Bird Lake Moon (5 page)

Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch also noticed his mother and Cherry watching from one of the front windows, half hidden by the curtain.

And Mitch just stood there lamely, stock-still, limp shouldered, as his father, a peculiar expression clouding his face, rubbed his nose and said, “What do you think you're
doing
?”

The first thing Spencer did when he woke up was to inscribe his name and address on the inside front cover of the book he'd been reading. But instead of his Madison address, he wrote:

23 Lakeshore Drive

Bird Lake, Wisconsin

Already the house was insinuating itself into his heart. After only one night, he envisioned the house belonging to him one day. And not just as a vacation spot. He imagined himself as an adult living on Bird Lake year-round.

On the outside, in the light of day, the house was nothing special—just a weary, common box. But the inside was different. The inside felt comfortable to Spencer. He liked the rough carpentry, the antlers and maps hanging from the unfinished walls, the screened porch, and the wide-planked floors throughout, with gaps so wide they looked like furrowed fields. He even found the mismatched dishes and silverware comforting. The unkempt, hodgepodge nature of the house suited him well. He thought that he could be messy here and no one would know the difference. He was relaxed.

His mother wasn't, however. She seemed especially quiet and restless. Her smiles were shadows of her usual smiles. Her eyes wandered, off to the side, searching the distance. He could guess what she was thinking. And so he decided not to push the issue of swimming; he'd wait for her to let him know when the time was right. Which meant they didn't go swimming, right away, that first morning, even though that's what Spencer wanted to do more than anything. Instead they went out for breakfast and to buy groceries.

Because he hoped that she would like the house enough to keep it, Spencer tried to talk it up without being annoying or too obvious.

“I slept great last night,” he said cheerfully, settling into the car and fastening his seat belt. “I like it here,” he added a minute later as the car pulled out onto the road that hugged the lake and led to town. He braided and unbraided his fingers on his lap, acting nonchalant.

His mother turned partway around and smiled a weak smile. “I'm glad.”

They passed the neighbors' house. It was toylike and tidy, almost too tidy. To Spencer it looked as if it were the home of a perfect family in a G-rated, schmaltzy movie. On the other side of Spencer's family's house was a stand of white pines—some majestic, some small and spindly. When the wind blew, the branches did a disorderly, comic dance that was somehow graceful at the same time. Spencer could see a few of the trees, towering above the rooftops, out the back window.

“After we have breakfast and get groceries,
then
can we go swimming?” asked Lolly. “Please?” She pursed her lips into a rosebud.

It was the question Spencer had been reluctant to ask.

“Yes,” said his father.

“Finally,” said Lolly. “I've already got my suit on.” She pulled her T-shirt up, revealing a patch of her new bathing suit—orange, lime, and lemon slices in candy colors.

Spencer fought hard to swallow back a comment about Lolly being a fruit. He did notice, and was grateful, that she wasn't doing her voices this morning.

He leaned into the half-opened window, chin on glass. The lake appeared between the trees, then disappeared, then appeared again. Here and there, the sun glinted on the surface of the water. Shards of pure light. It suddenly struck Spencer that simply gazing at a lake could make someone joyful or mournful. It just depended.

They went to the general store both for breakfast and to get groceries. Breakfast was first. They ate on benches on a deck overlooking the lake so that Jasper could stay with them. Spencer was too excited to be hungry. He played with his food and snuck scraps of pancake and bacon to Jasper.

Afterward they shopped. The general store was old-fashioned and rustic in a way that made Madison—home—seem like a big city. The wooden floors were so warped, the cart tended to veer from side to side, drawn to the rickety shelving as if by magnets. It cheered Spencer to watch his parents stock up on provisions. Judging by all they were buying, he was certain they'd be spending the entire week at Bird Lake. And there were items in the cart that rarely showed up at home: marshmallows, potato chips, and sugary breakfast cereal.

Spencer's mother drove on the way back to the house. “I want you to see some of my favorite places,” she said. “There's the public beach. Oh, and look, Wing Rock. And the old bandstand.” She slowed the car to a crawl. “I loved to have my lunch there when I was young. I'd pretend it belonged to me. My own little cottage.”

“Did you go there alone?” peeped Lolly.

“No, your grandfather would take me. We'd pick up lunch at the general store and then walk over to the bandstand to eat. I'd spread out my beach towel as a makeshift tablecloth.” She sighed.

They meandered around the lake, taking the long route home, angling onto the gravel shoulder to let other cars pass. Spencer was glad that his mother was pointing things out. He thought it meant that she was having a good time.

As the car approached the house, Lolly peeled off her clothes, squirming and contorting her body while managing to stay buckled in her seat belt. Before the engine had stopped running, Lolly's T-shirt and shorts were in a loose bundle at her feet. She sprang from the car before everyone else and trotted around it, her bathing suit vivid as a banner at a carnival.

“Wait for me, Lolly,” said Spencer's mother. She handed a set of keys to Spencer's father over the hood of the car. “Peter, will you and Spencer take the groceries in? I'll go down to the lake with Lolly.”

“You bet,” said Spencer's father.

Spencer saw a knowing look flit between his parents. He couldn't believe what was happening. He wanted to go to the lake just as much as Lolly did. Probably more. He could feel his ears turn pink.

“Spencer,” called his father, “go unlock the door. I'll start unloading the groceries. Here—” He tossed the keys to Spencer. “It's the gold one. Turn it to the right.”

“Jasper!” yelled Lolly. “Come, Jasper! Come swimming with me!” She slapped her thighs—
whap-whap-whap, whap-whap-whap
—and it felt to Spencer as if she were slapping
him
. Or sending him a message in Morse code: Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha.

Jasper ran to Lolly.

“No!” It was Spencer. “You can't have everything, Lolly,” he said scornfully. “Here, Jasper! Treat! Treat!”

As far as Jasper was concerned,
treat
was the magic word. His head spun around and he doubled back, gamboling to Spencer like a lamb.

Lolly didn't seem to care one whit; she shrugged and skipped away.

“Good boy,” said Spencer. “And always remember to stay clear of the freak posing as my sister.” He was talking loud enough for his father to hear, and he did so in a sulky voice.

“We'll be swimming in a few minutes, Spence,” said his father. “Don't sweat it.”

“Whatever,” Spencer mumbled, his chin tucked into his neck. He was in such a hurry and he was so angry, he didn't notice it at first. He thudded bitterly onto the little front porch and it suddenly appeared before his eyes.

It.

What was it?

It was some kind of design. Geometric. Oval shaped. And there was a number twelve, too. Right there. On the floor of the stoop. Drawn in what appeared to be sugar. And he was certain that it hadn't been there when they'd left for the general store. One of them—
all
of them—would have seen it.

“Hey, Dad—” Spencer began, but stopped.

It
wasn't
a geometric design; it was a turtle. The back of a turtle. Like Matty's turtle. And the twelve? Spencer suddenly remembered that Matty would be twelve if he were alive.

A shiver went through Spencer and wouldn't go away, as if a ribbon of ice had been tied to his spine.

He'd only seen the turtle for a second or two before Jasper padded all over it, excited, eager to get his treat.

“Sit,” Spencer commanded. And Jasper did, but his tail swished, back and forth, ruining what was left of the turtle and the twelve. Then Jasper went wild, licking up the tiny white crystals until there was nothing left on the porch floor except a dead bee.

Gone. Here and gone, just like that.

Spencer's heart pitched. Had he just received some strange message from his dead brother?

“Hey, Spencer,” his father said, coming near, his arms encircling three bags of groceries, “I thought you were in a blazing heat to go swimming. Now you look like a statue.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he managed to reply, daunted by what had just happened, what he had just seen.

“Are you having trouble with the lock?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, it's fine.” He quickly unlocked the door, held it open for his father, then went to lug the remaining groceries from the car to the house.

Shortly afterward, Spencer was swimming—they all were, even his mother—but some of the anticipated pleasure had been drained from the experience. Repeatedly his thoughts returned to Matty and the sign, or whatever it was, that had appeared on the porch.

There were moments when the joy of slicing through the water or playing Marco Polo or cheering for Jasper as he dog-paddled after a thrown stick fully absorbed Spencer's attention, but invariably he'd pause and lift his head, eyes darting about, perceiving a voltage in the air. Matty? And hadn't he thought that he was being watched last night when they were down at the lake? Had that been Matty as well? Spencer felt more aware than usual, as if something of a spell were upon him and he'd acquired another sense.

Both Spencer and Lolly were good swimmers. Learning to swim—to swim
well
—was something their parents insisted on. Spencer was stronger than Lolly, and faster, but Lolly was not far behind and loved to race her brother. Spencer dreaded the day that she could beat him. He hoped beyond hope that it would never arrive.

After one too many games of Marco Polo, Spencer's parents retreated to the tiny, sandy patch of shoreline partially framed by tall weeds and sat side by side, hand in hand.

“They look like giant children in a sandbox,” Lolly observed. She laughed, a high-pitched titter, obviously pleased with her remark. She was using a new voice. To Spencer, it sounded chirpy and mechanical. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“I'm Birdy Lake. Get it?”

“Duh. Not funny.” Spencer was still holding a grudge about her running off to the lake before him, so he couldn't help but add, “Can't you just be a normal person and talk in a normal voice? I know that normal for you is slightly
ab
normal to most people, but you understand what I mean.”

Lolly licked her lips and tightened them into a line. They were standing several feet apart, waist-deep in the lake. Lolly raised her hands and dabbled with her fingers in the water between her and Spencer. A few sparkling droplets clung to her eyelashes, and fleetingly, Spencer saw them as tears and wondered if she were crying.

“I'll stop talking like this if you'll race me,” Lolly said.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I, Birdy Lake, solemnly promise to stop talking like myself—”

He cut her off. “Okay, okay. I'll race you, but first I need to get my goggles. I'll be right back.”

Spencer never raced Lolly without his goggles. They were the closest thing to a good-luck charm he'd ever had. He'd not lost to Lolly yet and didn't want to start now.

He dried off quickly and headed for the house.

“Where are you going ?” asked his mother.

He stopped and turned. “To get my goggles.”

“I saw them in the grass this morning,” she told him, “when I took Jasper out. They were by the car. I put them on the front porch before we went to town. Near the edge by the top step.”

Spencer cocked his head. “Huh, that's funny,” he said, feeling strange again, uncertain, because he knew there was nothing on the porch. “I could swear I put them in the side pouch of my blue bag at home when I packed.”

“They must have fallen out when we carried our things in last night.”

He ran. He saw that the porch was clear; nonetheless, he stepped onto it tentatively. He searched carefully through the patchy, untrodden grass growing beside the steps, parting it over and over with his hands, reasoning that Jasper could have knocked the goggles off the porch with his tail. Nothing.

In the house, he examined his duffel bag and backpack, checked under the bed and through the drawers of the dresser that had been designated his. Again, nothing. He even rifled through Lolly's things with no success.

What's going on? he wondered.

On his way back down to the lake, Spencer's eyes scanned all about: high, low, forward, backward. He crisscrossed the yard. The stiff grass and weeds were sharp under his bare feet. “Ouch,” he said to himself. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

He came upon the birdbath and froze. He thought he recognized his goggles lying in the shallow pool of water, but they'd been twisted somehow, made compact. After a quick intake of air, his breathing became short and shallow. He picked up the small bundle as if it were poison. Then he shook off the water and untangled his goggles. At the center was a stone.

He felt dizzy. The goggles were surely his, and they seemed fine, except that one of the eyepieces had a few new spidery scratches on it. Handling the stone was not something he wanted to do, but he was inclined to keep track of it, so he plopped it back into the birdbath. There was nothing special about it—it was just an ordinary gray stone.

Passing clouds slipped in front of the sun and one big shadow engulfed him suddenly, like a net dropping over him from above. Seconds later, the shadow lifted.