The House on Black Lake (7 page)

T
HE CABIN WAS BUILT CENTURIES AGO, BY
F
RENCH TRAPPERS
. I
T
has been used by Ramey’s men’s club as a meeting place since his family settled in Montreal.” Ruth swerves past a family of turkeys crossing a gravel driveway, then pulls up to a rustic log cabin with a gabled cedar roof and stone chimney.

“I’ll show you my pet snake and pirate coins, Sam,” Rand yells out as he leaps from the car and runs towards the back of the house. “A gang of pirates used the fort as their hide-out.”

“People must have been awfully short back then,” I say and stoop to enter the dimly lit dwelling.

Eggie leans over a pool table with torn felt that takes up most of the space. He casts a queer smile my way as I enter and resumes spinning colored balls out in all directions.

“We hose down the dirt floor once a week. The ants pick up the crumbs in the meantime.” Ruth sets containers of food out on a rough-hewn wood table riddled with knife scars and glass apothecary jars with murky liquids and an assortment of materials. I pick up one of the containers and examine what appear to be fish eyes. A cabinet behind her is stacked with piles of bird feathers and a fireplace set with haphazard stones is stuffed to the hilt with fur pelts. Flies buzz around the opening.

“Why is the fireplace filled with animal remains?”

“The guys hunt and trap small animals and wild game and smoke the meat underground. They use these old weapons.” She gestures to the wall behind her where a collection of big-barreled antique rifles and razor-sharp steel-toothed traps hang from metal brackets. “Sometimes they hunt with knives, bows and arrows, or occasionally bare hands. My husband is an expert killer.”

“The children left for the lake; I’ll walk you down, Mrs. Brighton,” Jonquil says as she walks inside, with Sam not far behind. “There’s a shallow part that’s roped off where Sammy can wade.”

“Go ahead. We’ll meet you down there,” Ruth says.

We follow Jonquil outside and down a narrow path zigzagging through a gully lined with fallen trees, thorny brambles, and a freshwater spring. She hums a sweet melody, identifying the wildflowers as we trek through the woods, and picks me one of her favorites, a yellow poppy. “You look pretty with the flower tucked into your hair, Mrs. Brighton. Try this berry, Sammy,” she says, and leans into the bushes to pick a piece of fruit. “Open wide.” He giggles as the lovely girl pops a wild raspberry into his mouth.

The faint sounds of children’s laughter and splashing water rise up as we enter a radiant meadow, dotted with rustic wood tables and grills, and follow a path to an area of the lake cordoned by buoys. Inside the enclosure children dive off the pier and float idly on inflatable rafts. Along a grassy area near the shore, sunbathers lie on beach towels. The smell of suntan lotion obscures the scents of the aquatic as we approach the lineup of basted and burnt bodies.

“We’re over here,” Lizzie calls out.

She has staked a spot not far from a lifeguard station, where a bronzed young man offers a dazzling smile to a flock of admiring young girls spread out below. Rand is poised at the edge of the dock ready to make a flying leap into the lake and Baby, caught up in a fit of giggles, stands behind him wearing a rubber dinosaur around her waist.

“I want to introduce you to the other women,” Ruth says as she approaches. “Sammy will be fine. The girls brought a vest. Don’t worry, they’ll keep a close eye on him.”

“You must stay near the dock so the lifeguard can see you at all times,” I tell Sam, and turn to follow Ruth.

We cross an expansive grassy area leading to a clearing with a fire pit surrounded by teepees made of stretched and painted cowhide. Groups of women and young girls sit on native blankets and weave straw baskets. A spotted puppy plays with an old shoe near the foot of a heavyset woman with long white braids, who bends down and sorts dyed reeds on the ground between her legs.

Deep in the shadows of a hanging elm tree a shirtless young man with tawny skin and muscular forearms sits hunched over a small drum, using palms and fingertips to create a soothing rhythm. The melodic percussion melds sweetly with the clack of antlers and bones fastened with strips of hide and tied to the low-hanging limbs.

“We’re like family; when school ends we close up our houses in the city and spend our summer days together. The women’s husbands aren’t here today; most work during the week in Montreal.” Ruth falters for a moment, blanches, and a waxy perspiration breaks out on her upper lip as a statuesque woman with dark hair and luminous blue-green eyes stands up from a circle of women and walks towards us.

“Welcome to Lac Noir,” she says with a hint of French in her voice, while reaching out a hand adorned with a gleaming sapphire-and-diamond ring. “I’m Luna, Roger Sandeley’s wife, which makes me Ramey’s aunt.”

Before I can respond to the woman’s pleasant introduction, Ruth grasps me by the arm and turns me away.

“I’m going into St. Agathe Des Monts to buy food and supplies for our dinner tonight. Ramey’s barbequing; he’s making us a special dinner. I’ll meet you at the clubhouse later.”

Ruth lowers her head and walks briskly away.

“Let me show you the handiwork,” Luna says, and leads me to an area near the fire pit where colorful baskets are displayed. She introduces me to the women, who nod politely at the introduction.

“I learned the art of the loom and straw weaving from the natives when I spent summers on the lake as a young woman. I bring the elder natives here to teach the craft to the ladies and their daughters, to ensure the ancient skills are not lost,” she tells me as we enter a teepee. “They are using a dye made from chestnuts to paint the baskets.

“Don’t be offended if the women are not hospitable during your stay,” she says, and turns to lead me to a spot where straw and reed are being soaked in large vats. “You are a trespasser in their eyes. They have wealthy husbands and feel vulnerable to someone as beautiful as you. But, as my mother used to tell me, ‘it is not the fox in the forest you should fear; it is the rat in the cellar that steals your food while you sleep.’”

“I saw a hint of your house last night. Ruth pointed it out when we rowed out to the house on the island. Very impressive, from what I could see from the boat.”

Luna creases her forehead. “May I ask why you were rowed out to the house on the island?”

“Ruth and Ramey thought we would appreciate the privacy.”

The edges of Luna’s mouth turn down, accenting the light marionette lines. “That is curious.”

“What do you know of the house?”

Luna holds the pensive look for a moment and then breaks into a dazzling smile. “Why don’t you join us tomorrow night for dinner? There is a men’s club meeting at our house, with a feast to follow.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I am uncertain what plans Ruth has made. We’re driving into Montreal for the day.”

“I will have Roger make arrangements with Ramey. A very special guest will be in attendance at the feast. He can answer all your questions about the house on the island.”

The young man hidden beneath the shade of the elm tree has stopped playing his hand drum and now strides forward to join us. He tosses back sheets of raven hair and addresses Luna in a native tongue. She replies in his language. His face clouds with disapproval at her response and takes Luna’s arm to draw her to him and whisper something in her ear. “I will take care of the situation in a moment,” she replies curtly, and turns back to me.

“Will you accept my invitation?”

“If you arrange it, then yes, I will come.”

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night,” Luna says, and turns to follow the young man back to rejoin the circle of women.

“L
OOK AT THESE TWO—PERFECT SPECIMENS, AREN’T THEY?”
R
UTH
holds up a pair of large trout, with a finger crooked inside each mouth.

“They’re very attractive. By the way, do you mind if I use your phone? I’d like to talk to Jonathan and have Sammy speak with his father.”

“The repairmen didn’t show up. It’s a shame Jonathan couldn’t make the trip. Rand would have enjoyed having a boy his own age to pal around with. Cocktail or glass of wine?”

“Wine would be wonderful.”

“Good evening girls,” Ramey proclaims while bursting through the kitchen door. He drops his briefcase and a silver bag on the counter and walks up behind Ruth to embrace her and nuzzle his face in her neck.

“Alexandra, did you have a nice day on the lake?” Ramey asks me between kisses.

“I did, I—”

“Did you remember to get the wine from the house, and Rand’s retainer?”

“I brought everything you requested and something extra.” He retrieves the bag from the counter and removes a silver box with a sequined ribbon trim. “A gift from your favorite store.”

Ruth’s face flushes. “Darling, did you buy the present for me or yourself? I’ll open it later, when we’re alone.”

I slurp down my wine, pick up the knife to finish cutting the last section of melon, and toss it in the fruit bowl.

She hands Ramey the platter of fish. “The grill’s hot; they shouldn’t take long to cook. I ordered pizzas for the children.”

I depart the kitchen to set the bowl on the dining room table and am about to reenter when I hear a loud slap.

“I see the teeth marks on your neck,” I hear Ruth say. “Who have you been fucking, Ramey?”

“The marks are yours, dear. Your memory is not so good when you drink.”

“Liar. I know where you’ve been.”

“Where is that, Ruth? Tell me. Where have I been?”

Their argument excites me.

I want to hear more, but I don’t want to be caught eavesdropping. So I slip from the dining room and move through the house to the children’s wing.

The first door I open along the corridor releases an overpowering stench. The room is pitch-black and nearly empty of decoration or furnishings. Someone has covered the windows with newspapers and cardboard, and there is a display of butterflies on the desk, with pins stuck through their eyes.

I proceed to the next room, and inside find Sammy sprawled out on the floor with Rand, using Ramey’s dog, Jack, as a headrest. They are eating gigantic slices of pizza, while watching a movie with thunderous explosions and screaming masses of people running madly down a city street.

“Do you need anything, Sammy?”

He shakes his head.

“Where are the other children?”

“In Lizzie’s room, playing with her life-sized dolls,” Rand says, and lets out a loud belch.

“I will be in the dining room having dinner with Ruth and Ramey, if you need me.” Sam nods while keeping his eyes focused on a giant alien chasing the crazed citizens.

“There you are,” says Ruth as I reenter the kitchen. She arranges the cooked fish on a platter lined with sliced lemons. “You can go into the dining room and sit down. Ramey’s in there lighting the candles.”

“Alexandra...” I hear Ramey’s voice emanate from above as I step inside the room, now bathed in a warm tangerine glow.

“Where are you?”

“Above you,” he says while climbing down a stepladder set against the wall. “I was lighting candles along the upper beams.”

As he steps out of the shadows, a piece of mirror beneath the table’s centerpiece reflects the overhead light and casts a halo around him, highlighting the preternatural perfection of his facial structure. The only mar is a slight red stain left by Ruth’s hand.

There is a moment of déjà vu and I am transported back to the moment in time... the memory, long hidden, but never forgotten. Snow falls beneath the canopy of a desert night; Mozart reverberates in the rafters of a dwelling on the cliff-side of eternity, hundreds of candles flicker, a whisper....

“You may sit at the head of the table, since you are the guest of honor,” he tells me.

“Thank you, Ramey,” I say and sweep by him to take the offered chair.

“Well, we’re off.” Amanda bursts into the room followed by Gabrielle. “We are heading into Montreal for the night.”