Spleeny

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Through the fog mull the light flickered, taunting across the half-mile river we called a lake. All else a sheet of gray, with that pinprick of light. Cussid shack no small bother for me.

I’d spent the day getting ready for the family reunion, sorting through waterlogged safety vests, dragging the kayaks from the garage down the hill, slapping mosquitos. Damn kayaks tapping me to walk faster ‘cross the rain soaked grass, left a few bruises for my trouble, them still reeking of rot the way only things filled with lake water can. Last thing I wanted was to get in one and row myself out to the islet, though that tiny candle meant the possibility of the woods burning again.

Even in this wet weather, teeming the last few nights, I knew the state of the cabin. Five years of dejection after that crone had disappeared, leaving a lifetime of collected nonsense. Worth more in her life, nothing more than kindling just waiting for a spark now. Or a fallen candle.

For hours since the sun had set, I’d told myself one of those relations had come back and was using candles because they didn’t turn the electric back on. Since they’re all city folk, they hadn’t thought to bring a decent flashlight or lantern.

Truth was, though, I hadn’t seen or heard a boat head out there. Other than the loons there hadn’t been a single sound of life on the lake all day. All week? There’d been the paper delivery, Missy, in her stoved up pick up, chatting about the ‘do down at the library community center. Another bean pot or lobster bake. Always trying to get me to drive down street, that one. I make my monthly culch deposit. Had just made the first of my two yearly visits to the churchyard. Other than the grocery, there’s no one left that remembers what I remember. No point heading anywhere but here.

Have more to talk about with those loons nowadays.

But the kids had been bugging me about selling, and I recalled the talk when we bought this house, the price had dropped so affordably low because the view was marred by that black stain on the river. Hadn’t bothered me much, but as the trees grew back I could see what we’d been missing.

Problem, as I see it, no one’s ever willing to give things a chance to grow back. No one’s curious to see how things can change.

So I reckoned that candle could end up costing my kids, and hell if I weren’t just too interested and maybe a bit punchy, looking to tell someone what’s what for that little holm. Leaving a candle burning all night. Flatlanders.

Dug the little doohickey the kids had picked up last year from Beans, cunning pole with a light on the top. So many things made to improve the lives of so few people. Long wagging tail they called it. Something like that. Still makes me chuckle.

Grandkids still young enough to fear walking out to the dock in the dark. I’d been looking forward to getting each of them alone, walk with me and listen to the frogs. Important to teach ‘em they don’t need to fear the dark or the sounds. Listen to the loons.

I may have been hoping for another scream from the little one. I’m no monster, but there’s something about bringing a kid back from the brink that makes you feel like you’ve done something good with your life. They need to be able to take one on the chin.

Stivered down the hill for the umpteenth time and the kayak light clicked right in. Didn’t know how long it would last, always forgot to plug these things in, sometimes I missed the ability to just pull out some batteries and jam them in. Not that I had any in the house, but if I still needed them I probably would.

A tremolo made me jump just enough to jiggle one of the oars loose. Pulled just out of reach by the current. My shorts got wet as I went in after it. Hoots answered the first bird, general responses that all was fine. Don’t mind the jackass stirring the pot.

I was long past the point where wetness, dark, or loud wildlife could turn me around. And, always alone, I no longer feared that lonely feeling that made every step seem a precarious adventure to doom. Bridget had taught me how to be alone when she left.

She had loved this spot, deep in the willywags. Didn’t even mind navigating the roads when they got greasy. Old-timers like us allowed to find our own place in this world. Not an hour from the town we grew up, near a day’s drive from our now from-away kids.

When she went down the cellar stairs I was lost, ambulance would be an hour and I was too weak to lift her to the car. Sat beside her for two hours, didn’t hear the phone ringing. Damn kid had pulled the street signs down again and we might as well have been in that Cretian maze for all the good the roads would do.

Never returned to the old ways, Bridget and me. Began to wonder if the “get away from it all” always included me, or if it was just my ill-timed attempt at a joke. The books went first. “A little sanctuary,” she said, towing a bit of a barge behind the rowboat. Then those fan letters, the typewriter necessary to reply. Wasn’t long before she told me the muse visited more often over there, cross the lake.

Less gracefully than five years ago, I pull the oar through the water. That night had been rough, but it brought the kids back. I couldn’t regret the yearly visits, trip to the grave, glob around talking about their mother. It wasn’t so hard to sweep the site and bring a few flowers the week before.

I would do anything for those kids.

There were so many stars out there on the lake. The fog bunching up like a curtain in the wind over the moon. The candle didn’t seem to be escaping that fog, though. It felt as if the air pulled in close to that window. Maybe a gauzy curtain covered the glass, all the more reason to take care of this quick. Crossed myself that the fabric hadn’t caught already.

The door didn’t lock, why would it, out here with no one but us when we built it? All the same, there was a responding pressure as I pulled against it. Humid air always expands these wooden boards, but if someone’d opened it earlier in the day, I expected it to have a bit more give.

With a bit more elbow than this old body was accustomed to using, I yarded it good. Flew open to spill me on my behind. Five years and no dust or sprills from the crack under the door. More evidence relations had come to the shack but hadn’t wanted to disturb my yearly rituals. Or they had come when I was in town earlier in the week. The windows closed, but the papers strewn around the room jumped and swirled. A mini tornado. I grabbed a few to my chest as the pain settled in.

From the rafters, a wail. My heart jumped in a way I could recognize as wrong. White and black, illumination and shadow. As it fell, the loon hit the candle. I looked at one of the papers I’d caught. Repeated, over and over, my last words to her. The pages all around, the same. My body too weak to move, I closed my eye, slipped my wind.

Why no, I couldn’t take a joke.