Breathing Water (24 page)
The paper was fragile, yellowed, and the blue ink was faint. I smoothed the paper out on the table and reached for the bag of coins to hold the corner down. I traced the outline of the camp. I touched the blue walls, the windows, and doors. I let my fingers linger in the kitchen, the closet, the loft bedroom above. Imaginary walls then.
Here?
My great-grandfather must have asked Grampa.
A sun porch here in the back?
And my grandfather, still a child, must have said,
Dad, why don't we put the porch on the front so we can look at the lake?
Here?
My great-grandfather must have asked Grampa.
A sun porch here in the back?
And my grandfather, still a child, must have said,
Dad, why don't we put the porch on the front so we can look at the lake?
Your mother would love that,
he might have said, ruffling his hair.
he might have said, ruffling his hair.
A tree house, Dad? You said we could build a tree house?
Easy there, one thing at a time,
he must have chuckled.
he must have chuckled.
And there will be blueberries? And a boat for the lake?
There will be more blueberries than you'll know what to do with. Yes, yes. All in good time.
And then he must have leaned over in the half-light to erase the porch he had sketched on the back of the imagined camp. And as Grampa rested his chin on his father's shoulder, he must have moved the porch to where my grandfather could watch the water. And he could watch my great-grandmother gathering stones for the garden she planned.
And then he must have leaned over in the half-light to erase the porch he had sketched on the back of the imagined camp. And as Grampa rested his chin on his father's shoulder, he must have moved the porch to where my grandfather could watch the water. And he could watch my great-grandmother gathering stones for the garden she planned.
Before I realized that I was crying, my eyes had already rained one drop that blurred the blue ink of the front door. The front door where my great-grandmother must have wiped her muddy feet before she brought the stones inside to inspect. The front door that later was ignored and blocked by the end of Gussy's daybed. The front door where Devin left a robin's egg, cracked and blue as this line.
I didn't want to go into town that night, but it was Maggie's birthday, and she wanted to go out dancing. I knew the only live music we'd find anywhere near Quimby would be country western music or some high school band with acne and bad rhythm, but she pleaded with me, and it was her birthday.
I was balancing on the ladder below the tree house, tearing a rotten board off the deck, when I heard Devin below me.
“Effie!”
“Yeh?” I said through the trees.
“You up there?”
“Yeh,” I said louder, and braced my foot against the side of the tree house as I yanked an old nail out of the board. The force of it nearly sent me falling down the ladder, but I got my balance just as Devin made his way through the marshy woods below me.
“Look out,” I said, tossing the board down. It landed close to him on the soft ground.
“Easy.” He laughed.
“Hey, you wanna come up?” I asked.
“Sure.” He smiled and started to climb up the ladder. I knelt on the remainder of the deck and held the ladder steady for him.
“Hi,” I said, reaching for his hand to help him the rest of the way.
“How's it coming?” he asked.
“Okay. I really just started. I think I just need to replace the deck and the roof. The rest of it seems okay. Some paint. Redo the inside.”
“Can I?” he asked, motioning to the door.
I unlocked the padlock and let him in. He ducked and went inside.
“I used to have forts.” He smiled, still ducking. The ceiling was a good six inches shorter than he. “In Virginia. My brothers and I would build them out of cardboard boxes. Twigs and stuff. They didn't hold up so well. I think I know how we can fix the deck.”
“Really?”
“Yeh. I think the answer might be to make it wrap around the whole tree house. It'll make it sturdier, brace it.”
“That seems a bit elaborate, don't you think?”
“It wouldn't be too hard.”
“Sure.” I shrugged. “I'll try anything at this point.”
“Great.” He smiled.
“My grandfather built this. He and his dad,” I said.
“Little people?” he asked.
“Nope. I'm the only small one. My mom's almost six feet.”
He sat down on the rusty bottom-bunk frame, and looked around the room. “I feel like Alice.” He smiled.
“You know Alice?” I asked, wondering how he would know Alice if he didn't know Maggie.
“In Wonderland?” He laughed.
“Eat me, drink me.
I don't remember which one made her big though, do you?”
“Eat me, drink me.
I don't remember which one made her big though, do you?”
“Oh, I thought you meant . . . this little girl. Alice, her mom is a friend of mine. They live up here too,” I said. “It's her birthday today.”
“Alice?”
“No, Maggie, Alice's mom. We're going to the Lodge tonight. She wants to go dancing, and I don't really think we're going to find any good music, but it might be fun anyway.” And then, remembering my promise to Maggie, I asked, “You wanna come?”
“Sure.” He nodded, peering out the child-sized window.
“Really?” I asked, suddenly regretting asking him. “I mean, you don't have to. It will probably be a bunch of, you know, rednecks. Big trucks. Bad music. Fighting.”
“I have a friend who bartends there,” he said. “I'd love to go. If it's okay with your friend.”
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Maggie pulled off her jeans and waddled toward her closet to grab another pair. “These are my
lucky
jeans.”
lucky
jeans.”
“Lucky jeans?” I asked.
“Maybe I should say my
get lucky
jeans.” She laughed. “I haven't worn them in a long time, though.”
get lucky
jeans.” She laughed. “I haven't worn them in a long time, though.”
“When was the last time you wore your jeans?” I asked, smiling.
“About six months ago,” she said. She changed into the jeans and admired her butt in the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. “You got any lucky pants?” she asked, raising her left eyebrow.
“I haven't bought jeans in years.” I smirk.
“Years.”
“Years.”
“Bugs called last night,” she said.
“Again?” I asked, the stars fading slowly.
“At fucking
midnight,
” she said. “He was wasted, I think.”
midnight,
” she said. “He was wasted, I think.”
“What did he want?” I asked.
“Who the hell knows. I could barely understand him. Going on and on about Alice mostly. And a little bit about me.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, the same old shit.
Maybe we can get back together some day.
He misses me. He didn't ever treat me right.” She frowned. “
No shit, Sherlock,
I say.”
Maybe we can get back together some day.
He misses me. He didn't ever treat me right.” She frowned. “
No shit, Sherlock,
I say.”
Alice came into the room then, holding her headless Barbie. She crawled up onto Maggie's bed and leaned to turn on the TV. She turned the knob until she found a tennis match. The reception was terrible, but she seemed fascinated by the game.
“Would it be okay if I brought a friend along tonight?” I asked, sitting down next to Alice, starting to braid her hair.
“You don't
have
any other friends,” Maggie said, and then she said, “Shit, you mean him, don't you?”
have
any other friends,” Maggie said, and then she said, “Shit, you mean him, don't you?”
I nodded. Alice's hair was soft between my fingers.
“Of course that's fine. It's more than fine. I was beginning to think you'd made him up.”
“He's real,” I said.
“I thought for a while there might be something wrong with him or something. Is he a midget? Have two heads?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, what's he look like?”
“He's big. Six four or so.” I tried to think of a way to describe the color of his eyes, the deep water that was his voice.
“Damn,” she said.
“He's black.”
“A black guy in Gormlaith? That's pretty damn close to finding a needle in a haystack.”
“He lives in New York,” I said.
“Flatlander.” She nodded and unzipped her jeans.
“He's not like that.”
“He's not pushy and obnoxious? Doesn't stop his car in the middle of the road to look at trees?” She peeled off her jeans and folded them neatly.
“No. He comes here every summer.”
“I've been curious myself.” She smiled. “I mean, about black guys.”
She looked at my expression of disbelief and punched my arm. “I don't mean that. It's just out of the ordinary. It's not like we exactly see them all the time up here. There was what?
One
black guy at Quimby High? Terrence. Terrence Williams. And he only lasted a year. I think his folks moved back to wherever they came from when nobody would hire them. Hell, I wouldn't want to live here either. Don't blame 'em at all.”
One
black guy at Quimby High? Terrence. Terrence Williams. And he only lasted a year. I think his folks moved back to wherever they came from when nobody would hire them. Hell, I wouldn't want to live here either. Don't blame 'em at all.”
I smiled.
“Of course, there's always the Fresh Air kids,” she said.
My heart sank. I stared at my hands, which became blurry and strange in my lap.
“Remember that little girl at the Foresters'? The one that drowned? You were here that summer weren't you? Jesus, black folks don't fare too well up in these parts.”
My throat was thick, my palms sticky. I needed to sit down, but Maggie was spread out across the bed.
“Bugs always said âOnce you go black, you never go back.' Stupid motherfucker, wasn't he? Like he's so wise about what black men have to offer. I don't think he ever even
met
a black man before. Except maybe at the fair. One of the carnies he always managed to piss off every year. I say they're probably
all
bad. Black, white, or green. They're still men.” She thought for a minute. “But he's nice to look at, huh?”
met
a black man before. Except maybe at the fair. One of the carnies he always managed to piss off every year. I say they're probably
all
bad. Black, white, or green. They're still men.” She thought for a minute. “But he's nice to look at, huh?”
“Yeh.” I nodded, my stomach turning, bile rising acidic in my throat.
“You all right?” she asked, touching my arm.
“I'm fine.” I smiled.
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Devin picked me and Maggie up at nine. She, like everyone else, seemed to take to him immediately. We crawled into his truck, and she did all of the talking. I was grateful for her ability to make conversation about anything. Radial tires. Cheese. The new zoning laws.
I liked the way Johnny Cash's voice sounded inside the warm cab of the truck tonight. I loved the way Maggie's Designer Imposter perfume smelled mixed with the strange sweet tobacco scent of Devin. But when we pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Lodge, I was suddenly terribly uncomfortable. The parking lot was full of trucks, small groups of people standing around, girls sitting on open tailgates, blue clouds of smoke in the dark night. I didn't want to get out of the warm cab. I wanted to go home. But Maggie jumped out of the truck and said, “Okay, kids. Let's get drunk and make some trouble.”
Maggie led the way to the front door. I followed her, and Devin followed behind, touching the small of my back with his hand.
Maggie asked the bouncer what the cover was. He was a skinny guy with a beard and a John Deere baseball hat. “Five bucks,” he said. “And I need to see some ID.”
He read her ID and she said, “You probably noticed it's my birthday today.”
He looked at her and winked. “You go on in then, honey. Your girlfriend too.” And then to Devin, he said, “ID?”
Inside I relaxed a little. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and no one seemed to be paying attention to us. Devin seemed comfortable here, at home. He found an empty booth and said, “I'll go get us something to drink. What do you ladies want?”
“Beam me up.” Maggie smiled, pounding the rhythm of the music on the table, looking around to see who else was there. “The Reverend Jim Beam and diet Coke. With a lemon, if you please.”
“Effie?” he asked.
“I don't care,” I said. “Beer?”
“She'll have a shot of Cuervo and a Corona. With a lime,” Maggie said.
“I'll be right back,” Devin said and walked up to the bar.
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