Summer at Willow Lake (19 page)

“I know.” He made a great show of taking a bracing gulp of morning air. “It’s great, huh? My favorite time of day.”

She shivered in the clammy chill. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“I had no choice. Neither of my children has ever caught a fish. This is a sacred quest.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “How can it matter what time of day we do this great deed of catching a fish? Don’t tell me fish can tell time—”

“It’s got to do with the light and water temperature. The trout feed when the bugs are out, dawn and twilight.”

“Yeah, that’s my favorite time of day, too. When the bugs are out.”

There was an eerie quality to the quiet that settled over the compound. The shroud of fog insulated the sound of their voices and the slap of her flip-flops against the soles of her feet. The camp looked like the setting of a creepy horror movie where an ax murderer lurked in the deep woods.

“How did you sleep last night?” her dad asked.

“It’s still last night. I was sleeping fine. It’s not like there’s anything else to do around here.”

“Oh, I think you’ve definitely done a good job amusing yourself.” He gestured down at the lakeshore, where the blackened remains of last night’s fire were barely visible. “We used to do that, too, when we came to camp. We’d build a big fire down on the beach and get high.”

“I don’t—” Daisy glared at him and stiffened her spine in defiance. Why deny it? He obviously knew, and he obviously didn’t give a shit, so why should she? A part of her wished he would put his foot down, order her to stop, but he never did. Instead, he took the fun out of getting high by acting like it was no big deal, because it was something he himself had already done. Yelling at her to behave herself was her mom’s job, and her mom was out of the picture now. Just for the summer, Mom said, a trial separation, but deep in her gut, Daisy already knew.

“Whatever,” she muttered, pushing into the kitchen ahead of him. “What’s for breakfast?”

Max was already there, entranced by something on the back of a box of cereal as he mechanically shoveled each bite into his mouth.

“Hey,” Daisy said. “Where’d you get the Cap’n Crunch?”

He didn’t look up. “Dad and I went to town for supplies last night. Dare has this place stocked up with too much healthy stuff. Want some?”

“No, thanks. That much sugar is addictive, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s pretty much the worst thing you can put into your body.”

“’Cept cigarette smoke,” Max said. “So don’t go criticizing me.”

“Shut up,” she said, and took a carton of low-fat Greek yogurt from the industrial-size fridge. She topped it with a scoop of Dare’s muesli.

“Dad, you should make her stop smoking,” Max said.

Their father found a big bowl and filled it with Cap’n Crunch. “She should stop on her own,” he said.

“She should be in bed, sound asleep, instead of being up at this hour with a couple of morons,” Daisy said.

“Morons,” Max repeated, and high-fived their dad across the table.

Daisy cut a peach into chunks and added it to the yogurt and muesli. That was the kind of morning it was going to be—just peachy.

They finished breakfast and piled their dishes in the sink. Her dad and Max headed for the boathouse. Daisy took a minute to wash the dishes. The huge stainless-steel sink was equipped with a showerlike commercial dishwashing apparatus, and she had everything clean in about half a minute. She put away the cereal and milk—did they think it would put itself away?—and then went outside to find the guys and nag them about cleaning up after themselves. They weren’t being rude. They just didn’t think. And that habit was harder to break than rudeness.

She stepped outside and headed along the path to the boathouse and dock. All right, she thought, now fully awake, she had to admit, there was something about this place at this hour of the morning. A special hush hung in the air and there was a mystical quality to the lake at sunrise. The mist moved as if it had a life of its own, sneaking across the perfectly still water. With the light from the rising sun shining through, everything took on a soft, magical glow. Everything smelled so fresh, of clean water, wildflowers and dewy grass, and the birdsong was somehow muted by the air around them. If the Lady of the Lake herself rose up, holding Caliburn aloft, Daisy wouldn’t be surprised.

Every so often, a trout rose to grab a bug, its movement forming gentle concentric rings that gradually subsided. Poor, unsuspecting trout, Daisy thought. Why would anyone want to rip the poor thing from the peaceful lake, gut it and fry it up in a pan?

Because she and her brother had never caught a fricking fish, and their goofball dad thought it was important.

“Daisy, look!” Max said, running toward her. “Look what Dad and I got last night!” He held out a large coffee can for her inspection. She saw a mound of dark, moist dirt, braided through with flesh-colored earthworms, gleaming and undulating with mindless creepiness.

“Golly, that’s great, Max,” she said with false brightness. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go yark in the bushes.”

“What a baby,” he mumbled. “They’re just nightcrawlers.”

She swallowed and took a couple of gulps of air, and if she didn’t look at the can, the queasiness subsided.
Nightcrawlers.

The thing her dad refused to see about this whole family bonding, let’s-go-fishing expedition was that it was all such BS. On the surface, he might look like Father of the Year taking the kids fishing, but there was still a can of worms to deal with. There was always a can of worms.

Next to the boathouse was a big storage barn filled with sports equipment. “Whoa,” said Max, his eyes wide. “Look at all this stuff. They got everything here.”

“That they do, buddy.” Dad lifted a dusty canvas shroud to reveal a row of parked bicycles.

“Bikes!” Daisy exclaimed. She loved riding bikes.

“There are even a few tandems,” Dad said. “We’ll have to pump up the tires later.”

There was a ton of other stuff, including nets and raquets and balls, floating goals for water polo, bows and arrows and targets, croquet sets, you name it. Daisy made a mental note to check it out later. With none of the usual entertainment available, she and Max were learning to be creative when it came to amusing themselves. She never thought she’d get excited about a game of badminton, but the prospect took on a new appeal.

One whole section of the barn was devoted to fishing gear, with poles and reels of every size, boxes of hooks and lures, waders and vests with every pocket imaginable. There was a big tackle box filled with equipment and an even bigger box marked Majesky.

“What’s this stuff?” Max asked.

“Ice-fishing gear,” Dad explained. “Old Mr. Majesky from town used to come up here during the off-season to fish. He and Granddad were fishing buddies a long time ago, so I guess that’s why his stuff has been left up here.”

“What’s that sign say, Dad?” Max pointed.

“It says—”

Daisy hushed her father. With Max, they were supposed to seize on teachable moments whenever possible, in order to help him with his reading. Since he’d been in first grade, he had struggled with reading. A bunch of testing and daily tutors had ensued, but her brother’s reading didn’t improve.

“What’s the matter?” her dad asked, frowning.

Did he really not know? “You read the sign, Max,” she said. “You tell us what it says.”

“Never mind,” he grumbled, his temper foul now. “Sheesh, you’re as bossy as Mom.”

“No, I’m not. For Mom, you’d try to read it.”

Max stormed out, muttering something about checking the can of worms.

Their father looked completely astonished. “Wait a minute. The sign says Fishing Regulations for Local Residents. Are you saying Max can’t read it?”

Daisy folded her arms and thrust up her chin. “Hello? This is news to you?”

“I knew he was having a little trouble in school, but I thought his tutor was taking care of that.”

Typical, she thought. Her dad always figured the solution to every problem was to hire someone to solve it. You’d think by now he would realize that the strategy didn’t always work. Her mother wasn’t much better. Her solution was to hire someone and then run away, clear to Seattle. Sometimes Daisy felt like the only member of this family who realized something needed fixing, and not by the hired help. Oh, they did all that bullshit family counseling, but it never worked. Dr. Granville was all, “How did that make you feel?” He had a knack for making people break down and cry, but so what? Oprah had that same talent, but it never seemed to help the situation, so big deal.

“Did you even read his IEP?” She could tell from her dad’s expression that he needed remedial help, too. “Individualized educational plan,” she said, exaggerating each word. “The main component of the plan for summer is that you read with him every day for at least an hour. I can’t believe Mom didn’t tell you.”

“You’re kidding,” Dad said.

“Right,” she agreed. “Kidding. I thought it would be hilarious to tell you Max can’t read and then lie to you about how to deal with it.”

Her dad either didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, or he was ignoring it. “So I’m supposed to read to him? That’s great,” he said, and he grinned. He actually grinned from ear to ear.

Daisy wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “Excuse me? Great?”

His face lit up with boyish enthusiasm. “There are all kinds of books I’ve always wanted to read to Max. To both of you.”

Then why didn’t you?
she wanted to ask.

“I mean, I know you can read just fine, right?” Dad said.

“You’re asking me?” She grabbed three canoe paddles from the pegs on the wall. “Do you really not know?” He looked so crestfallen that she relented. “No worries, Dad. I can read just fine.” He acted like he was the world’s coolest father just because he didn’t freak even though he knew she smoked cigarettes and pot. But really, he didn’t realize how much he didn’t know about her—that she’d won the Dickinson prize for poetry this year and had earned a key in the National Honor Society. That she had scored a record number of goals in lacrosse last season. That her favorite jazz pianist was Keith Jarrett and that she’d tried cocaine at a party.

“There’s a ton of stuff we could read,” Dad said. “
The Once and Future King
and
Treasure Island.
There used to be a camp library in the main pavilion by the rec room. We’ll go check it out tonight.”

One thing about Dad, he never lacked for enthusiasm.

They picked out rods and reels, lead sinkers and red-and-white bobbers, and headed out to the dock. Dad had launched a big canoe, one that had six bench seats going across. He had brought along a cooler of drinks, sandwiches and snacks, enough for an army. She pictured him up before first light, putting all this together for them, and her heart lurched. He was trying. He really was.

She noticed a bundle of towels and a tube of sunscreen. Sunscreen? Did he think they were going to be out on the water long enough to need sunscreen?

“You said you wanted us to plant flowers all along the front drive and around the main pavilion,” she reminded her dad.

“That’s right,” he said, tossing her a life jacket. “Flowers will really dress the place up. In the garden plan, I went with traditional red and white geraniums.”

“So I shouldn’t stay out too long,” she added.

“Don’t worry about that. The flowers won’t care what day you put them in the ground. What good is summer camp if you can’t play a little hooky once in a while?” He grinned. “Looks like you’re trapped with Max and me.”

“Super.”

The canoe was more wobbly than it looked, floating placidly alongside the dock. When they got on board, the hull lurched ominously from side to side, which Max thought was hilarious.

“Sit still,” Daisy said as she picked up a paddle. “If you make me fall in, I’ll make you sorry.”

“It’s only water.”

“Yeah, but have you felt it?”

Max trailed his hand in the water. “Feels great to me.”

“Just paddle, numb nuts.”

“My nuts are not numb,” he said.

“Come on, Max. Grab a paddle and start paddling,” she said. “Or don’t you know how?”

“’Course I know how.” Belligerently, he picked up a paddle as their dad pushed off from the dock.

Daisy dug in, setting the pace from her spot in the front of the canoe. She didn’t really know what she was doing, but she had done some paddling in PE at school, so that helped a little. It really wasn’t hard, although she and her dad and Max were hopelessly out of sync. Their paddles clacked together in midair, splashing sun-sparkled droplets in the water. Daisy imagined herself telling Dr. Granville about the outing. He would point out that the lack of coordination was a metaphor of the family’s issues. He was into all this metaphor crap. He’d explain how Dad’s immaturity and detachment, Daisy’s looking for boundaries and Max’s need for reassurance were coming out in the way they paddled the canoe.

“When I was a kid here,” Dad said, “we used to have a team quadrathalon. A race with four parts. First we had to paddle—once around the island and then back. Then we’d have to swim from the starting blocks to the buoys and back. Then there was a leg of the race on bikes for about three miles, and finally, a cross-country footrace for a mile to the finish line. First to finish won the prize.”

“What was the prize?” asked Max.

“I don’t even remember. Probably something like extra s’mores.”

“That’s a lot of work for s’mores.”

“Son, we didn’t do it for the s’mores.”

“Then why did you?”

“To win. To own bragging rights as the fastest team.”

“Geez, I don’t get it.”

“Come on, Max. Where’s your competitive spirit?”

“I guess I forgot to pack it.”

“When are we going to start fishing?” Daisy figured the sooner they got started, the quicker they’d be done.

“We need to get to the perfect spot,” Dad said. “It’s a place called Blue Hole.”

It took forever to get there because it was clear on the far side of the lake, and they were so lame at paddling. All their splashing and noise probably scared every single fish in the water into hiding, anyway.