Episode 17
Ernie strides in circles on the tarmac in his underwear and screeches, “Damn! I should have known!”
His fists clench like he wants to hit something. Or someone. Guilt over not telling him last night keeps me out of range, uncertain what to do to stop his unraveling.
I think of a few things I could say but they’re all pointless. John’s reason for taking off at this stage in the game is anybody’s guess. I’m guessing it has to do with Ernie insisting on disguising the Caddy, though Margie’s photo on the news last night sure upset him. And with his new identity and the money in a secret account, what’s to keep him here?
Ernie’s going on and on about trust and honor and his own stupidity, when the car hoves around the building and slides to a smooth stop in the parking space. John gives us a look that says he’s aware of the situation and is amused.
“Breakfast is served,” he says with what he probably thinks is a British accent.
I help with the warm paper bags and we decide to eat in his room for a change. He’s brought ham and egg muffins, two each, and three large coffees. Silent, Ernie uncaps his and blows to cool it.
“You guys always hang around empty parking lots at six in the morning, naked?”
We concentrate on the food. John grins, closed and one-sided. Ernie stuffs his last bite in, wipes his fingers on the paper napkins. Gulps the rest of his coffee. Stands up. “Give me the key.”
John fakes a hurt look, like a kid refusing spinach. “No.”
I burst out laughing. But Ernie’s serious. He waits, palm up.
“You have a key,” John tells him.
“Damn right.” Ernie strides out and in half a minute he’s got his pants and shoes on and is heading to the car.
“Aren’t you going to stop him?” I know exactly what he’s going to do. John either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care anymore. He wads up his sandwich paper and lobs it into the waste basket. Drinks his coffee.
I’m disappointed that Ernie drives off without me, but I cover it up by clearing away the rest of the trash. I want to turn on the tv but figure John’s in no mood to see his wedding splashed all over the criminal news again.
“They said ‘questioning’ — So maybe if you go back and answer all their questions, you could stop running.”
He studies me, as if he’s tracing my actions since we met. “You finally believe I’m innocent.”
“Yes.” And Ernie, who at first was completely neutral, apparently has doubts or he wouldn’t be orchestrating John’s escape. Where along the way did we switch?
John gives me coins and I bring cartons of orange juice from the machines. It tastes pretty bad, but drinking it is something to do. After that, he goes outside to pace and smoke. I go to my room and put on the cut-offs and new shoes.
How to get rid of the old sneaks? The chance of anybody actually following us here and swabbing my DNA off them is zero, but I’d rather incinerate the evidence instead of leaving it in a waste basket.
“You watch too much tv,” I mutter. Nobody’s on our trail.
In an hour Ernie drives up in some strange car that he explains is a ‘loaner.’ He watches John’s face, which tells me nothing. “Come on, old man, let’s go for a drive.”
“With you? In that? No thanks.”
He doesn’t ask what Ernie did with his Caddy. We both knew his intentions, and figure he’s set them in motion. There’s resignation in John’s manner when he says, “You know how I felt about that car.”
“She’s in a safe place.” Ernie leans from the waist like he wants to put his hand on John’s shoulder. Instead, he props on his own kneecaps, his face in striking range, waiting for John to make a move.
A quick frown. John glances around the room, picks up the door key and
sticks it in his pocket. “Let’s ride, then.”
In our hats and sunglasses, and a car like thousands of others, we should be able to go anywhere and do anything we want. I sense that Ernie has planned a surprise, so I just watch the passing scenery without comment. It’s more or less what we came in on even though we’re traveling in the same direction, until about twenty blocks later we hit a ritzy area of upscale stores and restaurants. Along side streets are huge old trees, landscaped lawns, houses way grander than any I’ve seen except on tv or in magazines.
Soon we’re passing a big lake, dotted with tiny tree-topped islands and bordered by a distant, wildlife-friendly other shore. Golf courses on the inland side, fancier restaurants, tiki bars, bait shops, and summer cottages. Docks and boats, and people in shorts and loud shirts swarming everywhere.
Ernie parks in a lot a few yards from the boat slips. Points. “That’s ours.” We follow him over gravel and packed sand and a weathered boardwalk to a cabin cruiser fit for a movie producer or lawyer.
Joking, I ask, “Does this boat go to the Cayman Islands?” He can afford to rent or even own such a thing. Then I remember that his trust fund is untouchable for two more months. Did he add his name on John’s account at the bank? I can’t see that happening. Not with John at his elbow.
“Just across the lake,” he answers. When we’re on board, he makes us put on life jackets, then adjusts knobs and reads guages, shows us where the snacks are, and turns on a CD player. The New Age music suits me, though John rolls his eyes a bit. I help myself to a package of chocolate chip cookies and a bottle of spring water.
There’s no fishing gear. There is a cell phone, and Ernie makes several calls that we can’t hear because of the engine.
The day is full of sunshine and wind, and even with choppy water that makes me hold on to the railing, I’m joyful and don’t get seasick.
Twenty minutes later we’ve left the marina and most of the islands behind. Private landings, glimpses of mansions on the hillsides above. “How big is this lake?”
“Never measured it.” He steers slightly to our right. One small island lies ahead. Woods come right down to the water’s edge. As we move in closer, I watch the swell pound away at the bank, and realize the land is shaped like a loaf of bread, narrow, but maybe a mile long. At the
far point, Ernie navigates with caution to the only place suitable for a landing.
He cuts the engine and we sit in silence.
Slowly I become aware of song birds in the underbrush. A hawk sails overhead. John opens the fridge, turns away in disgust. We drift in close enough for Ernie to leap onto land and tie to an iron stake. “You guys coming?”
John eyes the lake and the wooded island. “I’m good here.”
I get into position but the distance looks too risky. From a stable platform, yes; but the boat’s not stable and the water churns against the bank. If I fall in, I won’t drown but my running shoes will.
“Come on,” Ernie encourages, and I jump. Grabbing at shrubs and kicking loose rocks and dirt, I scramble up to where he waits. The moment I’m on level ground, he takes off on a trail just wide enough for my feet, never mind the rest of me whipped by leafy limbs. The sunglasses darken everything but they protect my eyes.
I don’t ask where we’re headed. It’s a secret, special place, and I’m glad John chose to stay behind. He can’t leave in the boat as Ernie has the key. This is more fun than the hikes Collins used to take us Middles on, across old pastures to the creek behind East Wind. Used to, since he stopped doing that the year Jerry nearly drowned Steve under the waterfall. Even after Jerry joined the Almost-Outs, Collins refused to hike anymore.
There are no waterfalls here, only boulders, moss, pines, old hardwoods that remind me of history lessons about the landings at Plymouth and Jamestown. I think of snakes and bears, but the way Ernie’s plunging ahead, he’s not worried. We must be close to the middle of the island when he slows to a halt. I look beyond him and at first see only more of the same.
Expecting the foundation of a burned cabin, at least, I finally spot a lump of brown canvas. A circle of melon-sized stones—a fire pit—clues me in. The brown lump is a one-man tent, fallen to wind, rain, and time. “Haven’t been here for a while,” Ernie says. He steps to it almost on tiptoes. Hunkers and pulls at the rotten material.
Hunkering beside him, I barely hear the words, “I was too young to stay out here by myself.” He pokes at the sodden lump with a stick. Snakes still on my mind, I scoot back, but nothing slithers out except a hairy-legged spider. He tosses the stick away and continues tiptoeing forward a few yards to a domed shelter built of saplings and covered with pine branches.
“This was going to be a sweat lodge.” He gives a short unhappy laugh. “I sweated, all right, building it.”
Brown needles still cling, though when he pulls at a limb, they shower an entrance so low he has to crawl inside. He reaches, draws me in with him. Too small for its purpose, the ‘lodge’ has plenty of ventilation because many of the poles have been displaced by the antics of squirrels or other animal. Crouched in the dim place, he finds the strength to admit, “Leaving is harder than I thought it would be.”
Does he mean, Canada? Or university? Does he even know . . . .
“It worked for John. I thought it would work for me, too. But it hasn’t.” He starts tearing the lodge apart from the inside, shoving off poles and branches until we’re able to stand up, a circle of decaying wood surrounding us. He gazes at the forest, sniffing its aromas like a wild creature alert for danger. “I don’t want to take this with me.”
He kicks the pieces, destroying the shape, and I help him. I don’t have the courage to probe into his reasons for returning to a place that made him miserable.
We find John asleep on one of the drop-down beds, an empty water bottle on the floor. “This’ll wake him up,” Ernie laughs. He starts the engine and revs it to a mellow roar. John swings his legs off the bed and sits up, groggy. “Is it lunch time yet?”
The clock surprises me. Ten forty-five. We were on the island for over an hour. Zooming around the point, we head back the way we came. In about ten minutes we come to a shallow inlet. I’m surprised again when we travel along it for maybe a half a mile.
Ernie cuts the engine and expertly steers us into a covered boat slip. If it was noon, I’d think he was keeping a lunch appointment with well-to-do friends. Okay, eleven could mean brunch. With his tennis pals. Or his university roommate, come September.
I wish I had dressed better for this occasion, but at least my shoes aren’t full of holes. John’s in the pants and shirt from his father’s dresser. No wonder Ernie calls him ‘old man.’ Too bad. In his jeans and black tee shirt, he could pass for an actor.
We walk up a winding, root-studded dirt path. Trees block a view of neighbors, if there are any. On a level space, a well-kept tennis court. Field houses made of stone. Steps leading up to a high brick wall. Next to a solid metal door, an entrance box accepts whatever code Ernie punches in.
When the door snaps shut behind us, I’m awed. John is too, judging by his silent inspection of a three-story brick house in a rich-and-famous setting. It’s bigger than the East Wind library, nowhere near as old. Three-car garage, closed. Fresh-cut lawn, blooming shrubs, rustic benches under shade trees. Green and yellow aromas blend with cool shade and bright sun. And this is the servants’ entrance.
“Your boat. Your home.” I don’t doubt it, but prod, to hear him say it.
“For now.” Ernie leads us past a side yard where three round tables are placed under a vine-covered wooden arbor, on a smooth brick patio that fills the space between the house and the high wall. Tables close enough for public conversations, far enough apart for private ones. Is this where Fran and Hoodoo hung out, before they ran away?
The front of the house is like the back, multiplied a few times. Beds of spring flowers on either side of a brick walkway. Benches under giant trees. No flamingos or gnomes, no tire swing, no dead lawnmower. Wide lawns slope to the brick wall and an iron gate with scrollwork that looks like grape leaves and clusters. A sidewalk on the other side, a street, but no houses to ruin the view.
Six brick columns rise from a porch. Two stone steps, a floor of some dark gray material that Ernie says is slate. Expensive-looking cushioned iron furniture—no plastic table and chairs to blow away in a summer storm. Double door with etched-glass panels and enough brass to make a tuba.
Inside, even though there’s no marble, real or fake, I’m not disappointed. Two-story entry, central hallway, dining room to the left, entertainment center to the right. Dark stairs lead up to bedrooms; a long hallway to the right, to more bedrooms.
“Wait here,” Ernie says, heading to the back, where there’ll be a kitchen and a wing for the live-in staff. I’m okay with that. Waiting here gives me a chance to peek into the carpeted room outfitted with a theater-size movie screen, sound system, and shelves of tapes and DVDs. Sofas, tables with lamps, cabinets with who-knows-what behind locked doors.
The dining table seats a dozen, a silver service on a heavy lace tablecloth. China cabinets, buffets, a chandelier. An old-fashioned fireplace with gas logs, crystal candlesticks on the mantel, a huge mirror to reflect expensive dinners with friends, relatives, business partners.
It’s what I’ve dreamed of, my incentive whenever school assignments got dull. I just thought I wanted to live in John’s farmhouse.
Ernie emerges from the gloomy interior. “Everyone knows you’re here, so make yourselves at home. Movie? Tennis? Early lunch on the terrace?”
“I want to see your room.” The words leap from my mouth before I can consider the effect they’ll have on him.
TO BE CONTINUED!