Noses Are Red (2 page)

Victor’s mom took a bit of convincing. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I always worry when you go camping. What if you fall in a hole? Or get lost? What if you get hurt, little man, among all those lions and tigers and bears – then where would I be?” She talks with an accent something like the leprechaun in the cereal commercial.

“Aw, Ma,” said Victor.

I giggled at the lions and tigers.

Victor’s dad reached over to steal a gingersnap cookie. He doesn’t worry about his son quite so much. “Vic’ll be fine,” he said. “And he can do with the exercise.”

Mrs. Grunewald put her hands on her hips. “Exercise, is it? And what about you, then?”

“I don’t need exercise. Why, I’m fighting fit. Look at that.” He held out a muscular arm. Mr. Grunewald spends a lot of time shifting boxes and crates in his grocery store.

She laughed, and poked him in the belly. “Lard. All lard.”

I swallowed the end of my cookie and reached for another one.

“Come on. Ma,” said Victor.

She frowned.

His dad jerked his head at me. “You like those cookies, Alan?”

You can’t go to Victor’s house without eating. Most of your time is spent in the kitchen.

I nodded vigorously. “For sure. They’re the best. Even better than the peanut butter ones we had last week.”

Mrs. Grunewald softened. “An old family recipe. You’ll take another.”

“Thanks.” I took a couple. She beamed down at me, a broad red-haired lady who looked natural in an apron.

“Please let Victor go camping, Mrs. Grunewald,” I said. “We’ll have fun, and…Victor will be company for me. I don’t want to have to talk to Christopher all by myself.”

“That’ll be your mother’s new man?” Mrs. Grunewald looked at me shrewdly. “I’ve seen him around town. A well set up fellow, I must say.”

“Hmph,”
said Mr. Grunewald.

“So can I go?” said Victor. “Please?”

Mrs. Grunewald raised her eyebrows at her husband. He nodded.

“Well …,” she said. “I’ll have to talk to your mother first, of course.”

I knew what that meant. “Thanks, Mrs. Grunewald,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Grunewald. Come on, Victor, let’s get packing.”

“My sleeping bag’s in my room,” said Victor. We ran upstairs together.

“Hey!” Mrs. Grunewald came to the hall and called up after us. “I haven’t said yes, yet.”

Rice Lake at 7:00
A.M.
A deserted sandy beach. A playground. A litter of docks and small boats, floating in the reeds. A metal shack with BEWDLEY TOURS on it. Christopher was off to look for coffee and his pilot friend. I climbed down from his little red jeep, shivering. Not from cold. It was a sunny morning in August. Not that cold. I was shivering from fear.

“That’s it?” I said, pointing. “That’s the plane?”

“Could be,” said Victor. “It’s
a
plane.”

It was tied up to the dock beside the shack. There was a teeny little breeze, making teeny little ripples in the lake. And these teeny little ripples were enough to make the plane bob up and down violently on its pontoons.

“But it’s so small. It looks like a model. The only plane I’ve been on was much bigger. Why, this one is so small it floats!”

“Well,” said Victor. “Better than having it sink.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He wasn’t worried. He yawned wide enough to split his jaw, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He wore army shorts, with pockets all over the place. He even had a special hidden pocket with a hidden zipper. I knew it was there because he’d showed it to me. Took him five minutes to get the thing open. Inside was a safety pin with a shamrock on it – a lucky gift from Ireland. “Mom gave it to me,” he said.

Christopher came back with a little bald bowling ball of a guy. The bowling ball was drinking coffee and eating a donut. He didn’t look like a pilot. He looked like a next-door neighbor – the kind of guy who goes for lots of walks with his dog and doesn’t pick up after it. He stuffed the rest of his donut into his mouth and shook hands. His name was Art. His palm was sticky. He kept chewing.

Art led us onto the dock. Between us, Victor and I carried the food pack, which didn’t have any food yet, just pots and pans. Christopher carried the tent, bedding, and spare clothes in a pack, with a special forehead strap. When he put it on, he looked like a
coureur de bois
in last year’s history textbook – a
coureur de bois
with a Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand.

Close up, the plane still looked like a model. Every time one of us moved, the plane moved. Christopher noticed the expression on my face.

“Scared, huh?”

I didn’t reply.

“Are you scared, Alan?” Victor said.

The engine started up. I screamed. Christopher laughed. Very funny.

I’m not going to talk much about the plane trip. It was short, as the clock ticks, but long long l-o-n-g in my mind. I felt about thirty years older when we – well, we didn’t land, but it doesn’t sound right to say we
watered.
We skimmed over the tops of pine trees, touched down, and skidded for thirty very long seconds along the surface of a silver lake, while I got my breath back and tried to clear my blocked ears. What made it worse was that Victor seemed to be having a wonderful time.

“Isn’t this great?” he said, punching me in the arm.

“Great,” I said.

There wasn’t a litter of boats and buildings on this lake. There wasn’t much of anything. One log cabin, with a rack of canoes beside it, and a long rickety dock pointing out from the rocky shore like a finger. The moment our bags were on the dock, Art turned the plane around and took off again. The plane lurched clumsily into the air, like a little kid climbing the stairs one at a time. The silence after it left was very loud.

We carried our bags to the cabin without speaking. It was colder up here than back home. I shivered and wished I’d brought my jacket. All I was wearing was a T-shirt with a checked shirt overtop and baggy bathing shorts.

The log cabin was full of outdoor gear. The old guy behind the counter was happy to see us. He didn’t move from his stool by the cash register, but he talked all the time
we were in the store. Mostly about stuff that was supposed to scare us. “I have to charge you a deposit on the canoe, in case it never comes back. Some nasty rapids around here. That lady artist is staying near them. I keep expecting to hear that search and rescue have found her body.”

Christopher bought a detailed map of the area, and a waterproof map case. “Where you planning to go?” asked the old guy. “You hear all kind of stories. Bears, quicksand, you name it. I were you, I’d head south. Don’t want to frighten these two fine boys.”

He winked at us.

Christopher bought some food. The food
sounded
normal enough: pork chops and steaks, mashed potatoes and strawberries and chocolate cake – but it was all in foil packages. “Weird, huh?” I said to Victor, holding up a bright red package of PORK CHOPS.

“It’s freeze-dried,” the old guy explained. “It don’t go bad, and don’t weigh hardly at all. What’s that one you have there? Spaghetti and meatballs? That’s a fine dinner, now. That one little bag should feed all of you – even you, youngster.” He winked at Victor, who blushed. He’s sensitive about his weight. “I know, I’m the same way. Can’t never seem to get enough to eat. Why, I remember my mother saying to me once – I’d ’a been about ten or thereabouts – ‘Son,’ she said, ‘don’t you
ever
fill up?’”

“Why does it matter what it weighs?” I asked. “We’re in a canoe, aren’t we? Won’t the boat carry all the weight?”

He cackled. “You’ll see soon enough. There’s a good-sized portage at the end of Hidden Lake here. Now, will
there be anything else? Fishing rod? Plenty of fish around. One of the kids at Camp Omega caught a whopper last year. Made the newspaper.”

Christopher put his credit card out on the counter.

The old guy cocked his head. “Okay,” he said.

Funny things, canoes. If you stand up in them and lean out, even the littlest bit, they tip right over, and you fall in the water. Guess how I found this out?
Brrrr.
Hadn’t started our trip, hadn’t even packed the canoe, and we’d had our first accident. Victor laughed. Christopher looked pained.

The bottom of the canoe flashed in the sunlight. It was made of aluminum. Good thing, too – if it had been a birch-bark canoe, like the ones in our schoolbooks, I’d probably have put my foot through it. The water was up to my waist. “Sorry!” I called, dragging the canoe to shore. “Wouldn’t it have been funny if I’d had the food pack,” I went on. “Imagine all that freeze-dried stuff landing in the water and inflating all at once.
Boom!
Pork chops and spaghetti and steak blowing up like balloons!”

Victor shook his head. “The food is vacuum-packed, Alan. It wouldn’t have expanded.”

“Oh.” I still thought it was funny.

Christopher lifted the canoe out of the water and flipped it. I stood shivering while he and Victor finished loading. I offered, but they said they didn’t need my help right away. Christopher lashed the packs – food, bedding and spare clothes, and a smaller one with emergency
supplies – to the thwarts of the canoe. “If we capsize
again
” he said, with a look at me, “the packs’ll stay in the boat.”

And then we were ready to go. Christopher held the canoe close to the dock. I climbed carefully into the middle, and positioned myself on a pack. You know, it was pretty comfortable. I put my feet up and leaned back. I was still a little chilly, but the sun was starting to warm me up. Maybe this canoe trip wouldn’t be so bad. The sun shone. The water rippled. The canoe rocked gently, like a hammock. The wind in the nearby pine trees made a gentle sighing sound. I closed my eyes.

The sighing sound got louder. I looked up. Christopher was the one doing the sighing – not the pine trees. His shirtsleeves were rolled up over his powerful forearms. His camouflage pants were tucked into boots. His face was a stern mask.

“You look great, standing there,” I said. “Very … woodsy.”

He shook his head.

“What?” I said. I looked at Victor. “What’s wrong?”

“What are you going to paddle with?” he said.

Oh.

I got out of the boat again.

“Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Keep paddlin’”

Christopher’s voice.

“Can I get a –”

“Paddle!” The word rang in my head. Christopher used it whenever I asked him anything. Can we stop for a snack?
Paddle!
A drink?
Paddle!
A rest?
Paddle!
I have to go to the bathroom.
Piddle! – I mean. Paddle!

In a past life Christopher would have been an overseer with a whip. I would have been one of the galley slaves.

We were in the middle of the lake. Hidden Lake – ha! It wasn’t hidden from me. It was all around me. And I couldn’t wait to get out of it. It seemed to stretch on forever. The shore hung in the distance, like a painting.

I’d already learned a lot about canoeing. I knew what a thwart was, and how to sit forward on it, with one knee on the bottom of the canoe, to paddle. I knew how to hold the paddle, and how to take a stroke. I’d rocked the boat a few times, but I hadn’t tipped it. On the whole, I thought I’d done all right.

I sat in the middle of the canoe, staring ahead at Victor’s broad back. When his paddle came up, out of the water, I brought mine up. When his paddle came down, I brought mine down. Up…and down. Up…and down.

Good news: I was no longer cold. What with all the paddling, and the sun staying out, I was warm enough. Some parts of my body – the palms of my hands, for instance – were uncomfortably hot. I could feel blisters beginning to bulge.

Up…and down. Up…and –
splash!

“Sorry!” I called over my shoulder to Christopher. Not the first time I’d splashed him. I’d splashed Victor too. I was like a fountain in the middle of the canoe.

“Paddle!”

Grrr.

And then the far shore, the oh-so-distant shore, which had stayed the same distance away for the longest time, began to move towards us. With every stroke of my paddle, it came closer.

The evergreen forest wrapped itself around the edge of the lake, a warm and unbroken line, except for one spot.
A splash of dark brown; a rip in the blanket of green. Christopher steered us towards it with powerful strokes. Nearer and nearer we came. I could smell the trees now. Peering carefully over the side of the canoe, I could see the rocky bottom of the lake, bending up to meet us.

Crunch.
We touched. We’d made it.

“Stop paddling!”

Oh, right. “Sorry,” I said.

Victor hopped out of the front and pulled us up the rocky beach. Now mine weren’t the only wet running shoes. I stretched and stared back across the lake. “That was a nice trip,” I said to Christopher.

He was busy unlashing the packs. I stretched some more. “Did you think it was going to take all day?” I asked. “It’s only 10:15. We must be better paddlers than you thought.”

He didn’t answer. Head down, he was concentrating on the job at hand. When he freed a pack, he hurled it to the dry ground and moved on to the next one.

“What about you, Victor?” I climbed out of the canoe and went over to where my friend was busy collecting the packs and paddles into a pile. “Want a game of cards? I brought some.” He didn’t reply.

I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked around. “What’s that diamond marker on the tree?” I asked.

“It marks the start of the portage,” Victor replied.

“Oh. Where do you think it ends?”

“You’ve never been camping, have you, Alan? It ends
at the next lake. There’ll be other markers as we go along the trail.”

Gradually it dawned on me that the canoe trip was not over. We were not staying here. Not for the night, not for an hour. Christopher lifted the empty canoe out of the water and flipped it over and onto his shoulders in one smooth easy motion. He carried it over to us and stopped. What now?

“C’mere, you guys,” he said, and lifted the canoe up over his head like a big fat barbell.

“Wow, are you strong!” Victor said.

Christopher smiled. He didn’t even look like he was straining. “C’mere,” he said.

We shuffled over and stood close together. Christopher lowered the canoe onto our shoulders. My first thought was: it’s heavy. I bet birch-bark canoes were lighter.

It fit over us like the lid on a jar. Victor was at the front, staring ahead and down at the ground. I was at the back, staring at Victor’s rear end.

“Next time I want to be at the front,” I said. My voice echoed under the metal lid.

“C’mon, now,” said Christopher’s voice.

“Where?” I asked.

“Follow me,” he said.

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t see anything except – that is, I can’t see anything.”

“This way, Alan,” said Victor, leading the way forward. His voice echoed too. When he walked forward, the thwart
bumped into the back of my head, pushing me forward. It was like being chained together.

“Fast as you can, guys!” called Christopher. “Along the trail. I’ll meet you at the other end of the portage. Ha! Ha! Ha!” His voice trailed away, then came back a few seconds later. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“What’s he doing?” I asked Victor.

“Picking up the packs,” said Victor. “All of them. And the paddles.”

My nose was itchy. I tried to scratch. Couldn’t. Christopher’s voice rose in one of those songs that army troops sing as they run along:

I may not have the words exactly right. You know the kind of thing I mean, though.

“Wow!” said Victor. “He’s running up the hill with the packs on his back!”

Christopher’s voice faded, away ahead of us. Victor and I followed more slowly. The ground was smooth at first, as we climbed up the hill away from the lake. Then the going got a bit rough. Victor almost fell, which meant that I almost fell too. “Sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay. Are we there yet?” I asked.

“No.”

It felt funny to be following Victor, and asking him questions. He’s bigger than me, and smarter in math, but he’s shy. A bit of a scaredy cat, really. I had some trouble with bullies a year or so ago, and Victor was no help at all.

“Are we there yet?” My voice rang hollowly under the canoe. My breath, like a tennis player, came in short sweaty pants.

“No.” Victor was starting to sound tired too.

“Are we going the right way? Can you see him?”

“Mr. Leech? No. He ran on ahead. But the portage is marked. We’re all right.
Oops.
Careful.”

“Careful of what – oh.” A puddle right under my feet. Too late.

The path swung downhill. Victor stumbled forward, pulling me with him. I almost fell, for the eleventh or twelfth time.

“Careful!” I said.

“Careful yourself.”

The path leveled out. I smelled water again. Stepped on a pebbly beach. “We’re here!” said Victor. My first portage was over.

“What kept you guys?” called Christopher’s voice. “Come on, now. Ho ho ho.”

I had no idea how to get the canoe off my shoulders.

Fortunately, Victor did. “We’ll lift together, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Ready? One, two, three.” I lifted. Nothing happened. I lifted harder. My arm muscles struggled against the deadweight. The canoe was as long as a car.

“Why aren’t you lifting, Victor?”

“I was waiting for you to say go.”

“Go!” I said.

The new lake looked a lot like the old one. Water on top, rocks underneath, pine woods wrapping the shoreline, hills in the distance. Now the sun was on our left, instead of in front of us. I could feel it on my cheek. I’d meant to pack some spare sunblock to carry around with me, but the deep pockets of my bathing shorts were as empty as my friend David’s head – nothing there but gum. I took a piece, and offered one to Victor, in the front. He took it.

Christopher sat in the back again. The stern, I should say. His Joe Camping outfit was rumpled and wet. He took a deep breath of fresh air. “Paddle!” he barked.

Victor lifted his paddle and dug in. I copied him. Again. And again. And again.

Five minutes later, the shore behind us began to shrink away. Five lifetimes later, the shore at the other end of the lake began to creep closer. My jaws were sore from the
gum. My nose was sore from the sun. My palms were killing me.

I stopped to check my hands. Yup. Blisters.

“Can we –”

“Paddle!”

I thought about splashing him, but I was too tired. Easier to follow Victor’s stroke, and wait until we reached the end of the lake. The diamond-shaped portage marker shone like a beacon of hope. We’d have to stop paddling when we landed. Maybe Christopher would allow us a few minutes’ rest. Ah, rest! Wonderful rest! We could get a drink…or a snack…or a –

“Paddle!”

Startled out of my daydream, I missed my stroke, and splashed Christopher.