Borderline (5 page)

T
he guys make jokes as we skim through the water. I don't catch much over the noise of the engine, but I make sure to smile and give a thumbs-up whenever they turn around to see how I'm doing.

The breeze bites my skin. I huddle into myself, and watch the lights glimmering in the dark river air: Twinkles from roads and towns along the mainland, from cottages dotting the shore and ringing the maze of islands that swallow us up. Beams from boat lamps, too, navigating the channels: Sailboats, fishing boats, cabin cruisers, each with its own horn, its own bell, its own jumble of laughter, music, and engines.

I'm lost in the feel and the night of it. But Andy has
a map in his head from a lifetime of Thousand Island summers. “We're back in American waters,” he says. Most of the cottages here are dark, boarded up. “These ones are owned by millionaires from the deep South who only come up for a week or two each summer to beat the heat.”

We near a patch of tree-lined cliffs. Andy slows down and steers us between two walls of rock. We follow the wall on the right, then turn left and enter a stretch of water surrounded by five large islands. Andy cuts the engine. We drift forward with the current. It's quiet here, only the sound of distant echoes, and the light waves that lap against our boat and the islands' shores. Dark, too. No lights except our boat lamp, the stars, and the moon, which shimmer over the rippling water.

“This circle of islands belongs to the Stillman family,” Andy says. “They're from Tennessee, I think. Each island has a master cottage, more like a mansion, with guest houses and outbuildings, all facing the outer river. A few years ago, old Mr. Stillman blew his brains out. His kids and grandkids have stayed away ever since.”

I shiver. Is it the breeze?

Andy raises his arm and points. “There she is,” he whispers. “Straight ahead, middle of the circle.”

Hermit Island floats toward us out of the dark.

At first, it's hard to make out, dwarfed by the Stillmans' islands surrounding it. But as we near, I see the shape of a bank of pine trees a couple of hundred yards long. Nearer still, the boat lamp lights up a ghostly dock wobbling out from the shore, the rotten end collapsed into the water. There's a patch of sand to the right, with a large weathered sign:

 

PRIVATE PROPERTY! NO TRESPASSING!

 

“Are you sure it's okay to be here?” I ask.

“You mean the sign?” Andy chuckles. “Like anyone's around to care.”

Which doesn't exactly answer my question.

Andy guides the boat to the dock. “Holler if you see Stillman's ghost,” Marty jokes. “I picture bits of brain, maybe an eyeball, floating around what's left of his skull.”

We moor the boat and haul our supplies over the wobbly dock to the beach. In a few minutes, our tent's set up, Andy and Marty have popped a few beers, and we're getting toasty round a campfire.

We're not the first partiers on this so-called deserted
island. The wind has blown some old beer cans and snack wrappers to the scruff behind the strip of beach. There's even a used condom hanging off some yellowed grasses. But we're the only campers here tonight.

Andy catches me staring up at the constellations. “Not bad, hunh?”

I smile. “Not bad.”

“Little white lies,” Marty winks. “They make the world go round.”

 

It's so late the back of my eyes ache.

Andy and I are outside the tent, fully dressed, sitting on our sleeping bags. It was escape or die. The second Marty passed out, his gas attacks went into overdrive. Talk about global warming. His cheeks are flapping so hard his ass'll get windburn.

The campfire's low. I place a few logs on it. Andy's drunk, but he's sobered up some since throwing up. All the same, he keeps moaning about this girl from Meadowvale Secondary I've never met. This is the problem of me not drinking: If I was drunk, Andy wouldn't sound so stupid and boring.

“I should forget about Sarah,” he says, staring into the embers. “Things never work out, anyway.” I wonder if
he's going to start telling me about his problems with his parents. Instead he says, “I should be a hermit.”

“Yeah, right. Live happily ever after with your right hand.”

“No, really,” Andy says solemnly. “I'd find an island like this with a little hermit shack. I'd fish. Eat berries. Hunt squirrels.” His head lolls. “You haven't seen the shack yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, it's perfect. Perr. Fect. You should see it.”

“I will,” I say. “First thing tomorrow.”

“No,” he says, suddenly wide awake. “Now.”

“It's too dark.”

“We got flashlights.” Andy waves his triumphantly and lurches to his feet.

“Great, we got flashlights,” I stall. “But let's wait till morning. Marty'll want to go too.”

Andy shakes his head. “Forget Marty. He's already seen it. I wanna go now.”

“You're drunk.”

“And you're a genius.” He lets out a whoop and lopes haphazardly into the pines. “Race you to the shack.”

“Andy, don't be crazy!”

His light dances away between the trees. I hear the
cracking of dead branches as he stumbles through the brush. The sounds disappear in the night.

I curl up in my sleeping bag, expecting him to come back any second. But he doesn't. What if he's tripped and cracked his head open on a rock? Or run across the island and fallen off a ledge, and now he's knocked out in the water, drowning? If I stay here and he dies, it'll be all my fault.

Damn, Andy.

I get my flashlight and follow him into the woods. It's not a big island, right? So it's not like I could get lost. Or run into a bear or a psycho hermit with a chainsaw. Well it's not—is it?

I've always been able to spook myself. Right now, I don't have to try. If I look straight up, I can see the odd star, but the light doesn't penetrate the woods. Here on the island floor, it's pitch black, except for the beam of my flashlight. It picks up fallen trees, roots stuck up into the air. Half the downed trunks are rotted, covered in a thick carpet of moss and pine needles.

I glimpse a creature off to the right. Swing my flashlight. Nothing. Just a weird shadow. Shadows everywhere.

I move slowly. The mulch hides crevasses in the rock. Surprises waiting to twist an ankle. Andy was insane to barrel in here.

“Andy?”

Silence.

I should see the light from his flashlight, but I don't. Not to worry—he's probably turned it off. I'll bet he's hiding behind some tree, waiting to jump out and scare me.

My foot catches on something. I stumble forward, trip face-first to the ground, my left leg snarled in a strip of barbed-wire fencing. The bottom of my jeans is ripped, but I'm okay. My flashlight picks up a row of old posts planted into the distance on either side of me. The fencing holds between some of the posts, falls away between others. Was it to keep things out? Or trap them inside?

I brush myself off. “Andy?” I sweep my flashlight back and forth. Ahead of me, a clearing. I toe my way forward, come out of the pines.

I'm at a garbage dump. It must be the one the guys talked about, next to the hermit shack. There's stacks of green plastic bags, and bundles of neatly tied magazines and newspapers, molting at the edges. I see a rusty baby carriage. Broken radios and TVs. Old Coca-Cola crates. And in the center of the junk, the shack itself, cobbled together from boards, plywood, and tarpaper.

“Andy?” I edge toward it. “Andy, I know you're hiding. Say something.”

Nothing.

“Andy, this isn't funny.”

The shack has a ripped screen door. It's fallen off its hinges, the frame peeling. I aim my flashlight into the black hole. I see Andy crouched in the corner of the shack, next to a couple of old paint cans.

“Gotcha!” I exclaim.

Andy doesn't budge. His eyes are huge. They're staring at something behind me.

“Andy?”

A beam of light hits my back, casting my shadow against the shack. “Drop your flashlight, boy,” says a low voice. “Turn around slow, so I can see you.”

I do as I'm told. Ahead of me, the hulking shape of a stranger. He's wearing a miner's helmet. I squint hard.

There's a twelve-gauge shotgun aimed at my head.

T
he man holding the shotgun is maybe sixty. He's wearing a dirty plaid jacket over dirtier overalls and boots. There's a hunting knife strapped to his belt. He hasn't shaved in days, or had a bath by the smell of him.

“You boys having fun?”

Alone at night on a deserted island with an armed psycho. Whaddaya think?

“Asked you a question,” the hermit says. “You fancy this is some party place?”

“No, sir,” I whisper.

“Damn right, it's not. There's a sign:
NO TRESPASSING
. Can't you read?”

“Sorry.”

“‘Sorry'? That's what they all say.”

They? Who are
they
? Where are
they
now?

“You two alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don't lie to me, boy. There's a lard-ass passed out in your tent.”

“I mean there's just the two of us, here, now,” I cover. How long has he been spying on us?

“We just came to have fun,” Andy blurts. “Please, let us go. We won't tell anyone you're here.”

“You think I'm a fool?”

“I mean it. We won't tell anyone. And we'll never come back.”

“For damn sure, you won't,” the hermit spits. “On your feet.”

He marches us through the woods, hands on our heads. Any second, he'll kill us and stuff our bodies in a rotten tree trunk. Who'll ever know? My folks always taught me to tell someone where I was going. This time I didn't. We didn't write anything down at the cottage, either. Stupid, stupid.

Marty's wailing from the beach: “Andy…Sammy…Where are you?”

We come through the pines onto the sand. Marty's
down by the water, taking a leak. He turns, dick in hand, sees the hermit, and falls on his ass.

“Toss me your knapsacks,” the hermit says. “One at a time.”

So he's going to rob us
before
he kills us. What if we rush him? No way. Andy and Marty are too drunk. If I go it alone, I'm done for sure.

The hermit crooks his rifle under his arm and kneels by our knapsacks. He fumbles out our passports, fishes a pad and pen from his jacket, and makes a few notes. Then he stands and faces us.

“You're on Stillman family property,” he says. “I'm the Stillmans' caretaker. It used to be every few months punks like you'd come here to party. End-a this summer, twice a week. Well, fun's over. Sober up and clear out. If you're here past eight
A.M.
, I call the Coast Guard and the New York State Police.” He waves the shotgun. “Next time, I may not be so sociable. You're trespassers. Law'd be on my side. Understood?”

We nod.

“'Night, then.” He disappears into the woods.

 

By dawn, we're packed and ready to go.

Andy's usually a fireball in the morning. Not today. He
sits on the dock, head down, like he's under a big
DO NOT DISTURB
sign. I'm collecting leftover beer cans and food wrappers. Marty's trying to douse the embers in our fire pit by sweeping sand over them with his foot.

“Caretaker, my ass,” Marty grumbles. “That was no caretaker. What's a caretaker doing in a hermit shack?”

“Who says that's where he came from?” I say. “He could have seen our fire from a guest house on one of the other islands, and boated around behind us for surprise.”

Marty sniffs. “I say he's a dirty hermit. Once we get back, we should report him.”

“For what? Catching us trespassing?”

“Sure. Why should he get to use this island and not us?”

“Because he's got a gun, maybe?”

“And how's that right? Some nut with a gun terrorizing innocent campers?” Marty takes a break, hands on his knees. “I say we call the cops. Leave an anonymous tip.”

“You think he won't figure out who sent it? He's got our names and addresses.”

Marty shoots me a look. “You're a coward.”

“Me?” I laugh. “You sure shriveled up good when we came out of the woods.”

“You stared at my dick?”

“Not sure. It looked kind of small for a dick. Even yours.”

Marty kicks sand at me.

I dance circles around him. “I saw a snail, maybe? A mosquito bite?”

“Yo.” It's Andy, roused and ready to go. Marty grouches to the boat. I follow.

The ride to the cottage is quiet. Andy takes it slow, his skin as gray as the sky. Marty nods off beside him. I think about strangers in strange places, about what happened last night, and about what could have happened.

Once we land, we put the fishing rods back in the umbrella stand, the extra food in the freezer, and the cooler and tent in the garage. Marty and I go to bring in the sleeping bags, but Andy lingers behind by the old Chevy, the dinosaur his folks drive to town for food or a movie. I let Marty go ahead, and watch as Andy slumps onto the hump in the middle of the back seat, all six feet of him. His body's folded up like an accordion, head buried in his hands.

“Andy?” I say quietly.

He looks up, bewildered to see me. His face is completely hopeless, his eyelids rimmed a dull red.

“I used to be able to stand up in here,” he says simply.
“I remember Dad driving, Mom in the passenger seat, and me looking out the window at cows, wondering what the cows were thinking, and rolling up the windows to keep out the dust blowing up from the dirt roads. Dad would put his hand on Mom's knee, and when we'd get back to the cottage, they'd say they were having a nap, and I'd wander up the beach collecting pebbles, investigating dead seagulls. Nothing lasts.” He looks away. “Marty told you about my folks?”

“Sort of. Not really.”

“I was wasted, or I wouldn't have told him. He's got a big mouth.” He forces a smile. “It's okay you knowing though. Just don't tell anyone else, okay?”

“I promise.”

Andy sucks in a breath. “My folks aren't on a trip. They're away for couples therapy. As if that'll work.” His breath catches. “At first, I was mad at Mom for spying on him. Why did she have to check his cell phone records? Or hire a private detective? If there was a problem, why couldn't she pretend? Why couldn't we just go on?”

“Andy.” I hesitate. “If it's a breakup, they happen. You'll get over it.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “This is worse. First week of school, I heard her howling. She had the doctor's report.
My dad—my perfect dad—he gave her an STI.” Andy squeezes himself around the middle. “He got infected at the Paradise Club in Buffalo. Didn't know which ho gave it to him.” He starts to rock.

“Andy…” I want to hold him, but I don't know how.

“I'm not sure what's going to happen,” he says. “Or where home's going to be. Or what anything's going to be. I don't even know my dad. I mean, who is he?”

Marty's struggling up to the garage with the three sleeping bags and air mattresses. “Thanks for the help.” I raise a hand. He sees what's up and puts everything down. We stay real still.

Andy wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He gets his legs out the door but stays hunched on the end of the seat. “Guys,” he says, “mind if we just go home?”

 

Fast as a daydream, we're back at the marina. Seeing as we've been in Canada, we should check in with immigration. But like Andy says, “Why bother? As far as anyone knows, we never left home.”

We drive into the country—no talking, just music. Andy taps the steering wheel like he's a drummer, while Marty plays air guitar in the passenger seat. I stretch out in back and pretend to sleep. What I really do is think
about Andy's dad. And my dad.

I imagine Dad at security conferences. What does he do in those cities late at night, out of sight, away from home? I think about this weekend in Toronto. Why couldn't I go to the games on my own? I'll be sixteen in a few months, after all. And why couldn't Mom come? Why the big deal?

I go numb: Is Dad like Andy's dad? Is he cheating with someone? Is that why Mom was so mad? Has she guessed?

I picture Dad slinking into a bar, finding a seat in a dark corner, and slipping off his wedding ring. Or calling an escort service from his room. Or maybe the woman is somebody at the conference. Has he seen her before? Are these meetings a cover for them to hook up? Does she have a husband? A kid like me?

Stop. This is crazy. Dad's so righteous, if he ever had a wet dream he'd never sleep again; he'd staple his eyelids to his forehead. I mean, for him, me touching Mary Louise Prescott's bra was the same as “fornication.” Then I think of what our imam says: “Show me what a man attacks, and I'll show you his sin.”