grabs it in the middle, looking a bit – a very little bit – like the Death Maul character in the
Star Wars
movie. She smiles grimly at me. “How can I charge up my phone? There’s no electricity in this place.”
“What?” says Victor.
I look around. No outlets. No lightbulbs. There’s a few of those oil lamps with wicks. You’ve seen them around – usually for decoration. Here they’re for light.
“I don’t see anything else to do,” she says. “I’ll paddle across the lake and send help back for you boys. You stay near here. If you’re hungry, too bad. There are some blueberry bushes down by the rapids. Probably not too much fruit left, but you never know. Don’t fall in – it’s slippery.”
“No, wait,” I say. I stare at her. Doris Appel. A grown-up. A part of me – a little part of me – doesn’t want to see her go. Don’t leave! Don’t leave me! “Bye,” I say at length.
“Bring back some food,” says Victor. He shakes out the emergency pack – two bars left.
“Hey, I get one!” I cry.
–
Thank you!
says Norbert.
“Yes, thank you!” says Victor.
Don’t leave me, I plead silently.
She nods good-bye, closes the door behind her. A moment later we see her down by the water, climbing into her kayak. She wobbles, getting her feet in, and drops the paddle again. When she finally pushes off, she’s surprisingly graceful. Her stroke is smooth and circular, propelling the boat quickly. The broad blades flash across the water like a dream of flying.
“What’s wrong? Why is she moving so slowly?” Victor and I are at the window. I’ve been staring at the same pointy boat shape for five minutes now, and it hasn’t moved.
“What?” Victor has the binoculars. I repeat my question.
“Her? The kayak went behind the land there a while ago. I’m looking at a duck now.”
I take the binoculars from him, and, with a little trouble, find what I was staring at. What I thought was our artist lady is really a sunken tree, with dead branches sticking out of the water. I’ve been urging it onward, wishing it all sorts of good luck, for the past five minutes.
I turn the glasses, trying to find Victor’s duck.
“When do you think she’ll get back?” he asks.
“Soon, I hope. I’m hungry.”
“Me too.”
I put down the glasses. We stare at each other.
–
You know, that picture doesn’t show the constellation of The Microphone very well. The Big Boot is good, but a bit too far below the East Star.
“Norbert, that isn’t a picture at all,” I tell him. “It’s just drips on the wall.”
–
Oh, yeah? Look at the spur on the Little Boot. I’d like to see you do better!
“Alan, why do you talk about crazy stuff? The Microphone and Little Boot are not constellations.”
I’ve given up trying to explain about Norbert. “Sorry,” I say. “I can’t help it.”
Neither of us mentions the pictures of naked people. I think we’re both embarrassed. All that naked flesh. Fronts and backs, tops and bottoms. It’s safer to stare at the drips on the wall.
“How about going outside for some blueberries?” says Victor.
“Good idea.”
We make sure to leave the door open. Don’t want to be locked out if it starts to rain. And it looks as if it might. It’s still sunny, but there’s a huge thunderhead sailing towards us.
“She said the blueberry bushes were down the rapids,” says Victor. “This way.” He leads; I follow.
The cabin is built near a rocky point. On one side of the rocks is a pebble beach. The open lake laps gently atthe shore. Actually, the wind is picking up and the water is lapping hard now. The artist lady launched her kayak from here. I peer into the distance, but of course I can’t see her. There’s another thunderhead sailing past. That makes three I can see. They’re tall tall clouds, with flattened tops. I know they’re the kind that bring storms, but they don’t look dangerous. They float silent and serene, like balloons.
It
Star Wars
movie. She smiles grimly at me. “How can I charge up my phone? There’s no electricity in this place.”
“What?” says Victor.
I look around. No outlets. No lightbulbs. There’s a few of those oil lamps with wicks. You’ve seen them around – usually for decoration. Here they’re for light.
“I don’t see anything else to do,” she says. “I’ll paddle across the lake and send help back for you boys. You stay near here. If you’re hungry, too bad. There are some blueberry bushes down by the rapids. Probably not too much fruit left, but you never know. Don’t fall in – it’s slippery.”
“No, wait,” I say. I stare at her. Doris Appel. A grown-up. A part of me – a little part of me – doesn’t want to see her go. Don’t leave! Don’t leave me! “Bye,” I say at length.
“Bring back some food,” says Victor. He shakes out the emergency pack – two bars left.
“Hey, I get one!” I cry.
–
Thank you!
says Norbert.
“Yes, thank you!” says Victor.
Don’t leave me, I plead silently.
She nods good-bye, closes the door behind her. A moment later we see her down by the water, climbing into her kayak. She wobbles, getting her feet in, and drops the paddle again. When she finally pushes off, she’s surprisingly graceful. Her stroke is smooth and circular, propelling the boat quickly. The broad blades flash across the water like a dream of flying.
“What’s wrong? Why is she moving so slowly?” Victor and I are at the window. I’ve been staring at the same pointy boat shape for five minutes now, and it hasn’t moved.
“What?” Victor has the binoculars. I repeat my question.
“Her? The kayak went behind the land there a while ago. I’m looking at a duck now.”
I take the binoculars from him, and, with a little trouble, find what I was staring at. What I thought was our artist lady is really a sunken tree, with dead branches sticking out of the water. I’ve been urging it onward, wishing it all sorts of good luck, for the past five minutes.
I turn the glasses, trying to find Victor’s duck.
“When do you think she’ll get back?” he asks.
“Soon, I hope. I’m hungry.”
“Me too.”
I put down the glasses. We stare at each other.
–
You know, that picture doesn’t show the constellation of The Microphone very well. The Big Boot is good, but a bit too far below the East Star.
“Norbert, that isn’t a picture at all,” I tell him. “It’s just drips on the wall.”
–
Oh, yeah? Look at the spur on the Little Boot. I’d like to see you do better!
“Alan, why do you talk about crazy stuff? The Microphone and Little Boot are not constellations.”
I’ve given up trying to explain about Norbert. “Sorry,” I say. “I can’t help it.”
Neither of us mentions the pictures of naked people. I think we’re both embarrassed. All that naked flesh. Fronts and backs, tops and bottoms. It’s safer to stare at the drips on the wall.
“How about going outside for some blueberries?” says Victor.
“Good idea.”
We make sure to leave the door open. Don’t want to be locked out if it starts to rain. And it looks as if it might. It’s still sunny, but there’s a huge thunderhead sailing towards us.
“She said the blueberry bushes were down the rapids,” says Victor. “This way.” He leads; I follow.
The cabin is built near a rocky point. On one side of the rocks is a pebble beach. The open lake laps gently atthe shore. Actually, the wind is picking up and the water is lapping hard now. The artist lady launched her kayak from here. I peer into the distance, but of course I can’t see her. There’s another thunderhead sailing past. That makes three I can see. They’re tall tall clouds, with flattened tops. I know they’re the kind that bring storms, but they don’t look dangerous. They float silent and serene, like balloons.
It
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