Caves In the Rain

  Champagne Books Presents

  Caves In The Rain

  By

  Bob Bickford

  HIGH RIVER, AB

  CANADA

  ***

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Champagne Books

  www.champagnebooks.com

  Copyright 2016 by Bob Bickford

  ISBN 978-1-77155-252-3

  January 2017

  Cover Art by Trisha FitzGerald

  Produced in Canada

  Champagne Book Group

  19-3 Avenue SE

  High River, AB T1V 1G3

  Canada

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  ***

  Dedication

  For Nathaniel,

  and for all the ghosts of all my summers

  ***

  One

  She lay flat on her belly, naked in a tangle of dirty sheets.

  “Come here,” she said, over her shoulder. “I want to see you.”

  He didn’t move. The room stank of her cigarettes, sweat, and wine. An ashtray sat on the bed, close to her elbow. Deep gray smudges on the sheet around it said it wasn’t close enough.

  “Ronnie Baptiste, you look so much like your father it breaks my heart.”

  She reached over to the bedside table, fumbled at her wine glass and drained it. Shifting over, she reached down to the floor and he heard the thump as the jug tipped over. She swore loudly. He hurried around the bed and righted it. He found the metal cap among the soiled clothes, started to twist it on, then thought better of it. He picked it up and filled her glass.

  “You’re my sweetie,” she slurred.

  He held the base of the glass for her while she drank. Wine dribbled down her chin and soaked into the bedding. When she was done, he put the glass back on the table, and watched her fumble out another smoke and light it. She set the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and reached for him. He took a step back.

  “Little bastard. You’re a tease.”

  She buried her face in her pillow and kicked the sheet free from her legs. Her voice was muffled. “Stop torturing me, Ronnie.”

  Her shoulders shook. He couldn’t tell if she was laughing or sobbing. A line of vertebrae marched down her back, and he realized she was getting thin. After a minute, she turned her face away and lay still. He didn’t move, even after she began to snore. Her forgotten cigarette smoked in the ashtray, and the acrid smell of burning filters began to overpower the other smells in the room.

  He considered things for a moment, and then reached across his mother’s bare back. He picked up the ashtray and dumped it onto the mattress beside her. Oxygen found the blackened butts and they smoldered a little more vigorously. He shook his head, unsatisfied, and picked up the gold-colored package beside her pillow. She snorted in her sleep, and her breath was warm on the back of his hand.

  He put a cigarette in his mouth. It was softer than he expected. He sparked the lighter and tentatively touched the flame to the end. He had watched her do it thousands of times. The smoke surprised him, and he coughed. Recovering, he puffed rapidly. When the coal got established, he dropped the smoke onto the other side of the mattress, his once-upon-a-time father’s side.

  He repeated the process for the remaining seven cigarettes in the package. By the time he dropped the last of them, he was dizzy. Lavender-colored spots floated in his vision. The mattress burned in a couple of places, and the room was getting hazy. His mother continued to snore.

  He walked up the hall, went into his room and retrieved a few things. Her purse sat on the kitchen table, and he added the few bills he found inside it to his pockets. By the time he reached the apartment’s front door, smoke was beginning to collect in the hallway. He picked up the keyring from the small dish on the table by the door and went into the corridor. He carefully twisted keys in both the door lock and the deadbolt above it. At the end of the hall, he passed a garbage chute and paused long enough to drop the keys down.

  The street was still dark, and the early morning air smelled cool and fresh. He sat on the curb across from the apartment building. In the third floor window where his mother slept, the drapes were open, and light flickered and danced on the ceiling.

  There was no traffic on the street. He sat patiently, a small boy alone, and waited for the sirens.

  ***

  Two

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Black Loon House marina. I was newly unmarried, childless, and just about homeless. I had two suitcases, a white dog, an old Jeep truck, and an island as abandoned as I was. There had been a summer cabin on it, not much more than a shack with a dock, but I didn’t know if it was still standing. I hadn’t visited the place in years.

  The real estate agent who had been taking care of the property was going to bring me the key. He was late. I hunted in my wallet for the slip of paper my ex-wife Angela had given me. I felt a pang seeing her handwriting, and hoped for some kind of message from her, but there was nothing except the realtor’s name and number.

  “It’s Mike Latta,” I said, when he answered. “I’m at the marina. I’m trying to get to the island before dark, and you have the cabin key. I guess I should have stopped at your office on the way through town.”

  “I’m on my way now,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few. Hang tight.”

  I pulled my truck and boat trailer to the back of the gravel lot, shut down and waited. Ten minutes later, a black Cadillac nosed in behind me and stopped. I strolled back to meet the driver.

  “Sorry for putting you out like this,” I said, and offered my hand. “I’m Mike.”

  “Ron Baptiste,” he said. “No problem. We’re assuming your place made it through winter. I haven’t been out there since the rental inspection last year, and it was pretty run down. Nice property, though. Beautiful island.”

  He was big, looked strong, and what wasn’t bald was carefully barbered. His teeth were white against his tan. His light blue eyes and round face gave him a childish quality, like some kind of oversized Dutch doll.

  “I’ve only been there once or twice,” I said. “Before our daughter was born.”

  “Your wife mentioned about your daughter. I’m sorry about the trouble you’re going through.” He patted my shoulder and smiled. “These things have a way of working out for the best. You’ll see.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t know how a dead nine-year-old could ever “work out for the best,” but decided to leave it alone. People have no idea what to say to someone who has lost a child.

  “From what she told me, you should just sell the place,” he said. “There’s always a market for a rare property like that. Only so many islands to go around.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said. “I’ll be there for a while. I’m going to fix the place up some.”

  “Contractors, suppliers, you name it…give me a call. I kn
ow everyone, and I can get you deals they won’t give an outsider. The locals like to steal from the summer people.”

  He nodded up at the marina building. “Good example right here,” he said. “The less you deal with these people, the better off you are.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Got to go. Tell you what, Mike. When you’re in town, stop by the office and I’ll take you to lunch. How about it?”

  I had just landed here, and I had a friend. I pocketed the key and waved as he pulled away. His tires spit some gravel against the side of my boat. I decided not to hold it against him.

  Fourteen miles of water lay between the island and me. I needed to get my boat in the lake and get going.

  I let the dog out of the truck and surveyed the place. The marina office was in an old house. The freshly painted white clapboard was set off with black shutters. Beyond the drive, a green lawn rolled down to docks along the water’s edge. There were open-fronted sheds for boat storage, and below them were rows of covered slips. Though all of it was simple and even rustic, a faint country club atmosphere hung around the place.

  An open launch moored at the nearest dock, and I wandered down for a closer look. It was a very old water-ski boat, beautifully restored. The wooden hull was glossy red with white lettering, and the color scheme extended to her seats and steering wheel. Chrome glinted everywhere.

  A large steel barge was berthed in front of a familiar red-and-yellow Shell Oil sign. It had streaks of rust on its enclosed cockpit. Beyond it, small powerboats moved slowly in and out of the marina. They throttled up, engines loud, when they passed the “No Wake” signs posted along the opposite shore of the inlet.

  The dog squatted as soon as she got out of the truck. Male dogs need ceremony and fuss, while females simply attend to business and move on. Aruba was my daughter’s white boxer. She was muscular, ugly and utterly devoted to Abby. She had followed her throughout the house and slept at the foot of her bed. She had been abandoned, too. She was here with me because Abby was dead, and Angela wanted to divest herself of anyone who reminded her of what she had lost.

  I tied Aruba’s leash to the railing and went inside. The entry hall opened into a large space full of shelves stocked with flashlights, mosquito repellent, and boating accessories. A couple of young boys, probably brothers, browsed a small section of toys without much enthusiasm. An old-fashioned snack bar anchored the far end, with a menu board devoted to hamburgers, nachos, and coffee. The adolescent girl behind the counter looked up from what she was doing. She seemed disappointed in what she saw, and turned back to her task.

  A pretty, dark-haired woman leaned forward on the counter and waited for her order. She rocked slightly on her toes, chatting to the girl preparing her food. She glanced sideways at me without changing her expression, then away.

  I headed for the opposite corner, to a desk awash in clutter. It looked like the place I’d find the person in charge. An older woman talked on the phone, head lowered. Her hair was dyed a strange shade of blonde. She wore gold-framed glasses with thick lenses. While I waited for her, my eyes wandered around the counter space. A poster was tacked up illustrating the various species of turtles in the area, beside several registers of phone numbers added by different hands, and a list of fishing license prices.

  “Yes?”

  She had hung up and was watching me. I smiled apologetically.

  “I have my boat and trailer out front,” I started. “I wanted to be sure it was okay to use your launch, and ask about parking. I’ll also want to rent a slip for the rest of the summer.”

  “Our facilities are permanent, for summer residents.” She shook her head. “I can’t help you. This isn’t a public marina, it’s strictly for members. Hollow Lake isn’t the best place for day trips. The facilities at Bays Lake are a lot better for visitors. If you head back up the highway to Ansett, they’ll direct you. If you’re visiting someone, I can sell you a parking pass for the day.”

  “I am a resident,” I said. “I own Echo Island, up the lake.”

  She looked up sharply. “Echo is empty,” she said. “The Trevethans haven’t set foot on it in years.”

  “I used to be married to Angela Trevethan,” I said. “I got the island in our divorce. I’m going to be living here.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “Divorced?” She visibly bristled. “I knew Angela… I’m sorry to hear that. If you’re an owner, I don’t know how you didn’t know this is members-only.”

  “I think we came up here once,” I said. “Maybe twice.

  “Well, if that’s true, I can put you on a waiting list, but I really don’t think there’ll be a slip available this summer.”

  She glanced down at her papers, dismissing me. I tried to keep the conversation going. “That’s a beautiful old boat out there, the red one.”

  “That’s our boat,” she said. “My husband restored it.”

  “I don’t know anything about boats, but it must be worth a fortune.”

  Her expression softened. She stood up and came around the desk. I followed her to a window with a view of the docks.

  “It’s a Chris Craft from the 1950s,” she said. “It spent a lot of its life on this lake. When we bought it, it had been in storage so many years it was just about forgotten under a pile of dusty junk. Bill put fiberglass epoxy in the bottom where the mahogany was rotten and found out later it wasn’t worth as much. He destroyed the value.”

  “I wouldn’t know the difference,” I said. “It looks like brand new.”

  “The boat lost its virginity.” She laughed, warming up. “At least since it’s no good for a museum, we get to keep it in the water and enjoy it. It’s pretty fast, and it’s back in the lake it belongs to.”

  “It stayed out of the water for a while?’ I asked.

  “A family with a summer cottage on Long Duck Island owned it. Dad was a doctor from New York. The teen-aged daughter was some kind of champion water skier… did water ski shows at Wasaga Beach when the Playland was open. Her boyfriend drove her boat. They practiced here, I guess because it’s deep and pretty safe.”

  She paused, gazing out at the red boat on its mooring.

  “The boy drowned, up at your end of the lake. He was by himself, and fell out of the boat. The girl killed herself a few months later. Her parents sold their cottage, and didn’t want the boat any more to remind them. It sat in storage for years and years.”

  “Sad story,” I said. “Sounds like you gave the boat a happy ending, anyway.”

  She was lost in thought. I didn’t say anything. I needed to get to the island, but I wasn’t in enough of a hurry to disturb whatever memories were taking her away. After a full minute, she shook them off and peered at me brightly. The reminiscing, or perhaps my interest in her boat, had changed her expression toward me.

  “I’m Diane,” she offered. “Bill and I own this place. I tell you what, give me your information and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Now?” I asked. Things were looking better.

  “Gosh, no. But maybe in a couple weeks,” she promised. “I’ll talk to Bill.”

  I turned to go, and thought of something else. “Do you know who owns the yellow barge out there?”

  “We do,” Diane said.

  “I expect I’ll have to bring a bunch of stuff to the island this summer. Lumber, building stuff. Do you rent it out?”

  “That’s what it’s for,” she said. “There are no roads to most of the cottages. If someone buys a new fridge, that’s the only way to get it home.”

  “Does Bill come with the rental?”

  “Oh, Bill wouldn’t let you operate it. He’ll pilot it. Don’t worry about that.”

  I thanked her and left. I was stuck. I was in a hurry to get to the lake with enough daylight left to safely reach the island. Coming up with an alternative would take hours and certainly land me after dark, not a prospect I relished. The power company had refused to turn on the electricity to the cottage unl
ess I was present, so the place had no lights, and I didn’t want find the cabin by flashlight.

  The red boat floated at its dock, exactly as it would have fifty years before. Nothing spoiled the illusion I was standing inside a time long disappeared.

  It rocked gently and waited for the tanned young woman, the water skier who had owned it so many years ago. It was hard to believe, faced with this symbol of summer, that she was dead. I supposed most of the previous owners were also gone, or else very old and nearly so. The boat represented a permanent reality, and old age and death were dreams.

  I daydreamed a group of them coming up behind me, talking and laughing. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty path. I heard a transistor radio playing, smelled Coppertone lotion and Brylcreme, sensed ghosts in horn-rimmed sunglasses and flowered bathing caps. I wondered if they sensed me too.

  In my imagination, the invisible group unconsciously parted to let me walk through their midst, and their smiles faded for a moment as they sensed my lingering sadness. The chatter would resume as soon as I passed, but one or two might remain troubled for a few moments. A cloud would pass over and they would feel the strange chill of my passing.

  ***

  Three

  I untied Aruba’s leash from the railing. The dark-haired woman had left the snack bar and now sat on a low wall bordering the walkway. She had a paper bag on her lap and a drink beside her, and ate looking out at the water. She glanced at me as I passed her, but did not speak. I felt a sharp tug on the leash. The dog resisted, and I glanced back.

  The Boxer braced, head down, finishing half a bagel she had snatched from a hand as we passed by. The woman gazed at me with no expression, and the smile drained from my face. “Perfect,” I breathed.