_____________________________
He was still in his sweats when he got close to the cottage. It was almost two hours north, and he was proud of himself for what he'd done--leaving without going home, just driving up the lake shore alone. It was dark, but he knew the roads without looking, felt the highway narrow the closer he came to the cottage, traffic falling away because it was a Tuesday night in late spring, there was no traffic north of the city, and it's still cold on the lake shore.
What his father told him that night they talked for the first time, for the only time, was that someday he'd understand what his father had done. "You're almost a man," he'd said. "Someday you'll understand because you'll know, too. You can almost grow a beard," he'd said, laughing. Laughing. The guy's laughing. "It never was right, Darren," he told him. "What you have to understand is that it never was right between your mother and me, and you can't live with what you don't love. You'll know. You're almost a man. You'll understand. I don't expect you to forgive me now, but some day you will. I'd bet on it."
In the old days, they'd stayed up late after long days on the beach, feeling that glow you get from all day in the sun. They'd play Rook and Old Maid and Chinese Checkers in the light of a lamp or two and the fire, snapping and crackling, a fire you could gaze at for hours with the sound of the waves outside rocking the whole place into sleepiness. Looking into a fire, hearing the water. Things like that put you to sleep almost--staring into a fire, listening to the surf quiet down for the night. Something good, something forever.
Right there at that cottage, his father laid the secretary. For months it went on, and now he was going to burn it down, he told himself. It didn't just come to him either. He'd thought about it for a long time. When he got to the lane, he parked the car up at Rasmussen's. No one was around. It was cold on the lake.
He hiked up the beach past the Andersons, the Burrells, the VanGorps--past the old bleached stump shining like a ghost in the moon just coming up over the waves, cold as silver ice. He jogged in the cold, hard sand along the shore until he came to the cove, and then came to the place where the cottage stood beneath the pines, this little cottage, Grandpa's cottage, nothing spectacular either, an antique just over the dune at the edge of the woods. It was no palace, but they'd had good times there. No kidding. If it were lighter out he'd have been able to see the peak he'd painted himself not that long ago, leaning down from a perch on the roof.
He walked to the door and tried it, but it was locked; so he went around back, picked up the big pail at the back porch, and when he got to the bathroom window put the it down to get up high enough to reach above the sill for the key. It wasn't there.
Had to be his father that took it. Had to be. They always kept it there.
Ever since he left the track, he'd been thinking that he had to do it. The place had to be torched. There had to be an end to something. Couldn't be anything new before something old burned down.
He checked the sill again, but found nothing. He had no matches. He could knock out a window, get inside, and rip the place apart. For sure he'd get away with it because it happened all the time on the lake, kids trashing cottages. Nobody would know except his parents--and they would know. Make no mistake about that. They'd know. But trashing it wasn't the point. The place had to go.
He pushed the pail under another window and felt along the wet sill, thinking maybe his old man hid the key. Nothing. He stepped down and kicked the pail. It tumbled down the hill and into the trees. He walked around the side porch, past windows drawn and curtained. The moon lit the place brightly, the birches still leafless and white as dry bones.
He felt through the cut wood piled at the side of the house, found a log small enough to wield, something he could get in his hands, then looked around. Nothing moved anywhere. Nobody was down at the lake shore this time of year. He was the only one around.
He'd married her, that accountant or secretary or whatever, the woman he brought up here.
He rolled the chunk of branch in his hands as he stepped up on the porch, and took a swing at the porch light. Glass shattered and fell over the floor.
Your old man drinks, and you do. Your old man beats your old lady, and you do. Isn't it that the way it works? Your old man lies and you do. You are sure enough what your old man is.
He was still in his sweats when he got close to the cottage. It was almost two hours north, and he was proud of himself for what he'd done--leaving without going home, just driving up the lake shore alone. It was dark, but he knew the roads without looking, felt the highway narrow the closer he came to the cottage, traffic falling away because it was a Tuesday night in late spring, there was no traffic north of the city, and it's still cold on the lake shore.
What his father told him that night they talked for the first time, for the only time, was that someday he'd understand what his father had done. "You're almost a man," he'd said. "Someday you'll understand because you'll know, too. You can almost grow a beard," he'd said, laughing. Laughing. The guy's laughing. "It never was right, Darren," he told him. "What you have to understand is that it never was right between your mother and me, and you can't live with what you don't love. You'll know. You're almost a man. You'll understand. I don't expect you to forgive me now, but some day you will. I'd bet on it."
In the old days, they'd stayed up late after long days on the beach, feeling that glow you get from all day in the sun. They'd play Rook and Old Maid and Chinese Checkers in the light of a lamp or two and the fire, snapping and crackling, a fire you could gaze at for hours with the sound of the waves outside rocking the whole place into sleepiness. Looking into a fire, hearing the water. Things like that put you to sleep almost--staring into a fire, listening to the surf quiet down for the night. Something good, something forever.
Right there at that cottage, his father laid the secretary. For months it went on, and now he was going to burn it down, he told himself. It didn't just come to him either. He'd thought about it for a long time. When he got to the lane, he parked the car up at Rasmussen's. No one was around. It was cold on the lake.
He hiked up the beach past the Andersons, the Burrells, the VanGorps--past the old bleached stump shining like a ghost in the moon just coming up over the waves, cold as silver ice. He jogged in the cold, hard sand along the shore until he came to the cove, and then came to the place where the cottage stood beneath the pines, this little cottage, Grandpa's cottage, nothing spectacular either, an antique just over the dune at the edge of the woods. It was no palace, but they'd had good times there. No kidding. If it were lighter out he'd have been able to see the peak he'd painted himself not that long ago, leaning down from a perch on the roof.
He walked to the door and tried it, but it was locked; so he went around back, picked up the big pail at the back porch, and when he got to the bathroom window put the it down to get up high enough to reach above the sill for the key. It wasn't there.
Had to be his father that took it. Had to be. They always kept it there.
Ever since he left the track, he'd been thinking that he had to do it. The place had to be torched. There had to be an end to something. Couldn't be anything new before something old burned down.
He checked the sill again, but found nothing. He had no matches. He could knock out a window, get inside, and rip the place apart. For sure he'd get away with it because it happened all the time on the lake, kids trashing cottages. Nobody would know except his parents--and they would know. Make no mistake about that. They'd know. But trashing it wasn't the point. The place had to go.
He pushed the pail under another window and felt along the wet sill, thinking maybe his old man hid the key. Nothing. He stepped down and kicked the pail. It tumbled down the hill and into the trees. He walked around the side porch, past windows drawn and curtained. The moon lit the place brightly, the birches still leafless and white as dry bones.
He felt through the cut wood piled at the side of the house, found a log small enough to wield, something he could get in his hands, then looked around. Nothing moved anywhere. Nobody was down at the lake shore this time of year. He was the only one around.
He'd married her, that accountant or secretary or whatever, the woman he brought up here.
He rolled the chunk of branch in his hands as he stepped up on the porch, and took a swing at the porch light. Glass shattered and fell over the floor.
Your old man drinks, and you do. Your old man beats your old lady, and you do. Isn't it that the way it works? Your old man lies and you do. You are sure enough what your old man is.
_____________________
(to be continued)
(to be continued)
No comments:
Post a Comment