What Dies in Summer (24 page)

“Don’t breathe,” I said. “I want to hear.”

“Schmuck.”

I lifted my head and put my mouth on hers, tasting her sweetness and instantly feeling lost in her. She held my shoulders as we kissed. After a minute, I drew back and looked at her. I tried to
tell her how beautiful she was, but I don’t think anything came out but a whimper. I grabbed her to pull her to me and kiss her again, but she put her hands on my chest.

“We’ve gotta go back,” she said, breathing hard.

I released her and sat back, listening to her breathing and mine. I looked down at the Mille Lacs a million miles away, imagining Marge and Don in their bungalow watching television and not
thinking about us at all. The infinite sky just kept hanging there all around us. After a while I said, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know, Bis,” she said, giving my forehead a little rap with her knuckles. “But we just gotta.”

Finally I nodded, got to my feet and gave her a hand up. She moved ahead of me along a path I was now beginning to see more clearly in the dark field as we walked back down through the stars
toward the road.

In my bungalow I sat on the side of the bed and waited for my heart to settle down. After saying a silent prayer for L.A. and Gram and everyone else who had to make it through the night, I
turned off the light and was asleep in a few minutes.

WHEN I WOKE
in the morning the only dream I could remember featured Jazzy, sitting up to beg for a corn chip I was holding out to her. No cold sweat, no
sensation of my heart trying to kick its way out of my chest, no hangover of danger or dread, and best of all, no memory of dead girls watching me sleep.

After loading all our stuff into the wagon we sat down for waffles with maple syrup and sausages at the Mille Lacs Café, then took 69 north past the turnoff to Clear Lake, where Buddy
Holly’s plane had gone down.

“Gee,” said Diana. “S’pose we should say a little prayer or something?”

Marge glanced at her.

“I think it’s too late,” I said.

Bemidji was the last real town we passed through.

“And so we bid fond farewell to city lights,” Don said happily.

A few hours later we made it to the turnoff to Duck Lake, where there was a little store called the Duck-In, with a small, neat house next to it and an old green International pickup parked in
the driveway. Marge went inside to pick up a few things for the cabin and Don walked over to the house to roust Mr. Gundersen, who took care of the cabin in the off season. The old man came out
blinking and scratching his head, saw Don and went back inside. A minute later he reappeared wearing a red wool duck hunter’s cap with earflaps hanging down on each side. Marge came out
carrying two bags of groceries, which we stashed in the wagon as Mr. Gundersen was climbing stiffly into his pickup.

It was a twenty-minute drive through the woods and along the lakeshore. When the vehicles finally rolled to a stop in front of the cabin everybody climbed out, Mr. Gundersen walking up to join
Don in a way that told you the ride had been hard on his hip.

The cabin, looking nothing like I had imagined, sat about forty yards up from the water on the easy slope under the pines, with a wide screened deck looking out over the water. It was
house-sized, with three stories counting the loft, the look of the walls and roof making it obvious the place had been built in stages. Wooden stairs led up to the deck and front door in two
flights, and there was a stone chimney up one wall and firewood stacked on the deck and along the back of the cabin under the deck next to where the picnic table had been set on end and leaned up
against the wall.

From the water’s edge below the cabin a narrow wooden dock ran about forty feet out into the lake, and halfway along it a wooden boat was tied to one of the pilings. An old Evinrude motor
was tilted up out of the water at the transom, a red gas tank stowed below it behind the rear seat. A hundred yards away along the shore, a motionless heron held its spear of a head aimed at the
water.

“Got the electric turned on yesterday,” said Mr. Gundersen. “Well pump’s okay. Made sure the chimney’s clear, so yez can have your fire if you want. With the
weather you’re used to, you might find it cool enough for that tonight. Far as your provisions, I made sure the canned goods, dry beans and whatnot are stocked up. Linens all fresh. Bailed
the boat yesterday and got the motor back on. Had Ernie change out the gas and oil and check the plug, so she should start okay. Nothin’ in the mousetraps the last couple days.”

Diana looked at me and mouthed,
Mice?

Mr. Gundersen filled Don in on where the fish were and what they were hitting.

“Walleye, stay with your shiners,” he said. “Pike, Dardevle’s always good. Want muskie, I’d try them big red and white plugs they use. There’s monsters out
there, take your leg off that quick.” He sliced the air horizontally with his hand and grinned at Diana and Marge, who looked a little stricken.

Don took a couple of bills out of his wallet and handed them to the old man, saying, “Thanks, Einar.”

Mr. Gundersen stuffed the bills in the pocket of his khaki work shirt and pushed back his hat. “I’d say yez’ll be all right for the week,” he said as he climbed back into
his truck. “Need anythin’, you know where to find me. Have a good visit, eh?”

Don and I unstrapped the cartop carrier and grabbed the luggage. Inside, he flipped on the lights with his elbow, giving us a view back into the bedrooms and up the stairs to the loft.

“You’re bunking up there, Jim,” he said. “Put the blue clothes bag and that smaller case in the front bedroom for Diana.”

When we had everything squared away, Don grabbed a couple of the fishing rods and clapped me on the shoulder, saying, “Let’s go take a look at the boat.” The lake was still and
clear, the boat lying against the sections of tire tread that had been nailed to the sides of the dock as bumpers. Don checked the boat over and said, “Looks like we’re gonna be ready
to sail, Popeye.”

We tied on a couple of lead weights and practiced casting off the dock for a while to get used to the bait-casting reels, then Don laid his rod in the boat and went back up to the cabin to lay
in firewood for the night.

A few minutes later I felt footsteps on the dock and looked back in time to see a bright flash. Diana had taken a picture of me with her miniature camera.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she said.

“You can sneak up on me anytime,” I said.

“Whatcha gonna catch with that piece of lead?”

“Just trying to get the hang of it,” I said. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“Porkchop asked me if I wanted to fish. I don’t think so, but I want to go with you on the boat.”

The air was getting much cooler, and Marge came down to the dock wearing a jacket. “Aren’t you two feeling the chill down here?” she said.

Diana decided she was, and headed up to the cabin to find a sweater.

“How are you really doing, James?” Marge asked when Diana was halfway up the slope.

“Pretty good, I think,” I said.

“Any trouble sleeping, bad dreams, anything like that?”

I shook my head, wondering if a silent lie carried the same moral weight as one you spoke aloud. Her question had made me think of L.A. and Gram back home, and suddenly I felt like a deserter.
In particular, I was visualizing the layout of Gram’s house and yard, which I now realized was all dark corners and ambush points. For a second I felt a jagged-edged certainty that I needed
to be there, needed to just leave right now and somehow get back where I belonged.

But I reminded myself that Earl was locked up, and that I was stupid to think it was up to me to protect everybody and fix everything. I could barely take care of myself.

A deranged cackle of laughter echoed across the water, and I jumped.

Marge smiled at me. “That’s a loon,” she said, gazing off in the direction of the call. “It’s a waterbird.”

Marge smiled at me again and gave my arm a squeeze. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”

Later that evening we arranged the small couch and a couple of chairs and some big pillows in front of the fireplace so we could watch the fire. Don and Marge sat together, and she laid her head
on his shoulder. Diana lay back on the pillows with her ankles crossed over mine.

“This is nice,” she said.

“Mmm,” said Marge.

Every so often Don got up to put on another log or poke into the fire with one of the iron tools that stood beside the fireplace. The flames swayed and pulsed, and sparks went swirling up the
chimney like orange fireflies. There didn’t seem to be any need for talk. I thought about loons, and then I thought about Diana.

“Bedtime, James,” said Marge, touching my arm.

I opened my eyes. There was nothing left of the fire but glowing ashes, and Diana had already gone to bed. I climbed up to the loft, kicked off my shoes and crawled into the bag without
undressing.

I dreamed of Tricia Venables, naked and trying to warm herself at our fire. But she couldn’t, she was too cold, cold as granite, cold as eternity. When I tried to speak to her my tongue
froze.

Then she was L.A., hurt and freezing, her naked skin bitten and torn. She was lost in some high, hopeless place above icy rivers that twined like silver veins through the dark canyons thousands
of feet below. Her hands covered her bloodied breasts and she cried out to me, but the booming wind stole her voice, left her as silent and broken as a doll in the endless, terrible emptiness.
Hubert and Shepherd Boy struggled toward her through hip-deep snow from different directions, their hands and grinning mouths red with blood.

GRAM HAD
made me promise to write, so I got up before Diana and Don the next morning and borrowed a ballpoint pen and a sheet of stationery from Marge.
Then I sat at the table staring at the peach-colored paper while she started breakfast, my mind blanker than the page. Finally I decided the only way to start was to just start. I wrote:

I was trying to think of a way to make this part seem important without sounding sinister or stupid when Don walked into the kitchen, and a minute later Diana followed. Marge
said, “Okay, guys, get the plates and silverware on the table. Breakfast in five minutes, James, so you’ll need to wash up. You can finish your letter tonight.”

But I never did. I’ll get to the reason a little later.

After we had eaten and cleared the table, Don and Diana packed lunch while I helped Marge with the dishes. I listened to Don and Diana as I worked, and it was the usual standoff. Don’s
idea was that with a hunk of jerky and a bottle of water you’re good for the day, but Diana took anything that had to do with food way more seriously than that. In her mind they were
outfitting for an expedition, and she wanted all the possibilities covered, like maybe we’d have to share our lunch with Asia.

When they finally got it all haggled out we lugged the food and fishing gear down to the boat. The sun wasn’t all the way up yet. Our movements on the dock started ripples from the pilings
that radiated smoothly away in interlocking circles, and I could see pale genies of mist drifting above the surface of the water in the oystery light. The sky shaded from the color of pale
primroses in the east to turquoise overhead to smoky iron in the west, the tips of the tallest firs and spruces touched with coppery pink.

Don got the motor started, and it burbled and smoked in the water as we stowed everything in the boat and got our life jackets on. Then we pulled away from the dock and Don gradually throttled
up until the boat was on plane and cruising smoothly. The world began to wake up, with lines of birds flying low over the water and the sun climbing above the treetops in the east.

We circled in toward a small island and Don cut the throttle, our wake swaying the reeds in the shallow water and sloshing up along the shore. Diana watched as Don showed me how to rig my rod
for bottom-fishing, then got out her little camera and snapped a few pictures, saying, “How far are we from Canada?”

Don looked around to get his bearings and said, “Probably a mile or two.” He cast along the shore and watched the line until it went slack as the weight hit bottom. “Hope we
don’t look like invaders. They might attack us with their hockey sticks.”

I caught the first fish, a green-gold walleye with a spined fin on its back and milky eyes. Don twisted the hook free of its mouth, hefted it and said, “Pound and a half at least.”
He clipped it onto the stringer and let the stringer down into the water. A few minutes later he caught one a little smaller, put it on the stringer with the first and held them up in the sunlight
while Diana took a picture. “Starting to look like supper,” he said.

My rod pulled strongly down, and I hauled back on it to set the hook, feeling the fish run for deeper water. It was bigger than the first one, and when I finally got it alongside and Don netted
it, he said, “Five, maybe six pounds.” Diana took another picture as he put it on the stringer.

The sun got higher in the sky, and Don decided we’d troll across the lake to a cove he knew on the south shore and have lunch there. We rigged a couple of lines with spinners and let them
out about twenty yards behind the boat as we cruised slowly south, making just enough headway to keep the lures’ blades turning.