was a lake house he had inherited fifteen years before, and hadn’t been to since, although he had done yearly maintenance on it to keep it sound, and a brother he never wanted to see again. There was no reason on earth for him to go back to his hometown, but he was heading in that direction, whether he wanted to or not. It was almost like a
Twilight Zone
experience as he started to see familiar signs drift by.
He called the boys from the car, as he drove north toward his hometown of Ware, but neither of them answered, and when he called the house in L.A., he was told that they weren’t home from school yet and Alana was out, no surprise. Peter was lost in his ownthoughts and memories as he drove north. He realized, when he finally saw the turnoff, that he wasn’t going to Ware, as he continued on the narrowed highway toward the house at Lake Wickaboag. At the moment, it was the only house that he still could call his own. It suddenly occurred to him that he might want to stay there for a few days, if it was habitable, before he went back to New York. He had nothing to rush back for, no appointments and no one waiting for him. At least he could take a look at it, and maybe sell that too. It had been foolish and nostalgic of him to hang on to it for this long, when he never used it, but it was the only place where he had pleasant memories of his youth.
The scene that came to mind immediately was a summer day when he had gone fishing with his father and Michael, on one of the rare days his father had taken off to just fool around with them. His mother had packed them a picnic basket, and they had sat in the boat all day, catching one fish after another. Peter figured he must have been about eight at the time. It had been a real victory when he had caught more fish than Michael, who was usually the better fisherman, but when they got home Michael had claimed the larger number for himself. Peter had tried to correct him, and his father winked at him, giving him the message that the truth was their little secret and to let Michael have his day of glory, yet again. It had been a crushing disappointment to Peter. It was always Michael who was protected and never Peter. Their father had always had a soft spot for Michael and talked about what a “good boy” he was, with the implication that Peter was the “bad boy,” and often enough he was. And Michael knew just how to play their father, saying he wanted to be a doctor just like him, which fed their father’s ego.
Peter had been assigned the role of younger brother, althoughMichael was only twelve minutes older, but he treated it more like twelve years. Michael was so well behaved that he got all the dignity and praise, and privileges that went with the older brother’s role, and took it seriously when he called Peter his kid brother. And after all, Peter was the screw-up, the “baby” who had tantrums and couldn’t read. Their parents bought into it, and treated Michael like the responsible mature one, and Peter’s inability to read for a long time gave credence to the myth that he was younger. Their treating him that way just made him act out more, and angrier at Michael. But until they got home and Michael lied about how many fish he had caught, and their father let him, it had been a golden day for Peter. He had loved fishing with their father and basked in the warmth of his attention. It was rare for him to take a day off from work.
Peter could still remember the crickets and the sounds of summer, whenever they were at the lake house. It had been one of his favorite places to be, swimming, fishing, playing in the woods. And being there in the summer meant that he didn’t have to go to school.
Peter saw the signs leading toward the lake, an hour after he left Boston, and he took a turnoff he didn’t recognize onto a familiar road. The trees lining it looked bigger than he remembered, and when he reached the narrow driveway, with a rusted mailbox at its
Twilight Zone
experience as he started to see familiar signs drift by.
He called the boys from the car, as he drove north toward his hometown of Ware, but neither of them answered, and when he called the house in L.A., he was told that they weren’t home from school yet and Alana was out, no surprise. Peter was lost in his ownthoughts and memories as he drove north. He realized, when he finally saw the turnoff, that he wasn’t going to Ware, as he continued on the narrowed highway toward the house at Lake Wickaboag. At the moment, it was the only house that he still could call his own. It suddenly occurred to him that he might want to stay there for a few days, if it was habitable, before he went back to New York. He had nothing to rush back for, no appointments and no one waiting for him. At least he could take a look at it, and maybe sell that too. It had been foolish and nostalgic of him to hang on to it for this long, when he never used it, but it was the only place where he had pleasant memories of his youth.
The scene that came to mind immediately was a summer day when he had gone fishing with his father and Michael, on one of the rare days his father had taken off to just fool around with them. His mother had packed them a picnic basket, and they had sat in the boat all day, catching one fish after another. Peter figured he must have been about eight at the time. It had been a real victory when he had caught more fish than Michael, who was usually the better fisherman, but when they got home Michael had claimed the larger number for himself. Peter had tried to correct him, and his father winked at him, giving him the message that the truth was their little secret and to let Michael have his day of glory, yet again. It had been a crushing disappointment to Peter. It was always Michael who was protected and never Peter. Their father had always had a soft spot for Michael and talked about what a “good boy” he was, with the implication that Peter was the “bad boy,” and often enough he was. And Michael knew just how to play their father, saying he wanted to be a doctor just like him, which fed their father’s ego.
Peter had been assigned the role of younger brother, althoughMichael was only twelve minutes older, but he treated it more like twelve years. Michael was so well behaved that he got all the dignity and praise, and privileges that went with the older brother’s role, and took it seriously when he called Peter his kid brother. And after all, Peter was the screw-up, the “baby” who had tantrums and couldn’t read. Their parents bought into it, and treated Michael like the responsible mature one, and Peter’s inability to read for a long time gave credence to the myth that he was younger. Their treating him that way just made him act out more, and angrier at Michael. But until they got home and Michael lied about how many fish he had caught, and their father let him, it had been a golden day for Peter. He had loved fishing with their father and basked in the warmth of his attention. It was rare for him to take a day off from work.
Peter could still remember the crickets and the sounds of summer, whenever they were at the lake house. It had been one of his favorite places to be, swimming, fishing, playing in the woods. And being there in the summer meant that he didn’t have to go to school.
Peter saw the signs leading toward the lake, an hour after he left Boston, and he took a turnoff he didn’t recognize onto a familiar road. The trees lining it looked bigger than he remembered, and when he reached the narrow driveway, with a rusted mailbox at its
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