Three Bird Summer (5 page)

“That so? I don’t usually see her slow down for anything,” she said crossly.

I shrugged. “Driving’s different.”

“When are you going to learn to drive?” she asked me.

“I can’t even take driver’s ed till I’m fifteen,” I pointed out.

“You need to know how to drive,” Grandma said.

“Grandma, I’m twelve,” I said.

Grandma’s lips pressed together in a flat line. She looked that way a lot — just kind of annoyed with everything. There were frown lines between her brows that had formed permanent creases. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen her smile.

“You wash up the dishes,” she said now. “I’m going to turn in.”

“Already?” I asked. This time of year, it could be light for another hour. It hardly seemed like time to go to bed, even for an old lady.

“I like to read awhile,” she said. She stood up and set her cup down next to the sink. “You need anything else?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Good night, then,” she said, making her way back through the living room. “Don’t forget to turn off all the lights when you go to bed.”

“I won’t,” I said.

After she left, I stayed sitting, absorbing my new freedom. I’d never been the last one awake at the cabin. I’d never had a chance to feel alone. Maybe I really could stay up till midnight every night that Mom was away.

I got up and filled a bowl with a heap of chocolate ice cream, then went out on the deck to eat it. A motorboat bumped across the lake, and a bird called out a sad two-note song from the pine trees. Grandma would know what kind of bird it was. I’d ask her in the morning.

Thinking of Grandma reminded me that I had dishes to do. I went back inside and filled the yellow tub in the sink with sudsy water, then slid our plates and cups and silverware inside. Grandma didn’t have a dishwasher at the cabin, and we’d been using the same tin plates and ceramic mugs my whole life. Probably Mom’s whole life, too.

Washing dishes wasn’t so bad when there were only two people eating pancakes. Two plates, two cups, two forks, and a batter bowl. Then I was done. I rinsed everything off and placed it on the drying rack. When we had a crowd, someone always dried the dishes by hand, but I couldn’t see any reason for that now.

It was still only eight thirty. I tried calling my dad, but he didn’t pick up. When the phone rang a few minutes later, I assumed it was him calling back.

“Hi,” I said.

“Adam, are you surviving?” It was Mom.

“We’re great,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Did you get a good dinner?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, deciding it wouldn’t be wise to mention the pancakes.

“Good. Well, I’m here. I made it to town in time for tea with some friends.”

She paused, but I didn’t say anything.

“Heather and Julie from my old office are here,” she continued, “and a college friend named Anne Marie. She hasn’t changed a bit, even though she’s gotten married and had three children. Including twins! I don’t know how some people stay looking so young.”

I stared out the window at the green trees, their colors getting even richer in the fading light.

“So where’s Grandma?” Mom asked.

“She turned in,” I said.

“Already?”

“She’s fine. She had a book to read. It’s no big deal.”

“What did you two do today?”

“The usual,” I said. “I paddled solo for a while.” I pictured myself paddling the length of the lake, as steady as a loon, and hoped that’s what Mom was picturing, too. “We’re fine, Mom.”

“Well, good. You’ll call if there’s any trouble?”

“There won’t be,” I said.

“OK. Good night, then, sweetie.”

“G’night.”

After we hung up, I looked at a couple of ancient
National Geographic
s I found on the bookshelf and then walked down to the dock in the fading light. Grandma’s dad, my great-grandfather, had chosen his lakefront property so he’d have the best view of the sunset over the lake. It must have been fun being alive when you could still make choices like that — when every lake wasn’t overrun with people who had already claimed the best spots.

Standing on the dock, I could see the smallest lines of red and purple at the horizon as the water became gunmetal gray. A loon was swimming off the dock, dipping down below the surface, then popping up as if through an invisible seam. I held my hands together like a ball in front of my mouth and blew through them to make a loud whistle. I could change the pitch by flapping the fingers of my left hand back and forth, creating a pretty great imitation of a loon call — or so I thought. But maybe I was better at playing trumpet than whistling through my hands. The loons didn’t respond. They always seemed to save their piercing cries for when we were all in the cabin trying to fall asleep.

I don’t know how long I sat there on the dock, my eyes straining to make out familiar shapes even as the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Eventually I wandered back up to the cabin. It couldn’t have been midnight yet — probably far from it — but I avoided looking at the kitchen clock so I could at least imagine I’d stayed up that late.

I shut off the cabin lights and felt my way back to the bedrooms. Cabin dark was the purest darkness I knew, and I hadn’t yet gotten used to walking blind. The door of my room was shut, and I felt for the knob. As I turned and pushed the door open, I heard the sound of something light and papery slipping to the ground. I closed the door and switched on my bedside lamp. There on the floor was a folded-up piece of paper. What was this — a note? Did Grandma think I needed a reminder to wash the dishes or turn out the lights?

I unfolded the paper, prepared to take a glance and toss it in the trash. But the greeting caught my eye.

I read the note three times. Viola was my grandma’s name, and I recognized her handwriting, but what did she mean? I wasn’t going anywhere where I could get crackers, and she’d never called me her “love” before. Clearly the note was for somebody else. My mom, maybe? But why would she need crackers at her conference? Besides, Grandma wouldn’t call Mom her “love,” either, and she would have signed it “Ma.” So who was this note for? And why had she stuck it in my door?

I folded up the paper again and put it on my bedside stand. As I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I puzzled over the mystery. Maybe it was left over from the time when my grandfather was still alive, and it had been stashed away in the bookcase across from my room. When I’d pulled out the
National Geographic
s, I’d probably knocked the note loose. Grandma must have seen the folded paper on the floor, assumed it was mine, and stuck it in my doorway. It was nice of her, actually, not to invade my privacy by reading it or putting it in my room.

I rinsed out my mouth, picked up the note, and slid it back between a couple of books.

Mystery solved.

IN THE MORNING,
there was a pattering sound on the leaves outside my window, and a steady plink on the metal gutters. Rain. I didn’t mind — the cabin felt like a rain forest tree house in a good shower, especially when the rain started in the morning and lasted all day. Grandma had already switched on some lamps in the living room and the kitchen, and was setting my pancakes on a plate.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” she said. “How late did you stay up last night?”

“Not very late,” I said, scratching my head.

“I see you didn’t have time to dry the dishes.” She scowled.

I frowned. “I —”

“Or clean the griddle,” she continued.

She had me there. “Sorry, Grandma. I spaced out about the griddle.”

“You what?”

“I forgot.”

She gave a little scornful exhale through her nose, like a dog fighting a sneeze.

“Today’s a rain day. Might last all week, according to the radio. You got a project or something?”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind cabin days,” I said. “I can read and stuff.”

After breakfast Grandma turned on her old stereo and played a recording of a horn concerto. I offered to do the morning dishes to make up for my lapses the night before. Then I pulled a book off the shelf — a guide to reptiles and amphibians — and settled into a comfortable spot by the window to read about venomous snakes.

Sitting in one place like that, I became aware for the first time of how much Grandma wandered around. She’d go to her bedroom. Reappear for a few minutes. Duck back in. Walk back out and go to the kitchen. Open a drawer, poke through. Sigh. Go back to her room. It didn’t really seem like she’d lost something — more like she was keeping herself busy with puttering. Eventually, though, she settled down on the couch and read her own book.

In the afternoon, we were playing crazy eights at the kitchen table when a car appeared on the drive and pulled in beside Grandma’s station wagon.

“Now, who could that be?” Grandma asked, sounding flustered.

“Maybe it’s a pizza guy!” I said hopefully.

Grandma frowned at me. We opened the door and peered out. The car doors swung open, and a tall woman emerged on one side and Alice on the other.

Ugh.

“Hello, hello!” the woman called, obviously Alice’s mother.

Alice gave me a slight nod.

Grandma and I stared, like two dumb chickens watching the farmer clamber into their henhouse. We weren’t used to visitors.

“We thought you might be feeling a little stranded in all this rain,” Alice’s mom said, popping open her trunk and pulling out a couple of bags of groceries.

She walked up to the house and gave me a smile. “You must be Adam,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Jensen, Alice’s mom. Alice tells me you two have already met.”

I nodded uncomfortably.

Alice smiled at Grandma. “Hi, Mrs. Stegner,” she said.

“Hello, dear,” said Grandma, finding her manners quicker than I’d found mine. “Come on in and out of this rain!”

Alice and her mom followed Grandma into the cabin, and I came up slowly behind them. Mrs. Jensen set the groceries on the kitchen table and held her arms up in amazement. She was wearing a floral skirt and a sleeveless shirt, and her arms had soft, droopy skin. “What a beautiful place!” she exclaimed. “Just look at those windows!”

Grandma smiled proudly.

“You can see the lake from up here?” Mrs. Jensen asked.

“It’s there,” Grandma said. “Behind the rain.”

Mrs. Jensen laughed, a great big laugh that seemed to emanate from deep inside her. I had this image of her as a giant pump with her arm for a handle and the laughter like water that gushed when you pumped it.

“Have you been coming up here for long, Adam?” Mrs. Jensen asked me.

I nodded. “Ever since my grandma was a kid.”

Alice and her mother burst into laughter. “Wow. You must be old!” Alice exclaimed.

I felt myself blush and stammered, “I — I mean, the cabin has been here ever since my grandma was a kid. So I’ve been coming my whole life.”

“We knew what you meant,” Mrs. Jensen said kindly.

“I was in high school,” Grandma said, sounding vaguely annoyed. “I was hardly a kid.”

Mrs. Jensen wandered farther into the cabin, examining the details around the windows and the cushioned benches beneath them. “This woodwork is gorgeous! And I love the way the porch rail is finished,” she said, pointing out the window. Instead of being flat, the top rail of the porch had been made with a sawtooth edge — small triangles lined in a row.

“It’s supposed to make you think of the waves on the lake,” I explained.

“And what’s this flag?” she asked, turning her attention to the fireplace wall.

“That’s our Three Bird Lake banner,” I said.

“Golly!” said Mrs. Jensen. “Someone sure knew how to sew!”

“That was my mother’s work,” Grandma said. “My father designed it.”

“They should sell replicas of it in town,” said Mrs. Jensen. “I bet they’d sell like hotcakes.”

My grandmother sniffed. I could tell she had no interest in anyone else owning a bit of our family’s creativity. And, frankly, I didn’t either.

“I like this part,” Alice said as she walked toward the mantel. “Look at all the animals!” I noticed her finger went immediately to trace the inner curves, just like mine always had.

“Did your father make this, too?” Alice asked Grandma.

“Wasn’t it the builder or something, Grandma?” I said.

“The builder’s son,” she said, correcting me. “My father designed almost everything in the cabin, right down to the benches and tables, and he helped the builder make it all, too. But neither one of them had an eye for that kind of detail work.”

“Well, it’s all extraordinary,” Mrs. Jensen said with a sigh. “A gem of a cabin. Folks around here wonder about this place. It’s hard to see, even from the water. I’m sure no one has any idea what a treasure it is.”

Grandma nodded proudly. “Those who should appreciate it do,” she said simply.

“So, Adam,” Mrs. Jensen said, turning to me. “What do you do to keep yourself busy up here?”

I shrugged. “The usual stuff. Swim. Canoe. Goof around outside. Today we’ve just been hanging out in the cabin.”