Chapter Ten
Out on Lake Superior the defining edge between air and water has become indistinguishable. The lake is apoplectic: spastic water reaches up white-armed toward the sky as saturated charcoal clouds spit back. The storm batters the speedboat carrying the Burne boys. Gravel, Theo, and Kent sit stoically and completely relaxed. The crushing natural display bores them. They are accustomed to sharper stimulation. Ben is calm at the controls. He revels in the icy slap of the elements on his bare cheeks and forehead. He smiles. His biggest complaint about prison is that it was dull. Now, he is moving again and he likes moving. Who was it who wrote, “How dull it is to pause?” Something someone read to him on the inside, probably that annoying librarian who spent more time f*cking inmates than lending books. He remembers that poem though because he had liked something about it; it stayed with him. He’s proud of his memory: exacting and steely. He remembers things in distinct detail. He remembers plenty of storms exactly like this one when they were growing up. His mom used to make them stand outside and yell at the lightning. Four little boys, out in the pouring rain, screaming at the sky. It was empowering. She prepared them so well for life. He is so grateful to have been home-schooled, and not contaminated, or brainwashed, by the fairy tales they stuff down the throats of little kids. Mother taught them the truth: beyond each other, there is no one and no thing of value. “Civilization is a pretty dress on a snake,” Mom used to say. “There’s no right or wrong, just winners and losers, and the winners get to write the books to make ‘emselves look good, but the bare-assed truth is any human starving in a snow bank will eat his neighbor. They don’t tell you that in school.” Ben thinks fondly back on his mom. She would say, “There are groups a folks with different ideas ‘bout what is good, and what is evil, and if that’s not proof enough that it’s all a crock of bullshit I don’t know what is.” She was so practical and real. “Worry only about each other, take whatever you can, and don’t be a fool.”
The only interference the Burne boys had growing up was when the school would send a spy to check on them. Ben grins recalling how they would laugh after each visit. The spy, invariably a woman social worker, would stop by and say, “You know, Mrs. Burne, those boys need to play with other kids, be socialized, learn camaraderie and compromise.” Ben remembers how Mom would listen with that I’m-so-interested-in-what-you’re-saying expression on her face, like she was getting superior advice, and after a thoughtful pause, she would talk about music lessons they never really took, and athletic teams they didn’t actually join. And then she’d drop the big bomb; it was religion after all that didn’t allow public schooling. She would invoke Jesus Christ and the social worker would shift her little ass around in the seat and look like someone shoved a gag in her mouth, which of course, was exactly it. Mom had raised all four of them to be God loving. She followed the Bible, as she used to say, religiously. She taught them that they were made in God’s image and so were meant to be all-powerful. She explained how Jesus would forgive them anything as long as they said sorry after because this was what he said over and over in the Bible - the forgiveness thing is your free ride. She did prefer the Old Testament’s clarity, although Revelations was awesome with all those infants damned (because really how could one enjoy heaven with a bunch of screaming babies) and that everlasting torture stuff, now, that was a good read. How could you not respect a God who came up with ever…lasting…torture? Still, she did explain to them the Jesus forgiving element was goddamn useful. She showed them in the actual Bible verses for the justification for everything: rape, infanticide, slavery. “Just learn your Act of Contrition,” she would say. And they would recite it every night. Kent is the most religious of the brothers because he always liked the idea of saints and spirits, ghosts and witches.
Mother Burne kept her four boys close so she could teach them what they really needed to know. With her gone now, Ben knows that his brothers are truly his wards. Theo is easy. He’s always been more of a pet. When Ben was nine years old and he wanted a dog, his mom gave him Theo. It was a perfect compromise. No one really knows how much is going on inside Theo’s head, but to Ben he really is better than a dog because he’s like a dog with hands. There are times when he does think Theo’s his favorite. Kent is okay, although he’s not too smart, and Gravel has a lot of issues, but the best head of hair. They are brothers. They are blood.
A sputter. A cough from the boat’s engine. Ben looks down at it. “Shit.” He looks out to assess the shoreline and possible landing spots.
Inside the lodge, Alison has abandoned her chunk of brown bread on her plate and joined Bella over by the hearth. The rest of the group continues with the meal. The atmosphere has loosened a bit as these strangers triangulate each other. It is a process as each finds their proper spot in a new assemblage: verbal jockeying, body language, informational downloads including jobs and residences serve to establish strengths, weaknesses, and put into place the requisite social hierarchy. They smile and nod politely while testing each other to precisely gauge who is successful, who isn’t, who is educated, experienced, conservative, liberal, sophisticated, rich. We want to know, we need to know this to determine how the group is to be configured for the week ahead, each member of the new group subconsciously wondering where is my proper spot; where is yours? So much is decided in those first seemingly casual moments: the roll of an eye, a certain vocabulary, the tilt of one’s head. And how often these decisions are accurate one rarely knows because these determinations are sticky and subject to confirming bias. Alison has always seen this weighing out process as blatant, even as others proceed ahead at the subliminal level.
Alison asks, “Not hungry?”
“Always dieting.” Bella lies. “It would be good if you could get something in your stomach.”
“I’m still having nausea. It comes in waves. Ugh…” Alison holds her stomach, “shouldn’t say waves.” Even sick, she manages to connect on a personal level with Bella. Alison is so plainly likeable. She has an innate softness that touches others gently. She is as naturally warm as the blaze in the hearth.
“So, did you lose a bet or something?’ Bella raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” she grimaces and runs her fingers through her hair, “Is it that obvious?”
“The French Tips were a dead giveaway.”
“You know what? I’m going to fix that. I can play with the team,” convincing herself as she tries to convince Bella. “Sometimes don’t you just get sick and tired of being exactly how everyone expects you to be?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although people don’t expect much from me. I’m a writer so they expect me to observe and then huddle in front of a computer screen in a room by myself. And they’re actually not far off.”
“Yeah? I’m a middle-class, middle-aged, married, elementary school teacher, and I’ll bet a whole bunch of prefab characteristics popped into your head when I said that.”
“Yup, they did. With those statistics I guess I now know everything about you.” She teases.
Alison says, “And look over at the table each of them in their little bubble of stereotypes: outdoorsmen, frat boys, newlyweds. I wonder if we construct those stereotypes or if they construct us.”
“Already a deeper conversation than one usually gets on a fishing trip.”
Alison tosses her head and smiles at Bella, “I’m not really prepared to talk about bait.”
“There will be a lot of talking about bait here unless this storm keeps up, then, the entire week may really be about Parcheesi.”
“Hey, I rock at Parcheesi.”
“I kinda knew that about you.”
“You see?” Alison smiles honestly and Bella genuinely likes her.
Back at the table, Ed Hutchinson asks, “Hey, Hobbs, there’s no cell service so where’s the phone?”
“No phone.”
“No, phone?” Hank asks surprised.
“Got a shortwave for supplies.”
“A shortwave?” Bruce glances at Grant.
Grant responds, “And here we are inside a living anachronism.”
Hobbs continues, “Shortwave. This storm. Only static.”
Julie says shyly, “It’s kind of romantic being isolated like this.”
Mike says, “Hey, I ain’t that attracted to Dan.” They laugh. And nothing brings a disparate group of individuals closer faster than a shared laugh.
“You ain’t my type either,” Dan responds with his voice booming, “You got less hair on your head than you got on your earlobes.” Mike laughs so hard his eyes scrunch up around the outside and look like little squinty slits.
Alison has a sudden wave of nausea. “Oh.”
Bella asks, “Hobbs, where’s the head?”
“Through the kitchen.”
Alison makes a dash for the kitchen and disappears into the other room.
Dan says to Hank, “Maybe you should’ve left her at the spa.”
Hank defends, “Hey, she’s a trooper. She came along and it—”
The front door bursts open! Violent winds and sheeting rain blast into the room along with the four Burne brothers. Around the dinner table, mouths drop open and eyes widen. Gravel slams the door behind them. Even with their oversized trench coats, they are drenched. Gravel’s stringy hair clings to the sides of his cheeks. Kent’s baseball cap sits sopping and tilted forward on his forehead. Their handguns are out of sight tucked into the back of their belts and in their coat pockets. Ben is holding the carburetor from the outboard motor. As the door slams, thunder claps loudly, and Julie jumps. Ben takes a quick measure of the dumbstruck group and begins genially.
“Gee, folks, so sorry we startled you. Our engine gave out and we were lucky to find you in this storm. A guy could drown standing straight up out there.”
Hobbs ask, “You fishermen?”
Ben answers, “Yes, sir. Blue Marlin, Mako. My brother here (indicating Kent) held a record on a Giant Tuna for a while.” Ben is calm, smooth, and believable to the core.
Dan looks interested, “That so?” Kent nods as the room relaxes. Theo crosses to the dinner table.
“Fishermen always welcome here,” Hobbs says.
“Gee, thanks.” Ben smiles. His blue eyes sparkle kindly and his grin is broad and sweet. “We’re much obliged.”
Theo has trudged over to the table where he sticks his fingers into the stew pot, takes out a large chunk of meat, and puts it in his mouth. Ben notices the disgusted looks and he adds, “Ah, sorry, about my brother, Theo, he skipped lunch and he’s well…” affectionate emotion rises up in his voice, “he’s special.”
“He can’t talk,” Kent explains.
Hank experiences a rising alarm. Even with Ben’s calming words, the guys just don’t look like fisherman. A clutching feeling in the back of his neck travels down his spine. He will wait just a minute for Alison and scoot them back to the cabin.
“You fellas should dry out by the fire.” Mike says.
“We’re only staying a moment. Carburetor’s dirty I guess.” He puts the melon-sized carburetor on the floor of the lodge. “If I could just get a good toolbox so I can get into it and clean it out.”
Off the kitchen, inside the tiny bathroom, between the noise of the pounding rain and intermittent thunder, Alison is throwing up. She hears nothing from the other room. With her head over the toilet, she rests her chin on her fist and wishes she could get it together. Why is her body sabotaging her this way? Where is her reliable sangfroid? This whole adventure is becoming one long embarrassment.
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