Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) (9 page)

“… For your crimes,

you have been judged.”

Camp Topsail, Upper Saranac Lake, 7/15/2013,
11:27 a.m.

I’d slept for a few more hours, until a loon in (
I was reasonably certain, based on my mental triangulation
) West Pine Pond starting making enough noise to rouse Hope. We got up and took care of morning business, ate and drank a quick meal, and quickly climbed the rest of the way up Floodwood Mountain to catch the sunrise over the ponds and lakes and woods to the east of us; I thought it was lovely … Hope was less impressed. We ran back down the hill, picked up our gear from where I’d hidden it off the trail and walked back out to the car. The drive back into Saranac Lake was quiet and quick and fun; I took Forest Home Road for the curves and wildness, although nobody would argue that it was faster.

I shot through the still-sleeping town of Saranac Lake, on the road to Lake Placid to load up on Dunkin Donuts for my morning’s work back at SmartPig. By the time I had finished a cruller, two jellies, a maple frosted, and a chocolate glazed, I had a small pile of eye-catching fliers including tearoffs with the number of my newest burner phone and an email address that would bounce to my permanent email account. I had sent similar messages to all of the emails that I could glean from the Upper Saranac Lake Association (USLA) website links/contact
s/about/blogs/Facebook branching, asking for information and/or pictures from the summer of 1958 on/around Upper Saranac Lake for a book that I was (
not actually
) working on. I was certain enough that I had sent out enough informational ‘squeaks’ that I would start getting returns quite quickly (
even though I hadn’t used Dee Crocker’s name
). I also put out feelers to a contact at the Adirondack Museum (
in Blue Mountain Lake
), asking for a good time to drive down and put in some serious time in their archives.

I fed the beasties in my saltwater tank, took a washcloth-bath in the sink and changed into some clean/presentable clothes. I tossed a few cookies at Hope (
who had gone to sleep on the couch within moments of our walking in
), and headed downstairs to see about car-topping my canoe on the Porsche (
it seemed like a bad idea, with the only possible arguments in its favor being that the canoe was carbon fiber and tough as nails, and the car wasn’t mine
).

Hor
nbeck boats are built in the Adirondacks by Peter Hornbeck, and mine was a Blackjack 12’, made entirely from carbon fiber, and weighing a few grams under thirteen pounds. I loved it because it was light and fast and tough, and because I didn’t have to treat it gently. I have carried mine for miles along trails in the woods to explore ponds that may never have been paddled before, and also bashed it mercilessly on stretches of the Hudson and Moose rivers. I was anticipating a need that would call on a number of its strengths at some point in the next week or so, when I gently put a foam sleeping pad on the roof of the Porsche, balanced the boat on the roof, ran one strap through both doors, and tied the bow/stern to attachment points under the front and rear bumpers. It was relatively secure, and I was certain it would be fine as long as I kept my speed under control. I also put a lightweight 2-piece paddle into the car.

I drove back out to Upper Saranac Lake, via routes 86 and 186 and 30 this time, to minimize twists and turns, although I felt strangely exposed on this busy series of summer-busy roads. My first stop was at the boat launch at the north end of the lake, to stick up some of my fliers in various places where locals and summer people would likely see them. There were some fishermen running huge and shiny boats into the water who didn’t pay any attention to my activities; a number of people walking their dogs along what must be an accustomed route swerved over to look at the fliers I’d stuck up on the board, and followed me with their eyes when I drove down the lake towards my next stop … something cool and unfriendly/unhappy in their eyes and stances (
except for the golden retrievers, who are always friendly and happy
).

Next, I went past the turn-off for the Crockers, cruising by the wooden sign that Dorothy had classified as ‘slightly precious’ when we had pulled in the day before (
a hand-painted illustration of a sailboat with a gang of barefoot children rigging a topsail
). I gently followed the curves and hills and dips along the road that followed the contours of the lake, mindful of the canoe on the roof of my borrowed Porsche. The public campground at Fish Creek had a steady flow of people passing in and out of the gates in their Winnebagoes (
a number of bumps down the scale from a great camp, but still a nice way/place to spend the summer
), which slowed the traffic enough that I didn’t need to brake to turn left and into Donaldson’s once I crossed the bridge.

Donaldson’s is a general store and gas station and ice-cream parlor and coffee-shop that serves as an anchor point for much of what goes on midway down the length of Upper Saranac Lake, between the fancy camps at the north end and the fancy camps at the southern end. They own a sizable chunk of waterfront parcels that can be leased for terms ranging from seasonal to 100 years (
another couple of points along the continuum between great camps and my style of Adirondack living, homeless and hanging from a pair of trees most nights
). The feeling was different here than at the north end of the lake. The Porsche and Hornbeck got more notice … from year-rounders who resented moneyed ‘summer people’ and from other summer people who weren’t driving Porsches and paddling carbon fiber canoes (
nothing new in the Adirondacks, but since I was on the clock, I tried to pay more attention to how people paid attention to me
).

“Lost yer dog, young man?” I heard a voice behind me ask; to get to the bulletin-board, I’d waded through a sea of working locals, not working at the moment (
single-color outfits in blue or green, stained with grease and paint and dirt, drinking coffee and/or smoking away a small chunk of morning with other workmen or handymen or caretakers or contractors before getting back to work, likely at a camp like Topsail
). The tone and phrasing sounded deferential and polite, but Barry’s appearance from around the corner of the building led me to suspect otherwise.

“Nope, I’m doing some research, hoping to write a book.” I hoped that would be enough to let me walk away, allowing the signs to speak for me (
as I’d always prefer to do … I dislike initiating conversations about potentially stressful topics with people that I know, much less those I don’t know
). Barry shook his head and chuckled ruefully at me.

“Photographs and stories wanted about summer life on Upper Saranac Lake during the late 1950s.” The guy who had asked about my dog read off of my flyer, tearing the whole thing down and walking back towards the group he had been with before, picking up his coffee for a swig before continuing.

“Shit. You wanna know about Dee Crocker.” Seven words. He said only seven words, but the effect was startling. All of the men in his circle sat up a bit straighter and took a look at me. A few of the younger ones looked back to him with questions in their eyes.

“The girl that disappeared summer of ‘58. Tough for the family. Tough for everyone working on the lake
, too,” he said, by way of explanation. There was some aggression or anger underlying the words that seemed to interest Barry and he began to circle closer.

“Yes, I’m interested in Deirdre Crocker. Why? Do you know something that could help me?” I asked.

“Help you what? Upset things between summer and winter people again? Not like you’re gonna find the girl. Not after all this time,” he replied.

“I’m trying to find out what happened. Why is that a problem for you?” I asked, at which Barry grinned and limbered up his shoulders, as if anticipating a fight or something similar.

“Tyler, you are a dumb ass. The old man was ten seconds from just sitting down and grumbling about you after you left. Now that you challenged him in front of his boys, he’s gotta take you on, or he loses,” Barry said.

“Lose what?” I asked before remembering that I was facing a group of grumpy handymen, none of whom could see or hear Barry; it actually worked in my favor a bit … the old guy facing me paused a moment, trying to squeeze some relevant meaning out of what I had just said, apparently to him.

“Wha? Huh? Yah, it’s a problem for me. Lots of things changed around the time the girl vanished. The way things worked around the lake, at the camps, it all changed. Took years, more, to get right again. Last thing we need is someone fucking around with things now. She’s dead. Been dead almost my whole life I reckon. Leave it alone. It’s a nice day, go take a ride in your fancy car.”

My whole life I’ve been too emotionally flat for most people, it creeps them out when I don’t react to provocation; today though, I could feel something bubbling inside me, and then spilling out of my mouth before I could assess it. “I’m looking for information and photos from the summers at the end of the 1950s, and I’ll find them with or without the help of the green chino brigade. Once I get what I need, I’m going to find out what happened to Deirdre Crocker, and I’ll post a sign about that up here as well. Problems, old-timer?” I could feel a shake in my voice, as well as in my arms and legs, so I started moving, direction not important. I found myself in front of the bulletin-board again, so I avoided a silly about face by tacking up another of my fliers, a replacement for the one the old man had crumpled in his fist and dropped to the ground by his chair by the time I started back to the 993.

“If anyone’s gonna do anything, it’ll be in the next three, two, one, you’re clear, Tyler,” Barry said, when I had passed through the cloud of men sitting quietly/awkwardly in the silent bubble of anger and resentment that we, the old man and I, had created in the circle of tree-stump stools by the bulletin-board at Donaldson’s.

I felt stupid and hot and shaky as I drove away, back northwards and away from the parking lot. I don’t get mad or lose my temper or act stupidly/impulsively in the heat of the moment … my moments are generally very cool. That being said, I had done exactly that back at Donaldson’s, and it upset me. I don’t like change or the unknown in my world, and here was change and unknown within my person. Feeling a stranger’s reactions to stress
was off-putting and scary, it made me question all of the stuff that I was happy to take for granted about myself.

I felt the canoe rumble and shake a bit on the roof of the 993, and noted that I was cruising at 72 miles per hour; I dropped the speed to a more reasonable (
and numerologically pleasing
) 47 and continued until the right hand turnoff for Moss Rock Road. Moss Rock Road is a looping road that exists only to bring summer people out to their camps on Upper Saranac Lake, but to get them there, it must cross about 500 yards of State Forest Preserve; it was this land in which I was interested.

I pulled the 993 over to the left hand side of the road, flashers on, and shut it down 100 yards from the first driveway on that side. Quickly untying the front and back lines, then the strap securing my Hornbeck canoe to the Porsche, I lifted the boat up and off the roof and jogged into the woods with it. I put the canoe down and then went back for the paddle and other gear I’d stowed in the car, hiding it all behind a fallen white pine about 30 feet into the woods (
further than people were likely to look/wander
). I ran back to ‘my’ car, rolled the sleeping pad up, stowed it and the straps in the backseat (
such as it is in a Porsche
) and drove back to Moss Rock Road to Route 30 again, turning right and driving back almost exactly a mile to the Crocker’s driveway, and down into Topsail.

The Subaru was already (
still?
) gone from the parking lot (
the trip that I had mentioned from Jones to Osgood ponds, I wondered?),
and there were no other signs of life as I stepped out of Mike Crocker’s beloved car, and soaked in the peace and quiet, a welcome change after my busy morning. I made my way to the main lodge, certain of finding someone there, not caring too much who it was, as my needs were simple in this case. There was a bell hanging at the top of the stairs, outside of the great room, and I rang it to no discernible effect. After ringing again, then knocking on the doorframe, and finally calling out a decent ‘hello,’ I waited another minute before I walked into the room with the huge dining table, empty; there were a number of juice and hot beverage carafes on the table, glasses and mugs, along with a wood-handled silver bell. I poured myself a glass of cranberry juice, rang the bell, and waited.

A young woman that Mrs. Crocker had referred to as ‘Sarah,’ who had been helping shuttle food and drinks and plates and bowls in and out during lunch yesterday
, came out through the swinging door that led back to the kitchen and pantry and, eventually, to Mrs. Crocker’s suite. If she was surprised to see me sitting alone at the table, she didn’t show it; I’m pretty sure that no cook’s assistant or serving girl ever got a Christmas bonus for exhibiting surprise at what they saw while working for their wealthy employers.

“Yes, Mr. Cunningham? Can I get you something from the kitchen?” she asked.