thunder collided right above our heads, and a musky smell of rain-washed pines and earth swept over us. Then the sky opened up. Huge drops of water splatted sideways into the white-capped waves. In a few seconds they became heavy curtains of pounding rain.

I tried paddling again — hard on the left and then the right, then hard left backpaddle, then right. Paddling hard going nowhere. I don't need to tell you that I hadn't brought a life jacket along. If Gran found out I'd be better off dead.

Dead?

This thought got the paddle going in double quick time. The wind was strong. I looked behind. The needle rocks of Little Island were waiting. I was doomed.

“Eeeelizabeth!” came a wavery voice through the grey wall in front of me. “Eeelizaaabeth! Can you seee meee? I'm over heere.”

It took me a second or two to figure out that it was a live human being in a boat, not some spook from Rain Island. The driver was sitting in a half crouch at the back of the boat, straining to see through the rain. It was Tim.

I was awfully glad to see him. Probably for the first time ever. Then it dawned on me that he hadn't seen
me
. The brim of his gob hat had fallen into his eyes.

“Turn the handle! Hey, Tim!” I screamed, standing up, and waving my arms. “Turn the boat! Push the handle. Turn the ... turn the ...”

As usual, he had to think this out. Of course, he had to push his hat back and wave.
Then
he turned the handle and cut the engine. That way, he hit us broadside instead of head on. If I'd been sitting down, I could have kept Bram and myself from falling in. But I wasn't. So we did.

“Elizabeth!” I heard Tim bellow as I went under.

From where I was, heads up in the water, I could see he had hold of Bram's collar with one hand and the Beetle with the other. He hauled Bram in, flipped the Beetle over and dropped it bottom-up over the seats. I waved and swam through the slanting downpour and caught his outstretched hand. He patted all three of us in turn, just to make sure, I think, that we were actually in the boat.

The wind was tipping us up and over the waves towards Little Island. We'd have to move fast.

“Do you want me to drive?” I shouted, spluttering through the rain that was filling my mouth. “I know that motor. It's tricky.”

“I'm okay,” he shouted back. “I've been driving it back and forth in front of Terry's for the past hour. I've got it down to a science.” He grinned through his dripping beard.

“Put the handle just above start,” I called hopping to the middle seat to get closer. “Gran's fixed it so many times that it only starts in —”

“Start?” he asked, looking intently at the steaming engine. “Right. I wasn't putting it there before. It still started. Beginner's luck, I guess.”

“Don't! Don't start it in start,” I cried, then ducked as he stood up and gave the rope a gigantic pull, and another. And another.

Finally it dawned on him that all the muscle in the world was not going to start that damn engine. The rain didn't mind. It just kept pouring down like sand out of a dump truck. Tim, by this time, was looking helplessly around, pulling and straining. I didn't want a sock in the side of the head, so I kicked him in the ankle. Hard.

“Ouch! Elizabeth, what the —”

“Get out of the way!” I shrieked in his face. “Unless you want to end up on those rocks.”

Despite his size, he can move pretty lively. I set the handle and gave the rope a short sharp pull. The sweet sound of a bubbling propeller started below. Putting it into reverse, I slowly manoeuvred us away from the rocks. We turned into the wind like a bathtub full of water. Once I had the nose pointed directly into the force, I raised the horsepower and we sliced through the black, foam-capped waves towards home.

Tim was sitting hunched and forlorn on the bow seat facing me, one huge arm steadying the little canoe, which was shuddering and heaving as it tried to fly. His hat sagged around his head, the rain sheeting off the brim into his beard. I couldn't believe the dumb jerk had headed out in this storm to rescue me. He'd never driven a boat before.

“Thanks,” I shouted.

“Wha'?” he asked, lifting his head. I think I was as surprised as he was.

“I said, thanks. Thanks for coming. I was getting kinda scared out there.”

He grinned and slammed the Beetle's bottom. And for some reason, his toothy grin didn't bother me at all.

Chapter Ten

THE next morning I lay contentedly in bed listening to the thin chinking of a yellow warbler in the small birch beside my window. Then it dawned on me. What the heck was I feeling so contented about? I pushed my face farther into the soft pillow and sighed. If I got out of bed, I'd have to face my family.

I rolled over on my back. Dinner had been pretty bad again and to make matters worse, Alex Bird had been there taking the whole thing in.

He and Evan had spent the afternoon catching pickerel way off in the southwest corner of the lake when the storm hit. They'd found shelter with a young couple who'd set up a permanent home and planned to run a trapline in the winter. Lucky ducks. Imagine being able to live on Rain Lake year round.

They'd all played cards until the rain let up around six, and the two guys showed up just in time to polish off the chicken and potato salad and to get in on Act II of the Honeymooners Go to Camp. Up to then, the rest of us had been making small talk. Very small. But at least Tim hadn't mentioned my fall in the drink, or that, when he'd rescued me, I didn't have a life jacket on. I think he didn't mention anything because Mother wasn't talking to him. Or to Gran. Or to me. She had just cut another slice of pie for Erica and was silently picking at her own when Evan decided the party needed livening up.

“So, when are you going home, Mother?” he asked, all innocence and light. “Did Alex give you the telegram? The one from your office? That's why he came over today instead of tomorrow.”

Mother looked down at her plate and carefully cut her raisin pie into small squares. “Yes, he did, thank you. And I wasn't aware that I'd given you the right to read my mail.”

He shrugged. “I just assumed it was important or they wouldn't have sent one. So, when are you going back?” He looked at Tim and back at her, like a cat teasing two mice.

“No one's going anywhere for a while, Evan,” said Tim. “And if and when your mother decides to go, we'll let you know.” He looked at Mother. “You didn't mention a telegram.”

Ever seen anyone talk through clenched teeth and smile at the same time? It looked like it hurt.

Mother examined her pie. “It wasn't important. I'll go over to the lodge tomorrow and give them a call.”

Erica spoke up through a mouthful of raisins. “You
can't
go home, Mama. We just got here. Can she, Tim? We're going to hike over to Cross Lake on the portage. Right, Tim?”

Mother looked at her fork. “I didn't say I was going anywhere.” She placed the fork squarely in the middle of cut-up pie. “And if I go, it will be my decision. I have a job that demands my time. I can't just take time off whenever I feel like it. Not like some people.” She stood up and started to stack dishes. “And some people don't seem to realize that I had a life before they moved in and I still have it. And what I decide to do,
I
decide to do. Not some people.”

Tim stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I don't think anyone here wants to interfere with your career plans, counsellor. Just remember that your life includes a few more people than you, okay? Your decisions may ... what is it you lawyers say ... your decisions may impact on third parties.”

“What does impact mean?” asked Erica.

“Impact? Oh, it means a collision of sorts,” replied Tim, and when Erica frowned over that one, he said, “Or a bump. Like when you have a door slammed in your face.” He looked at Mother.

“You mean like maybe a car crash?” Erica offered. “A real smash-up?”

“Yes, something like that,” he said quietly.

Mother looked at him, startled. Then she turned and stalked into the kitchen. The sounds of slamming doors and clattering dishes echoed back to us. When Tim got up to clear the table, Gran removed some plates from his hands.

“I don't believe in women being the only ones in the kitchen,” she said quietly, “but tonight if I were you, I'd leave well enough alone.” Louder she said, “Evan, you go in there and give your ma a hand. Erica can clear. Lizzie helped make dinner, so she and Alex can work on that new puzzle of mine in the corner. Tim, you and I need a drink. Whisky okay with you?”

Evan's stupid satisfied grin turned into a gargoyle-level scowl, but he did as he was told. He's never worked up the nerve to cross Gran.

When she walked across the room, I thought I saw a strange stiffness in her walk. She was rubbing her left arm as if it were hurting her. Could she be sick? I gave that idea a hard shove, but when she turned and I saw how pale her face was under the dark tan, a fine thread of worry pulled it back.

She mixed their drinks and sat down across from Tim. Surely, it was just the dull light that made her skin look so grey. Tim must have said something funny then, because she laughed and flapped her hand at him. He rumbled back. There was nothing to worry about, I told myself. Funny how we can snow ourselves sometimes.

“Hey! Earth to Lizzie. Earth to Lizzie. Come in please.”

Alex's voice close to my ear brought me back to life. I looked into his dark eyes and blinked.

“Good,” he said, “I thought you'd gone to another planet.”

“Sorry, I was thinking.”

“Do girls do that? I've often wondered,” he said. “Don't strain too many cells up there, okay? You'll need them to put together this puzzle. Your gran picks up the toughies.”

I pushed him aside. “Did you know girls are better at puzzles than boys?”

“Oh, is that so? And how do you know that?”

“My English teacher this year hates men, so she told all the girls what to look out for and what we're better at. Puzzles are one of those things.”

I wanted to eat my words. Millions of tiny pieces were spread across the table.

“Well, this ought to separate the girls from the boys,” he said, squinting at them. “Sit down, and prove how good you are at
this
.”

I spent the next five minutes trying to make one bit of blue fit into a partially finished sky. Alex was working on a section of grass, and he was dropping pieces in one after the other. What I needed was a decoy. Erica's round cookie face came like a gift from heaven across the ocean of blue pieces. She sat down beside me and began fiddling with the little piles of sky I'd collected.

“Erica! I won't get any more pieces in if you keep mucking around in them.”

“Don't you mean, you won't even get one in?” Alex said.

I snarled and pushed Erica and her chair to the other side of the table. Alex's hand dodged around, picking and fitting. The more pieces he fitted, the more I stared at the big hole in the sky. My brain had gone into neutral.

I never thought I'd be glad to see Evan walk into a room. The relief lasted about two seconds. He lounged up to us and bumped the table with his hip.

“Hey, Birdie, let's go to my room and play cards. Get away from the riffraff,” he said, rolling his r's with disdain.

“Huh? Yeah. In a minute,” Alex said, handing me a piece and pointing to a spot by my left hand. “Look, kid, I'll give you a break. Leave the sky. Do the apple orchard.”

I took the piece of pink apple blossoms and tried to make it fit, but couldn't.

“Are you sure this goes here, or are you slowing me down?” I muttered savagely, trying to squeeze the rounded corner into a square space.

His hand closed over mine and moved it and the piece of candy pink to the right spot. “It fits. Maybe if you worked upside down, you'd see better. Like Erica. She's put in three. See?”

I didn't see anything but the slim brown hand over mine. It felt cool and dry. My own was hot and clammy. I pulled it away, found another piece and fit it in. Sheer dumb luck.

“There,” he said, close to my ear. “With that in, we've started the hardest part. Your section has the most daisies. You girls do them. Real men don't do daisies.”

“Then how come you're doing apple blossoms?” I asked.

“They're trees. That's different.”

Alex took Erica's hand and showed her where to put the little bit in her hand. They grinned at each other. I'd never noticed how white his teeth were before.

Evan bumped the table again. A hard sharp push. Before we could stop it, half of the completed section fell to the floor, breaking into a crumpled pile.

“Evan!” screeched Erica.

“Hey, watch it, Bozo Brain,” said Alex. “Your gran'll kill us.”

Evan checked over his shoulder. Gran and Tim were busy talking. Feeling safe, he gave each of us our own very nasty sneer before saying, “Are you going to leave these wretches and retire to my room to play poker or what? Maybe you
like
playing finger-feelings with Elizabarf?”

I knew I was blushing. I hated it. “You are
such
a creep, Evan.” He grinned.

“I can think of worse things to do,” said Alex. “Like being pushed around by you.” He leaned back in his chair. “Are you running for jackass of the year or what? Have you given any thought to becoming human again?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Evan's little beak of a nose looked suddenly pinched as if it had picked up a smell it didn't like. “Forget it, Birdie Boy. I've suddenly lost interest in cards. The company definitely bores me.”

He stomped out, his skinny shoulders hunched forward in anger. I felt almost sorry for the poor schmuck.

It took about half an hour to fix the puzzle, and a few minutes after that, I watched the light from Alex's flash bob down the trail towards the dock. We hadn't said much during the clean-up and had muttered good-bye at the veranda door, but now I saw the light hesitate, then it turned and shone on me.

“Say, how come you didn't come with us today?”

“I was out in the canoe. Besides, you guys never asked me.”

“I asked you when you were in the kitchen with Aunt May.”

“You call that an invitation?”

“Since when does anyone need an invite to go fishing?”

“No girls, no way, remember?” I reminded him.

“Oh. Right. Next time I'll send an engraved invite.”

“How nice.”

“Or I can ask you right now. You can come next time. If you want.”

“And next time, I may be terribly busy. Check with my secretary and we'll get back to you.” I marched into the veranda.

He laughed and shouted, “Will do, Ms. McGill. My secretary will contact your secretary and we'll do lunch.”

I listened to the fading drone of his motor for a few minutes, wondering what I really thought of this new Alexander Bird. The word interesting definitely came to mind.