The Lake

“At least you didn’t leave without me,” Mom said.

“I didn’t bring down the newspaper. I didn’t touch it.”

“How did it get there?”

“I suppose the delivery guy was feeling energetic.”

“Geez,” Mom said, “and Christmas isn’t for six months.”

“Maybe he’s angling for a Fourth of July tip.”

“Weird.” Mom swung her arms around, then took the hat from Deana and flopped it onto her head with the bill high. She squinted up the driveway. Looked at Deana. Raised one side of her upper lip to show her distaste for the chore ahead. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”

“I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Oh, thanks. You’re so thoughtful.”

Deana started up the driveway, leaning into its slope, not pushing. Mom stayed at her side.

It was like climbing a stairway. Taking the stairs two at a time.

She thought of the stairs at the start of the Dipsey Trail. They sure nailed Allan. Let’s try not to think about Allan for a while. Let’s just think about running, the good feel of working muscles. And getting closer to the top.

Halfway there.

Three quarters. No sweat. She glanced at Mom. Mom smiled.

The mailbox at the top came into view.

Then the car.

Mom said, “That’s a great place…to leave a car.”

It didn’t block the driveway. It was parked on the other side of the street. But nobody ever parked there because of the blind curves.

Deana didn’t see anyone inside.

She stopped at the edge of the street.

“What’s the matter? Pooped?”

“Mom.”

The tone of Deana’s voice turned her mother’s face strange.

Deana’s gaze swept the street and hillside as she walked on numb legs toward the old, red Pontiac Firebird. She stepped in front of it. The grille and headlight on its right side were smashed in. “My God,” she muttered.

Mom grabbed her arm, pulled her. “Quick. Back to the house.”

They ran.

EIGHT

“It needs something.”

“You need something,” she said. “A frontal lobotomy.”

“That’s no way to talk to the man who’s going to immortalize you.”

“My foot,” she said.

“Precisely.”

“You’d better hurry. If I fall in, I’ll tear your face off.”

“Behave.” Still squatting on the bank of the stream, he raised the Nikon to his eye and studied the situation again. “Nah, no good.”

“Kee-rist.”

He stood up. “I’ve got it. Come on back.”

Mattie reached out her hand. He grabbed it and pulled as she leaped across the running water. Her bare feet landed on twigs, and she winced.

“Right back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“My first-aid kit’s in the car.”

“Good idea, Charlie. You may need it.”

“Buck up. We’ll be done shortly.”

Mattie rolled her eyes upward and planted her fists on her hips. “You know,” she called at his back, “real models get big beans for this kind of shitski.”

“Don’t think I’m unappreciative.”

“No, not you.”

He made the top of the wooded embankment, jogged past a deserted picnic table to the parking area, and opened the trunk of his Trans Am. He glanced around to be sure nobody was nearby, then lifted his .12-gauge Ithica shotgun, raised a corner of the blanket on which it had been resting, and took out his first-aid kit.

He hurried back to Mattie.

“What’s the big plan?” she asked.

“A Band-Aid on your toe.”

“You jest.”

“Not me. Mark my words, it’s just the touch that’s needed. An air of vulnerability to an otherwise perfect foot.” He opened the plastic case, took out a bandage, and offered it to her.

“You’d better apply it. You’re the artiste around here.”

“Fine. Sit.”

“Where?”

“On the ground.”

“It’s wet.” She wrinkled her nose. Then, with a heavy sigh, she sat. “You owe me for this, Charlie.”

“You’ll sing a different tune when your foot’s hanging in the De Young.” Tearing off the wrapper, he crouched at Mattie’s feet and picked the paper away from the adhesive strip.

“Why can’t you be normal and shoot nudes?” she asked.

“Leaves nothing to the imagination, my dear.”

She wiggled her toes. “That turn you on?”

He nodded. The bandage on the big toe might be a little too obvious. The third toe seemed best, though the Band-Aid was really too large for it.

Mattie leaned back, bracing herself up on stiff arms.

Yes, the third toe. He reached for it.

Mattie raised the knee of her other leg and swung it far to the side. “Does this turn you on?”

He looked. The cutoff jeans were very cut off—no more than a frayed seam remained between the legs. “How inelegant,” he said.

Mattie chuckled. She kept her left foot fairly steady while the bandage was being applied, but waved her bent right leg from side to side, whispering, “Now you see it, now you don’t…Now you see it, now you don’t.”

“All set.” He patted the bottom of her foot. “Assume the position.”

“Bet you can’t stand up straight.”

“Matter of fact, I already am.”