Turn Left at the Cow (23 page)

I'd had lots of opportunities to work on my hugging lately; I was getting pretty good at it.

Ma stepped back but she left her hands on my shoulders. “So tall. I swear I'll tell your Gram to stop feeding you if you keep this up behind my back.” She dropped her hands and looked down at her feet for a minute. Then she looked back at me.

“Travis . . . it's a hard thing to have to admit to your kid that you didn't know his father as well as you should have, all things considered. But along with all the other stories you've heard, I want you to remember that the guy I met when I got that job here after college was sweet and funny and smart. He was a lot of good things. I just didn't think he was ready to be a good father.”

I gave her another hug. “I love you, Ma.”

When I walked into the house after my mom had driven away, Gram was watching out the window. “She misses you already, you know.”

I nodded and headed for the fridge.

“Travis.” Gram's voice had changed; I looked over and felt a kick in my gut. Her face had this pinched look; I'd seen it often enough over the past weeks to know it meant bad news.

“I had a call this morning from the sheriff's office. They've confirmed that the body they dug up at the Anderson farm was your father.”

I hated seeing that look on her face again. “But that's good, isn't it? Now it doesn't matter if parts of my cell-phone recording were garbled or that me and Kenny and Iz are only kids and the jury might not believe us. Finding the body buried on the deputy's family farm pretty much means they can hang him high, right?”

Of course, there was other evidence against him too. Like the fact that he'd never actually called in the FBI—I mean, he wanted the money himself, and he couldn't risk getting the Feds reinvolved in the case. And there was the receipt they found in his house for the tracking device he'd planted under my bike seat. And the newspaper he'd used to cut out letters for the anonymous note—dude, note to self:
recycling doesn't always pay
.

But Gram didn't respond when I said that about hanging him high, so I figured I'd gone too far. “Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head. “No, I understand why you're so angry at him. I just thought the news might make it all . . . too real for you.”

It had actually felt pretty real to me back when I'd been staring up at a gun from the bottom of the freezer chest. But Gram hadn't been sleeping much since they'd dug up that body; I think it was the thing that had made it all too real for her.

“Maybe . . . I'm hoping maybe now it will start to feel like something in the past and we can move on to other stuff, you know?” I said. “I mean, school starts in just a couple weeks. I gotta get my head clear for that or I'm dead meat as the new kid all over again.”

“Are you still having those nightmares?”

“They don't bother me so much anymore.” It was only a sideways lie. Gram spent enough of her time worrying over me; I didn't want her to know that I still had a bad night once in a while. But I had figured out a trick to get myself back to sleep faster. I'd given Linnea a little plastic bottle and bribed her to smuggle me some of Iz's strawberry shampoo. One little sniff and the bad dreams faded fast.

“If you can stand to wait a while for lunch, I've got something in mind I'd like to do first. Will you run next door and ask Kenny if we can borrow his boat?” Gram's face had relaxed; now she just looked tired.

“Sure. Okay.” I didn't have a clue as to why we were planning a cruise, but I started limping next door to see if Kenny was back yet from football practice. Then my cell phone pinged.

The text read, “The Big Kalook is finally home. I ninja-ed my last grizzly. Have u died from boredom yet at step-pa's house?”

I texted back, “Died from boredom? No. Psycho killer? Close call. Will fill u in l8r.”

Linnea answered the door at Kenny's house. “You're home from the doctor! Want to play?”

Somehow I'd become a seven-year-old's BFF. Iz had decided to work her way back onto the swim team, so Linnea and I had logged a lot of lifeguard duty together on the dock. Turns out the squid is a total card shark; I'd lost something like a hundred forty-nine Tootsie Pops to her in Go Fish.

Kenny waved a sandwich at me when I limped into his house. “Dude! What did the doctor say about football?”

“Dude.” I shook my head and sighed in fake sorrow. “No go. He says the ankle's looking pretty good but I can't risk a contact sport.”

Kenny looked totally deflated. For weeks now, he'd been telling anyone who'd listen how football had saved my life. And the funniest part was that the
Prairie Press
had run with that angle. The headline had read: “Future All-Star Throws Lifesaver Pass.” Iz told me Jen bought ten copies and sent them to all the relatives.

So Kenny was convinced that I'd want to return football the favor of saving my butt by risking a broken neck alongside him every week. But I was way relieved when the bone doc confirmed I shouldn't be doing anything that involved facing down mutants like Cody Svengrud for “fun.”

Kenny turned on that high-wattage grin of his. “Check this out.” He pulled a new cell phone out of his pocket and lowered his voice. “I've officially finished serving out the terms of my prison sentence, so Dad let me get this. He made me put the rest of my reward money into a college fund, but he said he figured I better have a cell handy so I could call him the next time I decide to be an idiot.” Kenny gave me a look. “You sure you're not second-guessing giving all that cash to me and Iz, man?”

I shook my head. I'd never forget what Gram had said about the robbery money doing damage to our family. No way I wanted to be the one to extend that curse; Iz and Kenny were welcome to the reward.

Kenny was cool with Gram's plan to borrow his boat, but between my wimpy leg and Gram's limpy one, it took a while for him to load the two of us safely inside. Then Gram had to wave off his elaborate instructions about how to run the motor.

“Thank you, Kenny. I may be an old lady but I've lived on this lake all my life. This isn't my first time piloting a boat. We'll be fine.”

Sure enough, she had us skimming across the water in no time. We bypassed the island and bounced out to the middle of the lake before she let the motor die. The surface had been mirror-still back at shore, but out here sudden spits of a fickle breeze were kicking up small waves in all different directions. We drifted, rocking slightly from side to side. I tried to ignore my aching leg while I waited for Gram to tell me what was going on. She talked a lot more than she used to, but it still seemed to take her longer than most people to get started. I'd learned it was better to just let her come to things at her own speed.

Finally she leaned over and picked up a plastic bag she'd thrown onto the floor of the boat. Then she looked at me. “Your father always loved the water. And since that day they came to tell me he was missing, I've always thought of him as being out here . . . somewhere. I would stand and look out over the lake and even talk to him sometimes.”

Gram went quiet again, shading her eyes and staring out over the expanse of sun-diamonded lake. The steamy air was thick enough to have drops of sweat slicking down my neck. In moments like that, it was hard to buy everybody's warnings about how frozen I'd feel in just a couple of months. But I guess it was true that winter comes early to Minnesota.

Gram turned her eyes to me again. “I suppose it sounds morbid, me picturing him out here. Or fanciful. But it helped me to think of him somewhere, other than just gone without a trace. When they first dug up that body and told me it was probably John . . . I suppose I should have been relieved they'd found him. But I felt like I'd lost my son all over again. So this morning I decided I should bring him back out here.”

I gotta admit, my eyes were now glued to that plastic bag.

She reached inside. And pulled out that lumpy fish key-holder thing my father had made her in shop class. She stared at it a moment, then closed her eyes. I saw her lips move. Then she curled it in toward her body and Frisbeed it back out across the water.

She had quite an arm for an old lady. The wooden fish sailed high through the air and then skimmed across two waves like a skipping stone. Then it slipped down into the water, popping up almost immediately to bounce along the waves. Every time it rocked toward the sun, it sent a light beam flashing back to the sky.

I wasn't sure what to say, but I figured I had to contribute something. A prayer, maybe? Except I really knew only one by heart, and reciting that line “if I should die before I wake” didn't seem like the right thing to do in that moment. So something else—something really sensitive and profound?

“I expected it to sink, but it looks like it's staying afloat,” I said.

So one thing hadn't changed: I was still com-pletely clueless.

But Gram seemed pretty pleased with that. This little smile curved her lips in a way I hadn't seen in a while, and she gave a short nod. “You're exactly right, Travis; sometimes not sinking is a pretty good thing. I'm going to stay focused on just that.” She started the motor and clutched the side of the boat. “Hang on, boy—I want to show you what we used to call a boat ride.”

I turned around to face forward and grabbed the side as the boat jerked into motion. Gulls scattered into the air like bowling pins as we cut across the water at high speed. I gripped harder and leaned into the cool spitting spray so it would soak my sweaty T-shirt.

Gram slowed down when we finished curving around the island. I wiped the water out of my eyes so that I had a clear view of the shore. Somebody was waiting for us on Kenny's dock. As we drew closer, the figure grew bigger; when it suddenly transformed into Iz, all my nerve endings short-circuited the way they always did when I first saw her for the day. A few yards out, Gram cut the motor altogether, and we slowed to a glide, momentum carrying us in until we bumped up against the dock pole. Then Iz leaned out over the water and grabbed my hand, and together we guided the boat the last few feet home.

Minnesota has 11,842 lakes, give or take, but my particular lake—with the rundown cabin my extended family has crowded into since my mother was a girl—is Green Lake, near the towns of Spicer and New London. All of the good reasons that make Trav want to stay in Minnesota come from my love for that small corner of the universe. But the lake in this story is not that specific lake, and the town in this story is not either of those specific towns; if you're ever fortunate enough to visit my Green Lake, you won't find an island, or a giant statue of a bullhead, or anyone behaving as badly as some of the people Trav meets. In fact, you won't find the actual people and events that I describe, because I made them up for the sake of my story. (Except that there really are butter heads at the Minnesota State Fair, and according to news reports, they do make their way to freezers across the state.)

I have many amazing people in my life; I couldn't possibly thank all of them here. But several of them played a role in helping me with this book. My thanks go to:

Editor Adah Nuchi, whose editorial work was so adept, and done in such expert sleight-of-hand fashion that readers might be left with the mistaken conclusion that I deserve more of the credit than I do for the shaping of this story.

Everyone else on the Houghton Mifflin Harcourt team who played a role in bringing this book to life and helping it find an audience. I entrusted you with my story, and I am enormously proud to be able to share the beautiful book you created with readers.

Agent Rubin Pfeffer, the most gracious person I've met in my twenty-seven years of working in the world of books. I am more than fortunate that you took a chance on me.

Vicki and Steve Palmquist, the extraordinary founders of Children's Literature Network, who are untiring in their support of me and unequaled in their support of the worldwide network of all those who bring books and kids together. My world would be much smaller without you.

Author/illustrator/hero Debra Frasier, who did me a momentous favor. I know that I am not the first to benefit from her bigheartedness, or to find that her favors hold their own kind of magic.

Mystery writer Ellen Hart, an exceptional and generous writing teacher. The feedback and encouragement from Ellen and my fellow students carried me through the hardest part of writing this story. Diane Ferreira, Sue McCauley, and Lindsay Nielsen in particular provided valuable additional advice.

Writing group members Stephanie Weller Hanson, Wendy Rubinyi, and Patricia McKernon Runkle, who always knew whether I most needed a kick or a hug.

Aimée Bissonette, Mary Cummings, Donna Gephart, Marsha Qualey, and Laura Purdie Salas, who offered an equally valuable mix of professional expertise and friendly support.

Creative coach Rosanne Bane, who always knows both the right thing—and the write thing—to say.

Joy Baker, Jim Bullard, Joel Bullard, Sam Bullard, Lee Engfer, Therese Naber, Erik Rubinyi, Maxwell Schander, Roberta Steele, and Katherine Werner, who offered their wise insights as early manuscript readers or encouragers.

The extended Bengtson/LaPatka family, who truly are the best neighbors ever, and who have had a hand in shaping some of my favorite Lake memories.

The family members and friends who have filled me with love and laughter, and who allow me to steal their stories and make them my own. See you next summer at the Lake!

Growing up, L
ISA
B
ULLARD
spent her summers on Green Lake in Minnesota, where she had plenty of adventures but never found any missing money. Lisa is the author of many picture books and nonfiction titles for younger readers;
Turn Left at the Cow
is her first novel. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.