Kyle's Island (10 page)

I sat down on the ground and leaned my back against the cabin. Who had built it here? And when? It must have been before Dad started coming to the lake. He'd told me
over and over again that there was nothing here, and he'd had no reason to lie about it.

Well, whoever built it had wanted to be sure he'd have enough provisions to stay for two or three weeks. Was it a fishing camp? Maybe.

A rumble from my stomach reminded me to take a look at the sky. I was surprised to find that the sun was already inching over to the west. Reluctantly I stood up and went over to the door, hooking it shut again. I started back into the trees in the direction of the boat, my mind full of questions and plans. The most important question was, would Mom let me spend the night here sometime? And if she would, was I brave enough to sleep out here alone, beyond calling distance? Maybe a walkie-talkie, or Gram's bell, if I had something like that …

The hike back to the boat felt short—I guess because I was so preoccupied. When I got there, I sat in the boat and ate my lunch. I'd put my Coke in the water earlier, so it was nice and cold. It was a knockout lunch. I made a mental note to thank Andrea.

After lunch I just waded around for a while, getting my jeans all wet, of course. When I got tired of that, I climbed back into the boat and pulled up the anchor. I'd planned to spend the whole day on the island, but now that I'd found
the cabin, I was satisfied. I'd go back to the cottage now and maybe take Josh out for a little fishing just beyond the end of the pier.

As I rowed back to shore, the thought of the cabin was like a little sunlit place in my mind. I knew I'd have to tell the others about it soon. It was too fantastic a discovery to keep a secret. But maybe I wouldn't tell them right away. Maybe it could be my private place, just for a while anyway. Let Andrea and Vicki have their private “girl talk.” Men could have secrets, too.

BACK AT THE COTTAGE
I tied up the boat, trying to decide if I really wanted to take Josh fishing now. Afternoon fishing isn't my favorite. I could see Vicki and Andrea over at Marshalls' float. Vicki was sitting on the float talking to Brad. I don't think she even noticed I was back—she was slathering lotion on Brad's shoulders. I wondered what Mom would think if she saw that. Andrea saw me, though, and called over, “I'm coming in soon.” I waved to her and started up the hill.

After the brightness outside, the inside of the cottage was so dim it took my eyes a minute to adjust. When they did, I saw a note on the kitchen table. “Josh and I are at grocery. Be home soon. Love, Mom.” I was tired. I drank a glass of milk and then went into the main room and flopped down on the daybed. Something under the cover had a sharp corner, so I fished it out. It was Andrea's
sketchbook, and it was open. She had been working on a drawing of the wicker rocker on the porch, the one we all fought over. Underneath it was written, “This is the rocker where Mom sat and rocked you two when you were babies. I used to climb up and join you, and Mom would say, “Careful, you'll squish them! Sometimes I thought that might be a good idea.” It was Vicki's writing; she had taken calligraphy lessons, and her writing was a work of art. What was she doing, writing in Andrea's sketchbook?

Just then the screen door slammed and Andrea came in. When she saw what I was holding she took a deep breath that hissed through her clenched teeth. “Darn it! Give it to me!” she demanded. “Who said you could look in there without asking?”

“What's the big deal?” Maybe I raised my voice a little at this point, but I certainly didn't yell, the way she later said I did. “It was under the covers and it poked me, so I pulled it out. Just now. What's with you, anyway?”

“What's with me is that it's my sketchbook, and if I want to show it to you I will, and I don't want to, so keep your hands off.”

I don't know if I was more shocked or angry at first, but as the seconds ticked by and Andrea stood there with her feet planted wide and a scowl on her face, anger took over.
So what if she'd made me a lunch; there was probably poison in it anyway.

The bad thing about being a boy is that I'm not allowed to hit a girl. If I were I'd have given Andrea a good sock right then. Instead I jumped up and kind of threw the sketchbook to her. She gave a little cry as it fell on the floor and one of the pages tore loose.

“Now see what you've done!” She started to cry as she bent to pick it up. Then she ran out of the cottage, sketchbook in her arms.

I just stood there, shaking my head. In a minute Vicki came in. “What did you do to Andrea?” she asked.

That was too much! I hadn't done anything, and here was Vicki blaming me because Andrea was acting like a brat.

“I didn't do anything,” I said coldly. “Not that it's any of your business.”

I hate fighting with people. Andrea came back in a while, her eyes and nose red. She went over to Vicki and said something I couldn't hear. Vicki nodded, and from then on they ignored me. When Mom got back and saw how things were, she gave me a puzzled look. I pretended I didn't see. The whole mess wasn't my fault, and I didn't see why I should be the one to explain. Instead I told Josh I'd give him a swimming lesson, but he said he wanted to
catch crickets. When I offered to catch some too, he said, “No, it's my job. I can do it.” I guess he didn't want my company either.

I hung around the kitchen for a while till Mom shooed me out, saying I'd ruin my appetite for supper. That was the last straw. “A guy can't do anything around here,” I yelled. “I might as well have stayed away all day.” I ran down to the boat. It was the wrong time of day for any serious fishing—the sun was too high—but at least on the lake nobody would be bugging me.

I pulled hard at the oars till the old boat skimmed along the water. Almost. You can't really make a rowboat skim. But I covered a good distance in a hurry. I anchored down by Lancers' Cove and threw out my line. I sat there and just watched the bobber riding along the wavelets. I had to squint because of the sun. A breeze tickled the back of my neck, and I felt my anger trickle away. It was too beautiful a day to stay mad at someone. The longer I sat there, the mellower I felt. I might even have considered apologizing to Andrea if I could figure out what I had to apologize for.

I fished for about two hours. I didn't catch anything, had only a couple of nibbles, and they weren't worth taking seriously. Finally I felt calm enough to go back. Besides, I was getting hungry.

Andrea was sitting on the pier, dangling her feet in the water, when I came in. I didn't know if she'd still be mad or not, so I didn't say anything. But as I was tying the boat up, she got to her feet and walked toward me, her bare feet leaving wet footprints on the pier behind her. “I'm sorry I got mad,” she said. “But I don't want you looking in my sketchbook, okay?”

“Okay.” What else could I say? I tried not to show her I was hurt, but I was. It seemed like all summer—ever since we got here, anyway—she and Vicki had been hanging out together. They were always whispering and doing things without me. I knew Andrea didn't like to fish, but last summer she'd helped dig for worms, and sometimes she'd gone out on the boat with me so she could sketch the shoreline. I liked having her with me. All she'd ask was for me to row by the water lilies on the way home so she could pick a couple. But she hadn't been out in the boat with me even once this summer. Well, I wasn't going to show I cared.

Now she stood looking at me, rubbing her wet toe along the edge of the pier. “I just wrote a letter to Dad,” she said. “Do you want to add a message?”

“No.”

“Have you written to him at all?”

“No, and I'm not going to.”

“Okay. Your choice.” She sounded just like Mom when she said that.

I watched her go down the length of the pier and start up toward the cottage. I thought about calling her back and saying I'd write a line or two if it would make her happy, but I decided against it. It was about time somebody tried to see things from my point of view. Why did I always have to be the reasonable one?

At dinner we all just sort of sat there. Mom thinks dinner should be a “sociable occasion,” so she tried to get conversation going. “How was the island exploration, Kyle? Find anything interesting?”

“Not a lot,” I muttered. That was only a half lie, I thought.

“You haven't forgotten your promise, have you?”

“Promise?”

“Tuesday afternoon, around four.”

“Oh, that. Josh, you want to go fishing with me tomorrow afternoon?”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded vigorously, adding, “I need the practice.”

“Practice? What are you practicing for?”

“For when you and Mr. Butler take me some morning.”

“Where'd you get that idea?” I asked. I hadn't said anything to him about Tom's offer, and I didn't think Mom
had either. I looked at him. He was carefully removing bones from his perch. He's always worried he'll overlook one and get it stuck in his throat. I think once I told him he would, just joking, and I scared him for life.

“Mr. Butler told me. We saw him at the grocery this afternoon. He gave me an ice-cream bar.”

“How many did he eat?” I asked with a laugh.

Mom gave me a disapproving look and said, “I don't see why that should concern you, Kyle.”

And then Vicki had to join in. “You sniggered!” she exclaimed. “Finally I know what a snigger sounds like. Authors are always writing that someone or other ‘gave a snigger,' but that's the first one I ever heard.”

“I didn't snigger, I just laughed. Didn't I?” I looked around for support, but I didn't get any. It wasn't my night for the dishes, so I wadded up my paper napkin, threw it on the table, pushed away my chair and left. No one called me back.

As I lay in bed that night, I thought what a lousy ending it was to what had begun as a great day. But at least I'd found the cabin. It was pretty cool to think that I might be the only person who knew it was there. Aside from whoever built it, I mean. I just might start spending all my free time there—it didn't look as if anyone here would miss me.

THE NEXT MORNING TOM BUTLER
didn't go fishing. He wasn't waiting when I got to his cottage, so I had to knock, and he came to the door in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. “Not going today. Feeling poorly,” was his only explanation.

“Will you be all right?” I asked.

He grunted what was probably “yes” and turned away.

Just like that, I had a free morning. Of course that meant less money the next time he paid me. Darn. What now? Fish as usual? Go out to the island? For some reason the thought of a morning by myself didn't appeal to me today. Walking back to the cottage, I tried to figure out why not. Usually I like being alone. Then the eeriest thing happened. It was like I suddenly heard Dad's voice whispering to me. “Mend your fences,” he said. I could almost feel his breath on my ear. I knew he wasn't there, of course—I didn't turn
around to look or anything—but somehow I caught myself starting to cry. I hadn't heard Dad use that expression for years, not since I was a little kid sulking around the house after a fight with Andrea or Vicki. “You need to mend your fences,” he'd say. “C'mon, cowboy.” And after I'd made up with whoever, I'd feel better.

What good was a father who was only a voice? I stood still on the road while the dumb tears rolled, waiting for them to stop—no way was anyone going to see me cry. When I was sure I was through, I started walking again. Then I had an inspiration. I would take Josh out this morning instead of waiting till afternoon. The fishing would be better now, and he might like getting up early for a change.

Back at the cottage, I wrote a note for Mom. “Took Josh fishing. Back for breakfast.” Then I crept into the main room and, reaching up into the top bunk, gently shook Josh awake.

Other people—Mom, for instance—sometimes wake up groggy. Not Josh. He's wide awake in an instant. “Get your clothes on,” I whispered. “We're going fishing.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Oh, boy!”

While he was getting dressed, I made a couple of
bologna sandwiches. I didn't usually eat anything till I came back in for breakfast, but Josh was always hungry, and I didn't want him bugging me a half hour after we got out. I poured us both a bowl of cereal—cornflakes for me and sugary stuff for him. I had them both ready when he came out, but for some reason today he didn't want the sugary stuff. “I want the cereal you eat,” he said.

He started shoving it down so quickly I finally said, “Slow down! The fish aren't going anywhere.”

“How come we're going this morning? Is Mr. Butler going too?” he asked.

“Not so loud. You'll wake Mom and the girls. Tom doesn't feel good this morning, so it's just you and me.”

Down at the lake he put on his life jacket and carried the bait to the boat while I got our poles ready. “Is that my pole?” he asked. “Can I have a green and yellow bobber?”

“Better stick to red and white,” I advised. “They're easier to see.”

When we got in the boat, I let him row. “Hear the woodpecker?” I whispered as we cleared Marshalls' float. “He wakes me up every morning.”

“Where is he?” Josh whispered back.

“I don't know.” I shrugged. “Back behind the cottage someplace, I guess.”

“No, he isn't!” Josh forgot to whisper. “He's right over there! Look!”

He pointed, and I looked, and sure enough, there was the red head high on the trunk of the hickory that grew halfway down the hill. “Good eye!” I congratulated him.

Pretty soon Josh got tired of rowing, so we carefully switched seats, and I took us the rest of the way. I was headed for the drop-off on the northern side of the island.