The Way Back from Broken (11 page)

“There's a lot to do here. Rakmen will take you later.”

He very much doubted that.

Jacey let out a huffy whine.

The muscle in Leah's cheek tightened. “Give me a break, Jacey, I can't do everything.”

“You don't do anything but lie around and cry.”

“I am doing my best.”

“You'd take Jordan.” Jacey lobbed the words like a grenade.

Rakmen had the sensation that Leah's bones were giving way like buckled drywall and snapped girders. She set her cereal bowl on the counter with a thunk and walked into the bedroom.

Rakmen was on his feet before the door shut. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Jacey by the arm. Between the very loose hold Leah seemed to have on herself and the prickly sensation that the dead were watching, he couldn't stay in the cabin another second.

“I want to go home,” said Jacey as she let him tug her out the door.

If only he could make that happen.

“Why'd you have to talk about the baby?” he asked, when they'd circled around to the front of the cabin.

Jacey bared her teeth at him. “He's my brother! I can talk about him if I want.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't do any good.”

“It's called remembering,” she snapped, picking up a pinecone and hurling it into the lake.

“I'm not picking a fight with you,” said Rakmen, picking up more cones and handing them to her. “But dead is dead.”

“What if they're up there in heaven or something, looking down and thinking we forgot about them?”

A sludgy wave of pain rose in Rakmen's chest. As if forgetting were possible. He wished he hadn't eaten breakfast. “I'm saying that it upsets your mom.”

Jacey threw the rest of the pinecones. When her ammunition was expended, she pointed to the shed attached to one side of the cabin. “Let's go explore that shed.”

“It's probably full of wood,” he said, but shrugged and followed her. Nothing else to do but count logs.

The morning sun sliced yellow fingers through the big trees around the cabin, and steam twisted up from the ground. The shed tilted ominously toward the water. Jacey pulled on the mildew-spotted tarp covering the doorway until the bungee cords holding it broke loose. She fell backward, ending up half-buried in the stinky plastic.

“This is so gross,” she complained, “Get me out of here.”

Rakmen ignored her and stared into the dim interior. Surrounded by piles of stacked firewood was a boat, upside-down on a pair of sawhorses. He whistled through his teeth; a long, low hiss of appreciation. Even a city kid who knew jack about boats knew this was something special. Under a buttery layer of lacquer, the honey-colored wood of the hull glowed. Leaving Jacey to extricate herself, he skirted the stacks of wood and ran his finger over the smooth surface of its hull. “This boat is probably worth more than the whole cabin.”

“It's a canoe,” Jacey said, coming up beside him.

“Uh-huh . . . a canoe,” he repeated, mesmerized by its graceful shape and the way the wood almost seemed alive.

Jacey got on her hands and knees and crawled under the canoe. “It's chained.”

Rakmen squatted in the sawdust. Thin boards braced the inside of the canoe like ribs, and a crosspiece spanned the center. He tried lifting it off the sawhorses. A chain, looped around the boat's crosspiece and connected to an eye bolt screwed into the floor of the shed, rattled hoarsely.

Great-uncle Leroy was not as insane as he seemed. His cabin might be the biggest pile of crap Rakmen had ever seen, but he was safeguarding the best thing for miles around.

“Let's find the key,” Rakmen suggested.

They tiptoed into the cabin. Leah was still in her room, and they were able to search without being seen. Behind the front door and near the pile of aged magazines, they found a hook on the wall. A key chain sporting a real scorpion encased in yellowed resin hung there. The single key was so old that the teeth were worn as smooth as beachside pebbles.

Jacey snatched it off the hook and tore her way back to the canoe, scrabbling under it with the scorpion in her teeth. The chain gave a deep rattle as she pulled it loose. She crawled out, spitting dust, and together they turned the canoe right side up.

“Let's carry it down to the water,” Rakmen said, and bent to grasp the triangular, wooden piece set in his end of the canoe.

Jacey reached for her side, and then jumped back, squealing. A dime-sized spider clung to sheets of silk in the hollow at her end of the canoe.

“Come on,” he said, exasperated.

The spider scurried to the other side of its web.

“Get it out.”

“You get it out,” he said.

Jacey sucked on her hair.

“Fine.” Rakmen headed to her end of the canoe armed with a stick of kindling.

“Wait!” Jacey screeched, as he started to jab at the spider. She pulled the pink camera out of her pocket. “Take a picture first?”

“You want a picture of the spider?”

She nodded.

“Well, go ahead,” he said, leaning back against the post of the shed. “I guess it's not any weirder than taking pictures of moose poop.”

She shook her head violently.

“I thought you wanted a picture.”

“Can you do it?”

He sighed. “Give it here.”

Rakmen switched the camera to macro and leaned in close. Every hair on the spider's body stood out like brush bristles. Eight eyes, various sizes, shone like black pearls. Shiny fangs hung low between its front legs. He took a handful of pictures and then handed Jacey the camera.

“Put this inside the cabin and grab those life jackets your mom brought, okay?”

She wobbled off, scanning through the pictures as she went.

Rakmen used the stick to relocate the spider. As he was brushing out its web, his fingers grazed a tiny strip of weathered bronze screwed into the inside edge of the canoe. He felt his skin catch on something engraved upon the metal. He squinted at the tarnished letters in old-fashioned cursive.

Au large.

Rakmen breathed in swamp muck and rotting wood and stared at the words on the metal plate. They made him nervous. Like the owl in the night, they meant something, but he didn't know what.

Or whether that something was good or bad.

Au large.

Probably bad.

CHAPTER 14

Together they hauled the canoe to the edge of the water and slid it alongside a fallen log, gray with age, which bridged the muck and extended into deeper water. Balancing on the log, Rakmen guided the canoe out.

“Hold this while I get in.”

“What if we flip?” Jacey asked.

Rakmen squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The musty smell of the Promise House basement filled his nose, and headlines from his notebook flashed through his mind.
Boy, seven, drowns in Clackamas River. Coast Guard calls off search for survivors of fishing boat
. “Put on your life jacket.”

He tightened the blaze orange contraption around his own chest and lowered himself onto the front seat. Jacey balanced-beamed along the log. When she stepped in, the canoe wobbled wildly from side to side. Yelping, she plumped down on the rear seat. A bullfrog let loose a flatulent ribbit and slid under the surface, straight into the brown ooze, and they both white-knuckled the sides until the rocking ceased.

For the first ten feet, Rakmen used the paddle like a pole and shoved them forward. Stink rose from the rotting stuff at the bottom in bubbly explosions, but after a few more pushes, they slid out of the lily pads into deeper water.

Rakmen put his paddle in a stranglehold and reached forward with it. After a few strokes, the canoe veered off to the right. He switched sides, sending water drops in an arc above him. After another minute, they veered drastically the other way, and his arms hurt.

“People do this for fun?” he muttered, rubbing his arms.

Behind him, Jacey continued beating the water with her paddle. The canoe revolved a full three-sixty. This was worse than learning to drive a stick shift. While they fishtailed in slick zig-zags across the water, a breeze caught the canoe and blew them halfway across the main body of the lake. Each gust brought a new smell—pine pitch, wet earth, something spicy like cloves—and carried them toward the cabin with the tongue-like dock.

No matter how Rakmen paddled, the canoe shimmied erratically across the surface. He wanted to turn around and get back to shore, but waves sloshed against the sides of the canoe, pushing them along.

Looking up to gauge the distance to the dock, Rakmen saw a stout, gray-haired woman in jeans and a red sweatshirt emerge from the tongue house and walk down the steps to the dock. Again, Rakmen tried to control the direction of the canoe, paddling first on one side and then the other. Nothing he did changed their course.

Panic swirled through him. If they crashed into that dock, they'd flip for sure.

“Hey, kids!” the old woman yelled. “What do you think you're doing? Stop paddling.” She crouched on the warped dock with more grace than Rakmen expected and caught the bow of the canoe before impact.

“Get up here,” she growled, sliding the canoe parallel with the dock.

Jacey clambered out, and Rakmen followed. The woman nodded to him, indicating he should take one end of the canoe. “Let's pull it up on the dock so the waves don't damage Leroy's precious canoe.”

That done, she sat heavily on a metal lawn chair with frayed nylon straps and scrutinized them. Her eyes glittered deep in a leathery face. Rakmen took a step back, feeling like a worm about to be snapped up. The end of the dock was at his heels. Jacey squeezed in close. The nylon of her life jacket swished against his side.

The old woman's eyes flicked to Jacey. “Quit chewing on your hair,” she said. “Leroy said you had manners.” Jacey gaped at her. “And close your mouth. You,” she said, rounding on Rakmen, “are in the wrong damn place.”

“Um . . .” Rakmen floundered for words. “You mean, like, trespassing?”

She laced her fingers together, flipped them around palm out, and pressed forward until her knuckles gave a staccato series of cracks. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, like, um . . . in like . . . the canoe.” Rakmen's eyes narrowed, but before he could think of a comeback, she unlaced her fingers. “Neither of you has a clue what you are doing.”

No good comeback for that either. It was true.

“Does Leroy know you stole his best canoe?” she asked, peering at them.

Rakmen stiffened. “I didn't steal it.”

“He told us to come here and have a good time,” said Jacey, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet, “so I figure he meant the canoe too. Keeps me out of the leeches.”

At that the old woman leaned back in her chair and chuckled. “You're a funny one. I'm Edna Brackton, and I'm guessing you're Miss Jacey Tatlas.”

“Yup.”

“Leroy said you'd keep me on my toes.”

Jacey squinted at her. “But you're sitting down.”

Edna laughed again and spit off the side of the dock. “Who's the tall guy?” Rakmen wondered what Leroy would have to say about her manners.

Jacey grinned. “Rakmen.”

Edna snorted. “Rock Man? That's a weird name.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

She squint-eyed him. “Well, whatever, I'm going to teach you how to paddle. This canoe,” she said, stroking its graceful curves with one finger, “deserves better.”

Her gibe reverberated in his head, as if she could see right through him and already found him lacking. From the trees behind Edna's cabin, a bird burst into an exuberant, rising trill. Edna whistled back. Instantly, the bird responded.

“You talk bird,” said Jacey. “That's so cool.”

Edna flashed her a smile, and not a sarcastic one either. “White-throated sparrow.”

Jacey nudged him. “Write it down.”

Edna waited for him to do something.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” she mimicked.

“Alright,” he said to Jacey, pulling out the notebook and pencil.
White-throated sparrow.
“Now let's go.”

“No. I wanna stay. She talks to birds!” Jacey said in a whisper half the lake could hear.

“Smart girl,” said Edna, derailing his exit strategy, “Let's turn you into a paddler your Great-uncle Leroy won't disown. Put the canoe in the water,” Edna commanded, pointing at him. He glared at her. She smiled back placidly.

Jacey tugged on his elbow. “Come on,” she pleaded. “I want to know how to do it right.”

“I'm not gonna say please,” said Edna, “if that's what you're waiting for. Either you want to know how to paddle right or you don't.”

Rakmen looked away from her. It was a long way back. He and Jacey had only ended up here because of the breeze, which was still blowing in the wrong direction. Between Edna's dock and the cabin were a hundred opportunities to drown.

With Jacey's help, he lowered the canoe into the water.

Edna presided from the lawn chair. “Hold the gunnel. That's what we call the edge of the canoe.”

Rakmen curled his hands around the raised rim of the boat.

“First you have to know front from back,” said Edna. “Look at the seats.”

The two seats bolted under the gunnels were made of woven cane strips in a wooden frame. One was mounted only a few feet from the pointy end of the canoe. The other was much closer to the wooden bar in the middle of the boat.

“That's the bow,” said Edna, pointing to the one with plenty of space. “The front. The lightest person sits there. The rear end is called the stern. That's where you sit,” she said to Rakmen. “Get in,” she said to Jacey, who hop-stepped into the front of the canoe, sending it into a dangerous tilt.

“Weight in the middle,” Edna snapped. Jacey crouched. “Rock Man, put your hands on the dock and support yourself while you slide your butt into the middle. Keep your weight low.”