My last summer at the lake (Part 3 of 4)

Jack Benjamin | Aug 26, 2010

Summer fiction by Jack Benjamin  Leaving the Lake (Part 3 of 4)

September 20, 2006 – the last day of the summer

The Blue Heron in the little bay by the cottage was startled by the sound of my tires on the gravel road, sparking an awkward ascent.

This happens pretty often. I always assume it's the same bird. As the heron takes off, there is always a moment when I think that this time the heron won't make it. Smaller birds shoot into the sky like fireworks from a cannon, but as a heron spreads its wings and slowly lifts its long body from the water it seems to dip for a second, as if this time gravity might finally win the battle and the bird will crash land into the bay. Maybe that's how herons finally die, like crashing airplanes that sink to the bottom.

But with one, two, three coordinated waves of those ancient wings the solitary heron pulls slowly up from the bay and slowly flies off.

The Heron will keep coming to the bay, but I won’t.

When the cottage comes into my view it looks lonely. The skies are heavy over the lake, which is calm, waiting for drops of rain that are on their way.

There was a time when I would relish the prospect of two days of peace and quiet at the lake. Especially at the end of the summer when the lake is returned to its natural inhabitants - after the boaters and swimmers and beer drinkers have finished having their seasonal fun and gone back to the city.

Ever since I began teaching at Prince Charles and moved to Verona, less than 20 minutes from the cottage, even in the winter, I've felt like a year rounder, a non-seasonal. I own two properties in the same municipality, an acre in the village and an acre on the lake.

But on this Saturday morning, I can barely face the solitary cottage. I have no one. The twins have gone to live in Montreal with Anne Marie. We all agreed to this. They did French Immersion at Harrowsmith, so it made perfect sense to move right into a French high school in Montreal. They aren't happy, yet, but they will be. Or they won't be.

I'm not happy at all.

The cottage will have to be sold. I can't see any other way. I thought about selling the house and keeping the cottage, but the numbers don't add up. The cottage is worth too much more than the house. Keeping it would leave me in debt, and instead of walking to work every day I would have to drive every day, and in the winter it might be a problem getting out.

I hate everything about the house. I hate the front walk, the kitchen, the furniture, everything.

The cottage is not fancy. We never did it up. But it was built on the right spot, with views of the lake from the kitchen and the main room.

This might be my last weekend here.

I'm inside the cottage, sitting at the kitchen table, and all I can see are the reminders of the past, bits of things that got saved. That little aluminium pot hanging on a nail was the one we used to heat the milk in for hot chocolate. Nestlé Quik. My father used to make hot chocolate for us. It was just about the only thing he made. He would pull out four mugs and the Quik first. Then he would measure out the milk using a measuring cup, and put the pot on the stove. Without ever leaving the stove he would measure out the Quik with a measuring spoon, two scoops in each mug. Then he would stand over the pot, never moving, waiting as the milk heated up, but making sure there was no skin. He would pull the pot from the stove at the exact moment, and pour it out without spilling a drop. Even before mixing the Quik and the hot milk in each mug, he would rush to the sink to clean the pot before the milk stuck to the bottom. The pot would be back on the nail in seconds, and then the hot chocolate would get stirred, with each mug getting its own spoon, and a marshmallow - always a marshmallow.

She said she was leaving because I couldn’t move forward with my life. She said I was stuck in a rut of school and chores; that I had no ambition to live anymore. And she said I was too filled with resentments about things that had happened long ago, about things my family and her family had said and done, things that didn’t matter any more. She said I was suffocating her.

What did I say? Not much. I asked her how she could be taking the kids away from me. I said that she was just angry because I wouldn’t move to Montreal with her. I said she had a man waiting for her in Montreal.

In a way everything that each of us said was true, except I don’t know for sure about the man in Montreal.

If I were a drinker I would be drinking tonight.

September 21.

It's sunny today, and warm, like a July day. I usually stack wood on the first day of fall, so we can come up at Christmas time. But instead I’m waiting for Dale to get here with his truck and a trailer so we can load up some of the excess stuff. The realtor says the cottage should be sold minimally furnished, so it looks a bit homey, but without any junk. He has people coming next week. He said he could sell it before winter if I put it on the market now.

I'm taking a spin in the old motor boat before Dale arrives. Just to see the lake, the old bays, one more time.

I pass by Grace's cottage, and she's sitting on the dock, holding a baby, so I pull up to the dock, and kill the engine, but I don't leave the boat.

“My granddaughter, another one, Grace,” she says, “what do you think of that.” She holds the baby up for me to see, “Tiffany was no better at waiting than I was. This is her second.”

I feign interest in the baby, but Grace can see right through me.

“You look awful,” she says. “I heard what happened.”

“It's ok really. I just have to sell the cottage, is all.”

She doesn't say anything, but she looks right through me. But, true to her name, she knows not to push it, so she changes the subject.

“We had some good times here when we were young, lots of adventures on the lake. We had some great times, the three of us.”

The memories light up her face, and I can see the young Gracie through the age lines and slightly puffy skin.

“That was so long ago,” she says, “I had more life and less fat in me back then.”

She shifts her body to stop the baby from fussing, and pulls her up to snuggle against her chest.

“Do you remember the time we capsized in the middle of Crow Lake?” I say.

“Oh yeah, I can't forget that. There was a moment there when I thought we were done for. I don’t know what would have happened it Scott Beechamp hadn’t of shown up. He died, you know, lung cancer. He used to close up the cottage for us, so I kept in touch with him.”

“I heard that he died,” I say. “I never thanked him for not telling my parents. I spent weeks waiting for him to show up and spill the beans. But he never did.”

“He never did talk much. I don’t think I ever heard him say more than three words in a row …The baby is falling asleep, finally,” she says.

We sit in silence for a minute.

“You know,” she says, “I never understood why you guys showed up that day. You snuck out on your parents, which you never did, and we all knew a storm was going to come.”

“You dared us. You said if we were really heroes we would be able to go out on the high seas whenever adventure called. Don't you remember saying that?”

“No, I don't” she said laughing, “I don't remember that at all. All I remember is thinking I wouldn't have anything to do that afternoon because my mom hadn’t been invited to the party. You guys were my world that summer ... But I don't remember daring you to come ... I don’t think I would have taken that kind of risk. If I dared you it would have made me sound desperate.”

“I was sure you dared us to come. It was a matter of honour. We were both in love with you, I think.”

“I couldn't decide which one of you to marry. Phil was so handsome and strong, and you were so cute.”

“I'm not so cute any more,” I say.

“And I'm not a skinny kid anymore,” she says.

We sit for another minute.

“I'd better go,” I say.

“Are you gonna be back at all?”

“I'm going to rent the Whiting place for two weeks in the summer. The twins will come up with me. And I’m going to come to Tim's for Bass opening next year, and probably other times, so I'll be around.”

“Are you sure you're ok? You know I've been there myself, twice. I know that empty feeling.”

“I'll be ok. Thanks for asking.”

“See you then, give me a call. Do you have my number in Ottawa?” she says as I start up the motor.

I nod, but we both know I won't call her in Ottawa.

For me, she lives only on Bobs Lake.

(Next Week  - The Conclusion)