Summers at Blue Lake Page 8

  “You’re the one who left, Bobbi. We lawyers call that desertion.”

  “I’m settling my grandmother’s estate. Besides—even I’ve heard of no-fault divorce laws.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t make me use my weapons. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

  Lawyering aside, I was seasoned when it came to feuding with Bryce. We had begun our relationship with an argument. At the time, I had thought that sparring with words was a passionate pursuit, but what does any twenty-year-old know? Bang. Bryce had backed his red Miata into my college clunker. I was livid at the time, remembering the recent garage bill that sucked up the last two paychecks from my job at the dreaded twenty-four-hour copy center. Even then, I hadn’t entirely covered the bill. I had emerged from the old Dodge in a heated cloud of patchouli. To this day, I remember what each of us was wearing. I had on my black denim mini and silver bangles halfway up both arms. Bryce wore the uniform of every recent college grad, a leather bomber jacket and khakis. His aviator glasses hid his flashing eyes when he proceeded to curse me for the accident as though it were my fault.

  “Damn woman. Can’t you get your boat out of the way?”

  “You arrogant son of a bitch. What’s the matter? Doesn’t Daddy know you are driving his car? For the love of—“

  “Don’t go conjuring the goddess on me now, babe. I can spot a frustrated feminist a mile away.”

  “Hah! Not true! You just backed into one, you bastard.”

  At that, he had laughed. Not a nervous laugh of someone involved in fender bender, but a snicker.

  “It’s not that funny.” I was still angry, but Bryce kept right on laughing until he could see in my face that I was having difficulty finding the humor.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh,” Bryce said when he caught his breath. “How about if we sort this all out over dinner. My treat. How about it, goddess?” he drawled.

  I bowed to his naked charm. “The name is BJ, or if you are nice, you can call me Bobbi.”

  “Bobbi? You really do wish you were a man.”

  “Good try. What is your name? And are you insured?”

  “Bryce Ellington and yes.”

  “Bryce.” I spoke his name for the first time. “Well, it rhymes with nice.”

  Did I fall for the man or the dialog? His words had the all the rhythms I had come to expect in foreplay. I had read the script hundreds of time as a teenager. Conflict was the parent of true love.

  Now it was the child. I could very easily trivialize my eleven-year relationship with Bryce. It might even help me cope with its loss.

  The good times, Bryce’s sensitivity, the family events weren’t erased, but transformed. Sam was the embodiment of all of our small celebrations. In these first hours of an uncertain July, I took as many opportunities as I could to hug Sam, tussle his hair, draw him to me, smell the scent of grass and fruit punch mixing on his person. For soon, this goodness personified would be surrendered so I could move on with my life. I wasn’t even sure it was a fair trade. I had never before spent one night apart from my son, and the first would equal forty. Forty days and forty nights.

  The phone rang a second time, and I warily answered it. I should have been more heartened when I heard Travis’s voice calling to invite us to the lake to see the fireworks.

  “Do you realize that in all the years of visiting my grandmothers, I never did get to go to the Red, White, and Blue Lake celebration,” I mused aloud to Travis.

  “Does that mean you’ll go?”

  “Sure.”

  But I wasn’t sure in the least. Was I courting an old curse, or was this a new beginning? With only three weeks left until I had to deliver Sam back to Bryce, I wanted the time to be memorable. Sam would love watching the fireworks over the lake from Travis’s boat, but I was still skeptical.

  “We were supposed to watch the fireworks together once before, weren’t we?” Travis asked.

  “We did watch them together.”

  “Yeah, I guess we did.”

  ♦ 17 ♦

  1983

  NONNA SPENT ALL MORNING baking enough cakes to sculpt Mount Rushmore. Grandma Lena and I contrived a quick trip to the lake to get out of Nonna’s way. I wanted to get back soon to help her decorate, but the swim felt good. A local band was practicing on a nearby pier. It was the big headliner for the next day’s festivities. I didn’t recognize any of their songs except for a cover of “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang. All along the beach, flagpoles supported patriotic streamers. Closer to the concession stand, workmen assembled striped tents to house the sale of additional novelties.

  What started as a quick dip for me turned into a floating nap for Lena. I let her catch a few winks because I knew she needed to relax before tomorrow’s big day of work. It was two o’clock before we started to walk back home. We had only to turn the corner of Mulberry Street when we saw it, the blue and white police cruiser.

  “Anja!” A worried expression crossed Grandma Lena’s face, and we quickened our gait as much as possible.

  I ran ahead and rushed through the front door, which surprised the people inside. Lena stepped in behind me. Officer Frank Pettyjohn and Carole Muscavitch sat in the living room with Nonna. She had removed her apron. I had never met Officer Pettyjohn before that day, but I knew Mrs. Muscavitch. Her mother, Mrs. Bomberger, was a founding member of the card club. They all rose to their feet when we entered.

  “Lena, you know Ted and Carole. This is Barbara Jean, my granddaughter. She prefers to be called BJ these days.”

  “I am sorry about this, Lena,” Carole said. She was familiar with this house and the living room. Carole had been a June bride in 1979. Three-tier lemon cake. Some black and white photographs as well as color, with additional shots taken in the garden. She and her mother, Mrs. Bomberger, had gushed over those pictures, Carole smiling in every one. But today Carole wore no such expression. She was here as a social worker, not client or welcome guest.

  “What is this all about?” Lena looked from Nonna to Carole.

  “We’ve had a complaint,” Officer Pettyjohn started.

  “Oh, for the love of heaven,” Grandma Lena said.

  Nonna nodded. We could guess what was coming.

  “What is George up to now?”

  Carole Muscavitch spoke up. “I’m afraid our source is claiming that he has twice witnessed sexual abuse of a minor in your care.”

  The room fell silent. Nobody knew whether to laugh or scream.

  “I’m the minor?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Officer Pettyjohn answered.

  “But it’s a mistake. I’m not being abused,” I said.

  Carole Muscavitch stepped forward and touched my shoulder lightly. She had the same red hair as her mother, only Carole’s was pulled off her face in a tight ponytail.

  “We take these complaints very seriously. We have to. Our policy is to move the minor to a neutral location to interview her. Her parents or guardians can be nearby, but not in the same room.” She looked at Nonna when she spoke.

  “This is a load of bull,” Nonna said. “Have some lemonade, take her into the garden, and get this over with.”

  “We have to take her off site. I’m sorry, Mrs. Graybill. I don’t want to take up any more of your Sunday than I have to. You can follow in your car if you wish.”

  “Am I going to the police station for questioning?” Episodes of Hill Street Blues flashed through my mind.

  “No, we can use my office,” Carole said. “I am sorry about this, really I am. I can see we don’t have an incident here, but if I don’t follow procedure, Mr. Ko—er, our source can make more threats and get my supervisor out here. I want to make sure this matter gets closed without further inquiry.”

  Grandma Lena remained quiet. Her rage was masked in a terrible calm, a resignation almost. I ran to her and gave her a hug and kiss.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell them how you almost drowned me when I was eight,” I joked.

&nb
sp; She didn’t smile. I hugged her again and went to change out of my bathing suit.

  As I was climbing the stairs, I heard Carole tell Grandma Lena, “Think of the greater good. Children need this voice. This time, BJ will show us a loving family. My job isn’t always like this.”

  Grandma Lena conceded with a small, “You’re so right,” before excusing herself to get dressed.

  ♦ 18 ♦

  2000

  “YOU’RE DEAD! I’M NOT DEAD. But you are. Bang!”

  “Sam, what are you doing?” I wheeled around to face my son.

  “Playing army man like you told me.”

  Sam huddled in a corner of the hot attic with his green figures spread all over an old trunk. He had divided up the army men and lined them in formation, ready for battle. I abandoned my job of sorting some old camping equipment to inspect the scene and look for clues. Since the separation, I had been searching for the signs that the divorce was going to mess up my kid. Each day I braced myself for acts of aggression that never came.

  Now I had proof, or did I? How was he supposed to play with his army men? They couldn’t go on endless reconnaissance missions.

  I folded a musty tarp. Most of this stuff had to be thrown away. A few of the items, old mess kits and lanterns, might sell well at the auction. I added them to the pile for the barn. Phillip’s Auction House was coming soon to remove the items for sale.

  I felt very fortunate that Nonna had the foresight to clean most of the attic out herself. The annual Mulberry Street yard sale had helped. I had to contend only with a small reserve: a heap of old camping equipment, a foldaway bed, tennis rackets, ice skates in various sizes, tax records since 1985, a lamp, an old trunk, a faded rug, and two working fans.

  I put the fans to the test immediately. Their crosscurrent made cleaning the attic a slightly unbearable task instead of a fiendish one, but I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for cooler weather. The owner of the auction house, Phillip himself, was coming in two weeks to haul away the growing piles of unwanted belongings. However easy it had been to get sentimental over the items, the sheer bulk of it all put an end to the romance. I became rather indiscriminate about what I was willing to part with.

  This was one of the last places I had to clear. I had never come up here as a child: the attic wasn’t forbidden, just uninviting. My grandmas had more exciting things to play with in their closets. Collections of hats from all periods, glittering costume jewelry, and movie magazines from the 1940s. Those were the things that would be worth money today, but they had been the first to be sacrificed to the Saturday morning yard sale queens. The early-bird collectors had scooped them up. They came with their quibbles and change purses an hour before the sale opened, and they left with their trophies.

  I propped the window open for ventilation. From the small breach, I could look out over the entire rear of the property: the barn, the gardens, and the gnarled apple tree. It was a beautiful view, and one I had never seen before. Looking into the yard, I could almost imagine myself, at various ages, playing out the scenes of my life. Six years old: picking apples from the ground as Grandma Lena picked them from the branches. Ten years old: playing flashlight tag with the neighbor children in autumn’s early dusk. And nearly fourteen years old: watching fireworks with Travis from the roof of the barn. All of these events were happening simultaneously, yet independently of one another. I suppressed a wave. I wanted to signal all my former selves. I wanted to shout at them, “I’m all right! I turned out okay.” But I didn’t. I wasn’t sure it was the truth anyway. Those BJs and Barbara Jeans were busy with their own circumstances. What was so important about those deep days of childhood? I felt the need to remember—really remember.

  “Knock, knock,” Sam said, returning me from my vision.

  I turned to give him my full attention. “Who’s there?”

  “Soldier.”

  “Soldier who?”

  “Sold your ox. Sold your mare. Sold your grandma’s underwear.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Hayden. He tells funny ‘knock, knock’ jokes.”

  “Yes, very funny,” I said. My voice was as dry as the hot attic air.

  “Are you soon done up here? I’m thirsty.”

  “Yes. We can stop for today.” I wiped the hair off my face and mentally noted where I should begin again after the holiday.

  “Um, Mom.”

  “Yes, bud?”

  “One of my army men accidentally got into the trunk.”

  “Accidentally, huh?”

  The hole where the lock had been was just the size for an army man looking to go AWOL. I tried to simply lift the top of the trunk, but it was wedged. Then I grabbed a hammer that had been stored with the tent stakes, and with a prying motion I was able to raise the lid. Light as it was, I had thought the trunk was empty, but Sam jumped when I opened it.

  “Yikes! A skeleton.”

  “Sam, settle down.” I looked, too, and at the first glance of the trunk’s contents, even I had a start. The trunk contained an old wedding dress. It did look human or mummylike in a benign sort of way, and I could see where Sam made the association. Blue tissue paper filled out the bodice of the dress to help it keep its form and prevent discoloration. The paper must have worked; the satin fabric shone a luster of milk or bone, not a true white, but not yellowed.

  With one hand on the hollow of my chest, I reached down with the other to touch the dress. It did not feel brittle with age, but supple and eternal. I was almost afraid to break the spell it had on time. Gingerly, I pulled the dress from its slumber. The skirt’s folds fell in puddles in my lap. The satin caught coolly on my slightly stubbled thighs. The dress smelled fragrant, unlike the open mustiness of the attic. I breathed in the faint scent of lavender.

  “It’s got to be a million years old or something.” Sam’s eyes brightly reflected the dress. Twin ghosts danced on his gray irises.

  I fingered the cuff and the four fabric covered buttons. They were knuckles, these buttons, four white knuckles.

  “It can’t be Nonna’s. She eloped,” I considered out loud.

  “Look. My army man!” Along with his toy, Sam pulled out a piece of paper.

  I grabbed at the paper. It was a typed receipt from Veronica’s Boutique, dated January 1942. I studied it carefully.

  This didn’t make sense. Nonna eloped days after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. Did she have a second, formal ceremony later? Where were the pictures? I turned the receipt over.

  In small script, at the top, was scrawled the name Lefever.

  ♦ 19 ♦

  1983

  “WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP with Lena Lefever?” Carole Muscavitch asked.

  “She is my fictive grandmother.”

  “Your what?”

  “Fictive. That’s what you call someone who is a close family friend but not really related to you.” I had learned that definition in my fourth-grade family heritage unit. The two words I had absorbed from that lesson had been fictive and lesbian. I was determined not to use the latter word in front of Carole.

  “And you are staying with Anja Graybill and Lena Lefever for the summer.”

  “Yes. I live near Richmond, Virginia, with my parents Judy and Richard Foley, but I am here until August fifteenth.”

  Carole struggled to write down the information in the spaces provided. I slurped the remainder of my milkshake.

  I had enjoyed my first ride in a police cruiser. My only request was something to eat. I was past hungry and was halfway to irritable when Officer Pettyjohn pulled into the drive-through at McDonald’s. I didn’t even care if I had made it look like my grandmothers were starving me.

  “Do they have those new Chicken McNuggets here in Pennsylvania?”

  “No,” answered Officer Pettyjohn. He seemed well acquainted with the menu.

  “We have them in Virginia. I like the sweet and sour sauce.”

  “Can you pick something else?” Carole asked. She
was sitting up front with Officer Pettyjohn; I was in the cage for felons in the backseat.

  “I’ll have a cheeseburger, small fries, and a chocolate shake,” I said.

  Officer Pettyjohn sheepishly added a Big Mac and a Coke to my order. He looked questioningly at Carole who shook her head. I turned to look out the back window. My grandmothers had parked their car. I was sure this detour had them rattled. Nonna caught sight of me. I waved and gave them the thumbs-up.

  McDonald’s didn’t charge us for the meal. The manager came to the window and smiled contractually at Officer Pettyjohn. From the backseat, I gave the drive-through attendant my best criminal glare as if I was going to hunt her down and behead her children as soon as I escaped the juvenile detention center.

  Carole’s office was a block away from the police station in one of the long row of brick homes. A wooden plaque beside the door said JUNIPER TOWNSHIP SOCIAL SERVICES in straight black letters. Being the weekend, Carole had to unlock the place and turn on some of the lights. The waiting room was standard-issue paneling adorned with paintings of wooded scenes. Nonna and Lena folded their rumps into two of the molded chairs. The polyester of their pants and the plastic of the chairs embraced like old friends, graduates of the same nonbiodegradable academy. An ancient cabinet TV with rabbit ears sat in one corner. Nonna tuned into a movie classic from the thirties—something with Grace Kelly. Grandma Lena groused, but the saga soon captured her attention.

  “Take your time, BJ. I haven’t seen this one.” Nonna gave me a wink. It was a lie; there wasn’t a movie she hadn’t seen. She was putting on a show for Grandma Lena’s sake. This was no big deal. Nonna acted like I was going upstairs for a piano lesson.

  Carole Muscavitch’s office was not what I expected. Pieces of primitive art lined her bookshelves and windowsill. Carved figurines of hunched women with long, nodding breasts guarded her important papers while wooden dolls in loincloths stood as centurions on either end of her professional journals. Tribal masks flanked Carole’s college diploma.