Kyle's Island (13 page)

“You go on. I'll just keep reading.”

I'm not usually much of a reader, but this book was really good. I kept turning pages. After a while I heard Andrea's voice down by the pier, so I knew she was back. Josh woke up and came out on the porch. “Can I go down and fish from the pier?” he asked.

“As long as Andrea and Vicki are down there and you wear your life jacket,” I told him. He looked completely recovered to me. He left then, and I lay back down on my bed. The cottage dozed around me, and I was completely, utterly happy. Until.

I didn't pay much attention when the car door slammed. I heard Mrs. Morley call, “Dorrie? Dave Becker phoned. He'd like you to call him.”

I hoped Mr. Becker didn't want to bring someone new to look at the cottage. But it wasn't that. It was worse. Mom came back with her eyes shining. “You know the family who was here yesterday, Kyle? They liked the cottage. They made a good offer.”

I sat up so fast I knocked my book to the floor.

“You didn't take it?”

“I did.”

“Just like that? Without talking it over with us?”

“Kyle, there wasn't any point in talking. It's a fair offer, and we need to sell.”

“I told you I'd never forgive you!” I shouted. “And I never will!”

I ran out of the cottage and down to the pier. Ignoring Vicki and Andrea and Josh, I got into the rowboat. Mom was calling to me, but I paid no attention—just grabbed my life jacket and bait can, loosened the rope, and shoved off. I didn't know where I was going. My fishing pole was in the boat, where I'd put it when we came back from Tom's. I didn't know if I'd want to fish, but I'd let them think I did. Who cared about me anyway? Mom had gotten what she wanted, and Vicki and Andrea and Josh didn't really love the cottage the way I did. Give them a few days, and they'd be used to the idea that it was no longer ours. Not me, though. I'd never get used to it.

I ended up going to the island, of course. I guess I'd known I would even before I got in the boat. I headed straight out there. When I got up close, instead of anchoring out in the open the way I did before, I pulled the boat in under some overhanging trees so that it was kind of hidden. I didn't want anyone on the lake—the Marshalls, say—to see it and guess someone was out here.

This time it was easier to find my way to the cabin. When I got there, the first thing I did was prop open the door and open the window as wide as it would go. I took
the blanket and pillow off the cot and carried them outside, where I draped the blanket over a bush. I didn't see a good place to put the pillow, so I just dropped it on top of some vines on the ground. I hoped the sun and wind would get rid of some of that musty smell. After that I went back in and grabbed the broom. Might as well get the worst job over with first. I swept every inch of that cabin, walls and all. I got rid of cobwebs and spiderwebs and the leaves and twigs that fell from the sill when I opened the window. I took off my T-shirt and used it to dust the crates and the cans. When I finished, a good look at the shirt convinced me not to put it on again.

After I'd done all that, I brought the blanket and pillow back in. I spread the blanket on the cot, tossed on the pillow, then lay down. The wool was scratchy on my bare back, and the pillow still smelled musty, but all in all it wasn't bad. I clasped my hands behind my neck, crossed my ankles, closed my eyes. Maybe I'd just stay here on the island and eat from the cans till I ran out of food. How long would that take? I wouldn't, of course. I knew Mom. The first hint of darkness and she'd be wild with worry if I wasn't back. Still, I liked thinking about staying. …

I must have fallen asleep then, I guess, because when I opened my eyes the dimmed light told me it was getting
late. I lay there a minute longer, letting the reality of losing the cottage sink in. It was strange—my anger seemed to be gone, and in its place was a kind of sadness that I didn't think would leave me soon.

It was almost dark by the time I got back in. I'd missed lunch and supper, but I wasn't hungry. As I tied the boat up, I noticed Mom sitting at the bottom of the steps. I wasn't in the mood to talk, so I put away my pole and bait, then started to go past her up the steps. Glancing down at her, though, I was surprised to see what looked like tear stains on her cheeks.

“Mom? Have you been crying?”

“Maybe a little. Go on up. I'll be there soon.”

“Why were you crying?” I sat down on the step beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. “Did Dad call?”

“No, this has nothing to do with your dad. I'm just sad, that's all.”

“What are you sad about?”

She gave an angry sniff and turned to look at me. “About the cottage, of course. Did you think I wouldn't care? I grew up with this cottage, Kyle. Every room is full of memories of my mom and dad. First the house in Cassopolis, now this. Soon my memories will have no place to stay.”

I didn't say anything. How could I? I'd been thinking
only of me, of how I'd miss the cottage. I'd never dreamed that Mom might feel the same way. I wasn't ready to forgive her, though. If she'd tried a little harder, maybe she could have figured out a way to save it. I wouldn't have given up that easily. Still …

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked. “I'll fix you one.”

She smiled and shook her head, then lit a cigarette. “No, but if you'll spend some time with Josh, I'll appreciate it. He's done nothing but mope around since you left. Most of the time he's been sitting on the pier, looking at the island, waiting for you to get back.”

“He knew I was on the island?”

“He watched you go, guessed you'd end up there. He's a lot like you, Kyle.”

So I went on up to the cottage. The lights inside were on, and it looked so comfortable and inviting, I had to swallow hard. Dad, I thought. This was all your fault. How could you do this to us?

JULY 14, FIVE DAYS BEFORE
my birthday. Two weeks since Dave Becker had pulled up the “For Sale” sign and replaced it with one that said “Sold.” I had to pass it four times a day—going to and from Clyde's with my worms, and to and from Tom's. Every time I went by, I kicked a little dust up on it. It had rained some the day before, and as I left for Tom's that morning I noticed that the dust had turned to mud, so now the word
Sold
was hardly visible. Didn't bother me at all.

The morning was hot and muggy, kind of unsettled, with the sky in the east an orange-ish red. After so many beautiful days, I felt I shouldn't complain, but when my T-shirt started to stick to me on the way, I knew it was going to be a scorcher.

“Morning,” I said when Tom came out his kitchen door.

He grunted. “Hotter'n Hades, isn't it?”

We didn't say anything more. Things had changed between Tom and me since the day Josh had gone out with us. I wasn't even quite sure why I kept fishing with him. The money was nice, but it wasn't any real use anymore. Maybe I just felt I should stay with it because I'd promised. And because I knew him well enough now to understand how awful it would be for him if he couldn't fish.

But I was still mad about the way he'd stuffed Josh with food. We'd never talked much, but now we talked less, and I hadn't stayed for breakfast since. If Tom wondered why, he didn't let on. To my relief, he hadn't asked me anything about the cottage. The first day the sign went up, he told me, “Sorry about your cottage, Kyle. A shame.” And that's all he'd ever said.

I got the boat ready, Tom got in, and we shoved off. “Where to?” I asked him.

“By the bar, west of the island. They'll be deep today.”

We anchored in the deepest part of the lake. The anchors went down so far that for a minute I was afraid we'd run out of rope. We threw out our lines and settled in. Two or three other boats were within hailing distance, but no one called over; they just acknowledged our presence with a nod of the head or a slight wave. The sun slipped up over the horizon, hot and red. As it climbed higher, my eyes
began to water now and then. I had one of Grandpa's old fishing caps on, and I pulled the brim down a little.

Our bobbers sat quiet on the almost motionless water. A dragonfly lit on mine and rested there. Then, without warning, Tom's bobber disappeared. He jerked, then began pulling. His pole bent toward the water. His line kept going around in circles, but he kept it taut and gradually drew it closer. What he finally brought in was one of the biggest bluegills I'd ever seen. It must have weighed a pound if it weighed an ounce.

He held it up for a minute, and from the closest boat a voice called out across the water. “Guess now you'll be down at Clyde's bragging all week long, Tom.”

And Tom called back, “You're just jealous, Hap.”

He was slipping it into the live-sack when my bobber took a brief dive and then went down for good. That began the craziest morning of fishing I'd ever seen. Everything was biting—bass, bluegills, sunfish, perch. You'd hardly throw your line in before something took your bait. We were so busy, we didn't pay any attention as one by one the boats around us departed. When a breeze came up and a cloud moved across the sun, all it meant to me was that I was a little cooler. Tom, too, paid no attention to anything but the fishing. That's why the first roll of thunder startled
me so. I looked up, and the sky was almost black. The wind grabbed my hat, and the hat went sailing away. A crack sounded off to the west, and I saw a flash of lightning streak down toward the water. The thunder rolled again, and as if a giant dishpan was overturned on us, the rain poured down.

“Blast it, I should have been paying attention,” Tom shouted over the wind. We brought in our lines and began to pull up the anchors. But they were down so far! It seemed to take forever. Finally we had them back in the boat. I started toward the middle, but Tom motioned me to stay where I was. “I'll row,” he shouted. He raised himself to his feet, took a step, and then it happened. A wave slapped us sideways, his foot caught in the wet anchor rope, and he lurched forward. His arms flew out to catch himself, but the sides of the boat were slippery, and his hands couldn't save him. He fell heavily, his forehead hitting the side of the boat with a thump I could hear over the wind, and then he lay there, motionless.

“Tom? Tom, are you all right?” My voice rose in a kind of screech.

He didn't stir. “Tom, get up! Get up!” I called again, and I know there was a sob in my voice. Crouching low, holding the sides of the boat, I moved forward till I was looking
down at him, at his gray hair and the bald spot on the top of his head, at the thick shoulders and middle. He was lying on his stomach across the center seat, his upper body slumping down into the bottom of the boat. The rain soaked us both, and the wind was pushing the boat across the water. Somehow I pulled Tom farther toward the bow. If the rain hadn't made everything slippery, I don't think I could have done it. How much did he weigh? Three hundred pounds? More? And it was all dead weight. I pulled until only his legs were still on the center seat. I lifted his head, grabbed the seat cushion, and stuck it under his face, turning his head sideways. The bump on his forehead was red and swelling, and a little patch of skin dangled down toward his eye. Crouching, balancing, I inched around him, then sat down between his legs. I grabbed the oars.

The wind had pushed us northeast, away from the cottage shore. I'd never make it back there like this. I'd have to head for the island. Waves were slapping high on the sides of the boat, and the rain was so heavy the island was barely visible, except when lightning lit up the sky. The pelting drops stung my eyes. My jeans clung cold and wet to my thighs. All my life, my mom had told me, “Storms blow in fast over the water,” but I'd never have believed one could come as fast as this. I rowed like I'd never rowed
before, the little boat rocking, the wind and the rain cutting through my T-shirt. The wind was pushing us in the right direction, but I'd have to cut to the south soon. If I wasn't careful we'd be blown right past the island. I kept looking down at Tom, willing him to move, but he lay still. I brought us in right about where I'd anchored the day I explored. Somehow I got Tom's foot free from the rope and dropped the anchor in the shallow water. I jumped from the boat and waded around to the side. “Tom,” I urged, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Tom, wake up!”

What was I going to do? I couldn't stand there in the water, not with lightning all around. I couldn't lift Tom, and I couldn't leave him there. Was he dead? He couldn't be. Not from just a fall. But what if the fall had made him have a heart attack or something? I was starting to panic when I thought I saw his arm move a little. I shook his shoulder. “Tom?” He groaned, and that groan was the best sound I'd ever heard. He wasn't dead! Slowly he moved, slowly he turned on his side. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked up at me.

“Are you all right?” I asked anxiously.

“No,” he said. “My head hurts like hell. But I'm alive. Just give me a minute.”

I stood in the water, watching him. The rain had soaked
us through. The weight of wet denim pulled at my jeans until the waistband dug into my hips, and my T-shirt was plastered to my back. Tom looked even worse than I imagined I did. He was wearing overalls, and they sagged around his middle. His long-sleeved blue shirt, the kind he always wore no matter the weather, looked almost black, it was so wet. He had a purplish, reddish knot on his forehead, but only a trickle of blood running down his cheek, so I figured the scrape wasn't too deep.

It wasn't easy to get him upright. I helped him scoot backward so he could get his legs off the seat. Then by grabbing hold of the side, he maneuvered himself around until he was able to stand.

“Can you walk?” I asked.