An Early Winter (7 page)

His grandfather reaches out to touch the deflating chamber, but he says nothing, does nothing.

"Row!" Tim shouts, rising to his knees.

For a moment, Granddad's attention shifts to the oars, and Tim thinks he is going to pick them up and begin to use them, but he doesn't. He only stares at them, then at Tim, his mouth half open.

"Please," Tim pleads.

But Granddad buries his face in his hands.

Tim looks down at the dark water lapping hungrily at the side of the raft. His eyes measure the distance to shore. Then he takes in the curled lump that is his grandfather. Exasperated—disgusted, really—he crawls past him until he is in a position to reach the oars himself. He gives his grandfather a light push. "Change places with me," he commands.

His grandfather doesn't budge.

Tim reaches past him for one of the oars, then the other. As he works, he can feel the heat climbing his neck, tingling his scalp.
Useless
, is he? He'll just see who's useless! If anyone around here is useless, it's his grandfather. Tim can't even row properly with him in the way.

He lifts a foot and gives his grandfather another push, a real shove this time, and Granddad topples onto his side, his knees still drawn up, his face still buried. Lying there, he reminds Tim of the pictures he's seen of a fetus, as if he's pretending to be a baby that's not even born. At least he isn't obstructing the oars so much now, and Tim can begin to row. They have another problem, though. Granddad's head now rests on the deflating top chamber, pushing it down so lake water runs into the raft in a steady stream.

Is he ever this bad around Grandma? If he is, no wonder she sounds so cross all the time.

"Granddad, you've got to move!" Tim shouts.

"You're letting water into the raft. You've got to get up and go sit in the back."

To his surprise and relief, his grandfather gathers himself enough to do as he is told. He crawls to the back of the raft and sits there, hugging his knees to his chest. With his head no longer pressing down the collapsing side, the water stops pouring in, but there is nothing to do about what has already collected in the bottom of the raft. It sloshes back and forth, wetting Tim's sneakers, the seat of his jeans. Granddad is getting soaked, too. In fact, he is wetter than Tim, because until he moved he'd been lying in the water that was pouring in. For so early in the fall, the lake is surprisingly cold.

Tim pulls as hard as he can on the oars. One dips deeper than the other, turning the raft in the water without moving them toward the shore. Tim positions himself more carefully and pulls on the oars again. This time the raft moves, just barely. He can't remember ever being so angry, especially with his grandfather. He can hardly remember a time when he has been angry with his grandfather at all.

Useless.
Of all the unfair accusations! Hasn't he always been Granddad's best helper? Hasn't Granddad told him he is?

Tim digs at the water again. The deflated fabric of the top chamber has flattened to the point that it is hanging into the water. The air, instead of escaping with a hiss, sends up a silent stream of bubbles. As the top chamber sinks farther, water trickles over the collapsing side into the bottom of the boat with each pull of the oars.

"I'm sorry," Granddad moans. His face is buried against his knees, and his words comes out muffled.

"What?" Tim barks. He heard, but he wants to hear it again. The man
ought
to be sorry, that's for sure.

Granddad lifts his head and looks directly at Tim. "I'm sorry, Franklin," he says.

The hairs along Tim's arms rise.
Franklin!
As though Tim's father has suddenly appeared, as though he is sitting right there in the middle of the raft, in the deepening puddle which occupies the space between Tim and his grandfather.

Why does Granddad think he needs to apologize to Franklin, anyway? Doesn't he remember that Franklin is the one who went away? Years and years ago he walked out. By his own choice. Even though Tim left, too, that was different. He hadn't wanted to go. His mother and Paul had made him.

Besides, he's here now, isn't he? Listening to those old, old stories, sitting perfectly still to fish—getting yelled at. Taking over in a disaster.

Tim pulls hard on the oars, but this time the raft bumps against something and wallows there, water sloshing back and forth in the channels of the raft's floor. Have they reached the shore already? He looks over his shoulder.

No shore. That is still a good hundred feet away. What they have come up against is a stand of wild rice. The water between them and the shore is clogged with the long grass, the stems too thick to row through. If they were in a canoe, they could slip between the tall plants, but the raft is too wide to fit.

He looks both directions along the stand of rice. It seems to go on forever without a break. He can't tell how far. They've never come to shore here before, because if they did, they'd be on the opposite side of the lake from where they always camp. He'd like to try rowing back across the way they came, but he doesn't dare. What is left of the raft won't sink, but it's certainly not going to keep them dry. By the time the air is completely out of the top chamber, it's going to be pretty hard to maneuver, too.

He turns the raft and begins moving along the edge of the wild rice bed. Already the rowing is getting hard. The water they are taking on increases the weight of the boat, and his shoulders and arms ache. There is no point in expecting any kind of help, though. His grandfather is sitting there, staring at him as if he doesn't know who he is. Which is, undoubtedly, the truth.

"I'm sorry," Granddad says again. "I didn't mean..." His voice trails off, leaving whatever he didn't mean dangling in the air.

He's talking to Franklin still. Tim knows that now. He must have thought Tim was Franklin when he yelled at him earlier, too. Well, who cares if he wants to sit in a puddle of cold water, talking to someone who isn't even there? Who hasn't been there for years.

Who cares about anything at all?

His grandfather shivers, a shudder so violent Tim almost expects to hear his bones rattle.

Tim keeps rowing. He can see what looks like an opening in the tall grass just a little farther down the shore. Wide enough, it seems, to bring the crippled raft to shore. The air in the boat is so diminished now that it buckles with each stroke, and with each stroke more cold water gushes in.

Granddad's teeth are clattering like castanets. "Sophie," he moans. "I want Sophie."

"You'd better not wish for Grandma," Tim warns through clenched teeth. "She's going to be mad at you. Plenty mad at you by now. Just like me."

But his grandfather doesn't seem to hear. He just whimpers again, "Sophie!"

By the time Tim noses the collapsing raft up to the shore, he is shivering, too, though the spasms that set his teeth chattering seem to come from a deeper cold than the one in the air. How dare his grandfather say such things to him ... and then turn around and pretend he's here with Franklin? How dare he sit there doing nothing and leave Tim to save the situation?

And what are they going to do now? They are on wrong side of the lake.

Tim looks longingly across the lake. If only he'd been able to row back to their campsite. Then they could climb right into the camper and drive home.

The bank here is steep, too steep to bump the raft onto the shore, so Tim steps out into the water, still in his shoes. At least he's wearing canvas sneakers that won't be ruined.

"Come on." He says it roughly and reaches a hand out to help his grandfather.

Ignoring the offered hand, Granddad throws his legs over the side of the raft and steps into the water. Tim notices, grimly, that his grandfather's lips are blue.

Serves him right if he's cold,
he thinks.
Serves him right!

When they step up onto the land, Granddad makes no attempt to assist Tim with the boat. He just clambers up the bank and stands at the top, gazing off into the forest. After several attempts to get the raft up the steep bank by himself, Tim gives up and ties it to a sapling. He leaves the tackle box in the bottom of the boat. They have a long walk ahead of them, and the tackle box is heavy. Besides, Granddad probably wouldn't help with that, either.

His grandfather doesn't seem to notice that Tim is leaving anything important behind. He just starts out walking, taking the lead and moving around the end of the lake toward their campsite on the other side. At least he knows the route. Though any baby could make it to their campsite with the shore of the lake to follow. The sun is sliding down the sky, approaching the tops of the trees, but they should have plenty of light to find their way back.

Off in the woods, something
rat-a-tat-tats
against the trunk of a tree. Loud enough to be a jackhammer. Must be a pileated woodpecker. They are the only ones big enough to make that much noise.

Tim isn't sure why he's so furious, even now that he realizes Granddad was yelling at Franklin before, not at him. Maybe he's angry because it is so apparent that his grandfather is leaving. As surely as if he walked out the door, he is going away.

Maybe he's angry because ... But he doesn't know. He doesn't care. The anger just sweeps through him, and he opens himself to it as to a cleansing wind.

The trek through the forest is rough. An occasional path created by deer or by anglers goes directly to the lake, not around it. At least the woods they are moving through are dense enough that there is not much undergrowth, but the trees themselves crisscross the ground with knobby roots. Occasionally they come to a windfall, too, and have to crawl over or make their way around the rotting trunk.

Granddad keeps moving. He doesn't even glance back to see whether Tim is following.

When they get back to the camper, they can get warm. They can have a sandwich, too, and some hot chocolate. No. No hot chocolate. Granddad forgot to take on water. Though perhaps they could boil some water from the lake. Is there anything dangerous in the water that wouldn't be killed by boiling? Tim doesn't think so, but he's not sure. Can he trust his grandfather to answer a question like that?

As soon as they are warm and fed and rested, they will drive back home.

Tim studies his grandfather's back. His gait is unsteady. He stumbles often. He will be able to drive when they get back to the camper, won't he?

Bullfrogs croak from the edge of the lake. They sound like string instruments in a school orchestra, clumsily tuning up. As Tim and his grandfather approach, the frogs go silent. Tim wants to stop, to wait for them to start up again, but the sun is below the tops of the trees now. Granddad doesn't slow his stumbling progress, anyway.

A noisy red squirrel on a branch above their heads tosses down an acorn, then another. Tim wonders whether the little creature is harvesting for winter or warning the human intruders away. Tim wouldn't mind being a small squirrel himself, with acorns to throw.

A bird Tim can't see whistles a descending tune, like a boatswain's whistle. A white-throated sparrow? He would ask his grandfather, but what does Granddad know? Birds are Grandma's territory.

And then he understands. In an instant, he realizes what has made him so angry. It is the way his grandfather talked ... thinking he was talking to Franklin. The things he said. The manner in which he said them.

Useless!
He must have talked to his own son that way. No wonder Franklin went away and refused to come back. No wonder he'd had "problems"!

"You were mean to my father." Tim aims the accusation at his grandfather's back.

It's just a guess. No one has ever suggested anything of the kind. Except maybe for the few times when Granddad had gotten really angry with Tim. The minute his voice went up in volume, Grandma would cut him off. "Are you going to start that again?" she'd say, her own voice heavy with meaning. Until now, Tim had never understood what she meant.

But now he is absolutely certain that his guess is right. Granddad didn't get along with his son. Didn't even like him, from the way he'd sounded.

He calls again to his grandfather's back. "You used to yell at Franklin, didn't you? You used to call him names."

This last stops Granddad abruptly. He turns to face Tim, but he doesn't look at him. He doesn't respond to his accusations, either.

Tim has lived too long in the silence about his father. Too long with the adult lies.
Nobody knows why he left, Tim. We don't have any idea why he would do such a thing.

"No wonder my father didn't want to stay," he says "if that's the way you used to talk to him!"

Granddad doesn't defend himself, doesn't move. He just stands there with his head bowed, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

"It's your fault."

"It's my fault," his grandfather agrees, though his voice is so flat, so without feeling the words seem almost to have lost their meaning.

Even though Tim said it first, even though he'd known it before he said it, he is stunned. "What did you do to him?" he asks when he can speak again. "Did you tell him he was useless?" The question is almost a whisper.

Granddad sighs deeply, as though he finds the entire discussion intensely wearying. He replies, still without any feeling that Tim can detect, "Yes. I told Franklin he was useless."

"No wonder he left." Tim can barely say the words.

Granddad fixes Tim with those mild blue eyes and replies simply, "He had no choice. I told him he had to go."

Tim stands still as a deer caught in the glare of approaching headlights, though his head is reeling.
Had to go? He told my father he
had
to go!
He reaches out to support himself on the trunk of a nearby sapling.

"But why? Tell me why."

He waits, as though by merely standing there he can force his grandfather to answer. He knew, though, even as he asked the question, that no answer would come. And he was right.

His grandfather has already turned and, weaving a bit, is walking again.