Twisted Creek

Chapter 11

On Friday, business hit us before Nana and I finished breakfast. The first customer was a shy lady, from directly across the lake, who wanted to know if we had any tulip bulbs. I promised to put in a special order with Micki for next Thursday and she seemed tickled.

Next came a couple dressed in business suits. Paul and Lillian Madison. She looked bored, but he seemed friendly enough. He bought fishing magazines and canned soup; she asked if we carried wine. I didn’t have time to talk to them, but I got the feeling they were part of the weekend trade. Both looked like their hands fit briefcase handles far more comfortably than fishing poles.

I’d sold bait, drinks, and several bags of chips by nine and Nana made twenty bucks with her biscuits and fried pies. By eleven, people began asking if we sold sack lunches. Nana enlisted Luke to help her make ham sandwiches, and I watched a dozen lunches go out the door within an hour.

Mid-afternoon Willie Dowman dropped by to tell us Mrs. Eleanora Deals planned to come to the café for dinner Sunday night if we were serving.

“A meal?” I asked, startled that anyone would even ask.

Willie nodded. “Jefferson tried to serve Sunday dinner a few times a month in the winter. Course, the last few years it was little more than tomato soup and crackers, but we all came if we could.”

I glanced at Nana and she smiled. “I’m making catfish gumbo and cornbread. Tell her she’s welcome.”

Willie picked up his order. The last two fried pies. “I’ll be coming about the same time Sunday night. She’ll want me to pick her up in the boat and cross over the water, but Mrs. Deals likes to eat alone, so we’ll be needing separate tables.”

I followed him out to his boat. “Did Jefferson really serve dinner in the café?”

Willie shook his head. “In truth, not often, but he must have planned to at one time or he wouldn’t have ordered the chairs and tables. I don’t think he ever served anything but drinks and ice cream in the summer, but he had this idea a Sunday meal would be nice in the winter. It would get us together to check on each other and I think he thought the profit would help carry him through the winter.” Willie climbed into his boat, then turned and reached his hand out to catch my arm. For a moment he just held it, then he patted lightly. “Jefferson told us all that you might make it a weekly event.”

“He did?” I tried not to pull away or act relieved when he finally let go of me.

“Yep. Said you were talented in everything you tried. He was sure proud of your art. Told me once you won a contest in school.”

In high school, I thought. How could Jefferson Platt know about that?

Willie motored off with me standing, openmouthed. All I’d have had to do was flop around a little to look like a docked fish.

Up until now, I’d thought Jefferson Platt had made a mistake and named the wrong person. I’d thought our days at the lake were numbered and we’d be packing the van soon.

But he knew me. A man I’d never even heard of had somehow kept up with me enough to know I had won a drawing contest once.

Before I had time to reason out my inheritance, I noticed Luke sitting at the end of the dock. He stared at a man in a rowboat a few hundred yards away.

I walked up beside Luke and took a seat. In a strange way, this lake bum and I were becoming friends. For a while I just dangled my legs in the water and we watched the young man in the boat. I thought of the way Willie touched me, patting my arm. It didn’t seem at all perverted, but I guess he had to start somewhere. In truth, I wouldn’t have thought a thing about the touch if Micki hadn’t said what she did about Willie.

I relaxed, enjoying the first break I’d had all morning. I joined Luke in his pursuit of staring.

“He’s not fishing,” I finally said, pointing to the man in the row boat. “I don’t see a pole.”

Luke looked at me as if he hadn’t realized I was there.

I quickly turned away from his blue eyes. I could so get lost in those eyes if he were normal. He had a great body and thick brown hair, but something about a man who races the moon every night made him not my type.

I turned back to the guy in the boat, needing to redirect my thoughts. From this distance he looked young, early twenties, I’d guess, and thin as he huddled in the center of the boat. He would have noticed us if he’d looked up, but he just stared down at the water.

“What do you think he’s doing out there?” I didn’t expect an answer. I was just voicing my thoughts. “He has no pole, no coat or hat against the sun and weather. His oars aren’t even in the water so he doesn’t seem to have any plan other than to drift.” I almost added that he was a strange duck, but I seemed to be in the middle of the flock.

Luke stood. As he turned to go, he said in a low, sad voice, “He’s trying to decide whether to fall in or not.”

I looked back at the young man without asking Luke what he meant. I knew.

That night when the house was quiet, I reached for the ledger and drew my next sketch. A thin man huddled against the wind off the water. A man drifting between life and death.