Spider Lake (17 page)

He walked past Ben’s Tavern, where his father used to bring him when he felt like having a beer or two. Ben the owner would give him a seven-up and dimes for the bowling game near the entrance and he would play while his father talked with the bartender.

Up the street a few doors down and on the other side of the street was the Nerroth’s Spot Light, where Matt and he had traded returned pop bottles for penny candy. Ben could picture old Mister Nerroth who always had a cigar in his mouth, sometimes lit but often not, haggling and acting as if he didn’t trust you. The store looked the same on the outside, only older, dirty and unkept, and boarded up. The memories were coming back in a flood with the sight of the place. The road was still virtually deserted. He walked down the center of the street back to where his motorcycle was parked.

He climbed back up on the saddle, started the machine, and headed to where Crystal Lake Road and Spider Lake Road intersected. He turned up the road where he had spent so many years as a boy. The lake was about a mile and a half away, and he remembered it could only be seen in one place from the pavement where a narrow, swampy clearing of no more than twenty feet reached almost to the road. He knew he would not pass by without seeing it.

 
The road itself held no familiarity at all. Around every curve in the road, Ben expected to see the driveway of his boyhood home; and when he finally arrived at the location, he did almost pass it by. The sign that he had hoped would still be there, was. It was freshly painted with the same script lettering— Welcome to Spider Lake Resort. And below that, the old neon addition which randomly blinked off and on the word “no“ and continuously lit the word “vacancy.”

Ben paused in the street with his motorcycle idling, hesitating to go in, wondering if it would be a disappointment to see the old place. He thought about turning around, heading to the nearest interstate, and making a getaway as fast as he could in the direction of home. He was picturing his old yellow Labrador running around the clearing. He imagined seeing the monkey swinging on the wire which ran to the pole holding the clearing’s overhead light. He could see and almost hear his mom and dad giving a cocktail party in the screen porch. He willed himself to enter the driveway. He was overwhelmed with emotion as he rolled down it to the clearing and, to his surprise, the place looked exactly as he remembered it.

It was still fairly early, maybe nine o’clock in the morning. Ben decided to park very close to the driveway entrance on the opposite side of the clearing as the main house. He didn’t want to make a lot of noise or disturb the paying guests with the sound of his bike. Some of them would still be sleeping. He climbed off the bike and removed his leather riding gear, draping it across the motorcycle seat.

He could smell bacon frying. He looked at the vehicles which were parked in the individual driveways attached to each cabin. He thought that there must be a vintage car rally in town, because all the vehicles looked old, and many of them had fins. It was strange to see the old loads all covered with dust. Usually the owners of antique cars kept them spotlessly clean. He walked toward the main house where the green routed sign still hung, informing guests of its dual purpose, office and private residence, depending on the hour of day.

He was about halfway across the clearing, very near the light pole when he heard his mother call him.

“Ben, I want you to eat some breakfast before you go out. You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Ben froze in his tracks. His mouth went completely dry. He suddenly felt dizzy. He thought he would surely faint. He sat down in the grass, half thinking that it would be very smart to do so, and half by an involuntary loss of motor control. With his arms behind him and supporting him in the freshly cut grass, he turned his gaze back to the driveway entrance half expecting to see that his motorcycle would be gone, replaced by a Schwinn Stingray, but there the motorcycle stood, complete with the leathers draped over the seat.

He assumed that his mind had just played a royal mind trick on him. He thought it would not be wise to lay down in the clearing even though he wanted very badly to do so. What would it look like to the owner to see a strange white-haired guy laying in the grass? Still, he needed to stay where he was. He knew if he tried to get up, he would just fall back down. Was he having a stroke? He looked again in the direction of the main house. He could still smell the aroma of maple bacon frying. Then, from behind the house, came his old Labrador retriever, running at full bore with Morris the monkey riding bare-back, holding in one hand the scruff of Bo’s neck, and the other slapping the dog’s backside prodding him to run even faster. It was just the scene to fully knock Ben into a horizontal position.

He laid there, looking up at the sky and the clouds. Watching them drift slowly by, changing shapes as they went. One of them looked like a pirate ship. Ooh, that one looks like a giraffe. He heard the sound of footsteps coming his way. Was it one set of footsteps or two? He couldn’t tell. He thought it was probably just one. He tried to move, but his limbs would not respond. He felt paralyzed. Then his father came into his peripheral view looking down at him, his head and shoulders framed by the sky and the clouds. He didn’t speak immediately. He just stood there with a thoughtful expression. Finally, after a minute he spoke: “Wait for number four Ben.”

His father turned his gaze to the direction of the lake, facing into the wind. Ben noticed his hair was dark brown. The mild breeze rustled the brown locks of his father’s hair and riffled his plaid shirt. He looked like he was in his mid thirties. Ben wanted very badly to get up and hug him. His father looked back down and said, “Wait for four Ben. Do you understand?”

Ben wanted to answer, but he still felt paralyzed. When he tried to speak, his words were garbled. He shut his eyes.

Then he opened them and looked around. The tent fabric was moving slightly in the gentle morning breeze. It was light out, and he could hear voices. He smelled bacon frying. The sound that knobby tires make on gravel went by from his right to his left. He could hear children. His phone was chiming, informing him that he had messages waiting. He sat up rubbing his eyes. He looked at the smart-screen of his phone which was propped up, half out of his shoe. It read nine-twenty-three. He realized he had been dreaming.

att woke up that early morning with a beautiful idea rattling around in his adolescent head. He could barely contain his excitement. He got up quickly, put on a striped pair of shorts and a tee shirt and flew down the stairs to the kitchen. His mother left him a note as she always did, detailing what he should do that day in the way of chores, what he should eat, and most importantly, what he should keep his grubby mitts off under penalty of death.

Matt’s father had bolted when he was still very young, and his mother had to pick up the slack, working two jobs just to make ends meet. Since his father left home, Matt could count on one hand how many times he had seen the guy, and there was no real affection whatsoever between the two. Matt read the note, and followed his mother’s orders to a tee. He didn’t want to contribute in any way to her already difficult life, so he always did what she asked of him. He ate a couple of frosted pop tarts, washed the previous night’s dishes, and straightened his room.

He didn’t linger at the house after finishing his mother’s list. He was too exited to waste any time. Once aboard his gold sting-ray, he would ride as fast as he could the mile and a half to Ben’s place. His friend would no-doubt love his idea. Ben always took his ideas and made them bigger. Ben was kind of like the brains of the outfit, having the extra imagination to make simple ideas into works of art. Matt was sure that Ben would be gung-ho on this one, and Matt could hardly wait to spring it on him.

He rolled past the Spot-Lite waving to Mister Nerroth who was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store. Nerroth acknowledged Matt by waving back, and then continued gesturing with the same hand for Matt to stop and buy something with a “Come here.” gesture. Matt kept on rolling past the cigar-mouthed Nerroth though, and when the old man realized that Matt was not stopping, he sent the third and final signal that indicated “Alright, you’re not stopping, who cares!” Matt thought about the old guy communicating three things with one hand without ever having to say a word. The old guy was sure expressive.

Matt could still smell the cigar as he skidded into the left turn onto Spider Lake road. He fancied himself as a north-woods version of Charlton Heston in the chariot race in the movie Ben Hur. There wouldn’t be much that could slow him down this morning. The draw of the Spot-Lite was very strong and he knew if he could resist that strong force, he could resist pretty much anything. He stood up on his bike, applying as much energy as he could to his pop-tart fueled legs. He might make it in record time this time.

Ben was just finishing up tending to his customers when Matt rolled up. Matt always braked neatly with his fancy hand brakes and stick-shift on his three-speed lime-green
 
stingray, being careful to put the kickstand down before he climbed off his bike. This time Matt did a kind of Audie Murphy move, and jumped off the shiny machine while it was still rolling. The stingray continued on about ten feet or so before the centrifugal force gave way to gravity, crashing the bike in spectacular fashion. It was funny to Ben when kids dismounted that way, and he couldn’t help imagining that the bikes were alive and wounded, falling dead from some unseen arrow or bullet. Only the kids with old bikes dismounted that way, and Ben guessed correctly that Matt was excited.

“Ben, I’ve got an idea!”

“I guess you do. You’re in luck. The bike hit the grass and not the gravel.”

Matt looked over at his fallen bike for just a second before continuing.

“I have a plan that would fix the monkey.”

There was an imaginary kick-start in Ben’s brain and it just started the auxiliary engine. His internal wheels were beginning to turn. “Hold on Matt. I just have to put a couple of things away. You can tell me about it in a minute.”

Ben was wondering what his friend had thought of. It was a good idea, getting even with the hairy little fur ball. No doubt it was about time to get some revenge. He had been trying himself to figure a way to get back at the nasty creature. He just wanted to stall Matt a minute, buy enough time so he could think of something of his own. He wouldn’t grab the glory, or take any credit for the idea. He would just nudge it along and give Matt the kudos. He couldn’t hold his friend off any longer. He stopped what he was doing and gave his friend his full attention.

“Okay Matt. I love the idea. Whatcha got in mind?”

“Hot sauce.”

“You mean you rolled your bike all this way to tell me you want to give the monkey hot sauce?”

Ben could see that he had just offended his friend, so he backed off on his last comment. He touched his jaw pretending he was deep in thought. Jack Benny always touched his jaw on TV when he was thinking. “Now that I think of it Matt, it sounds like a pretty good idea. Let me think about it a minute.”

Matt was very interested in what his friend was cooking up. He liked the way Ben thought. He was a natural for upping the ante when they were planning something. The two of them had a lot of fun when they put their heads together. Ben finally snapped his fingers, signaling that an idea had come. He actually had the idea several minutes before, when Matt suggested getting back at the monkey, but he kept it to himself to stretch out the dramatic effect. It was no use wasting the suspense, just to save a few minutes of time.

”I say we fix the monkey and raid the girl scout camp at the same time.”

The delay had the effect Ben was looking for. Matt was beaming at the thought of fixing the monkey and the girl scouts in one stroke. Matt might have thought of it himself, given enough time, but ideas kind of take on a life of their own, coming out when they are good and ready. The time was right for the two boys to go on the offensive, all that needed to be done was some careful planning.

“How do you plan on doing it?”

“I’m not sure. Morris is pretty smart. I say we try to introduce Morris to the girl scouts.”

“How in the world do we do that Ben?”

“We have to break it all down into parts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we know we have to bring Morris to the camp right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s one part. We also know we have to quiet down the monkey. He will be shrieking his fool head off if we have him trapped.”

The two of them slowed down considerably now that they were sorting the impossible thing in their heads. They both sat and thought about the various aspects of the master plan. They broke it down into parts, just as Ben suggested they should. They thought of the many ways they could make the thing happen, making frequent trips to the Rhinelander library to learn all they could about White-headed Capuchins and over the counter sleeping aids.