The Lake Of Dreams Part 12

"The thing is, Keegan, I don't think Rose was forgotten. I think she was covered up. Obscured. I think she was an early feminist-interesting and maybe scandalous. By the way, have you ever heard of Frank Westrum?"

"Westrum? Sure. Are they Westrum windows, then?" Keegan put down his coffee, his voice threaded with excitement. "They are, aren't they? It crossed my mind, actually-it would make perfect sense-the style and the era are right. The church had records?"

"They did. The original receipt. I drove to Rochester yesterday, to the Westrum House. I met Oliver Parrott, by the way. He sends his regards."

"Oliver Parrott, what do you know." Keegan, smiling, shook his head. "Isn't he something? Was he wearing a bow tie?"

"He was."

"What a character. I like working with Oliver because he really cares about the quality of the gla.s.s, about making the repairs authentic. But he's, shall we say, quite persnickety. He'll make you do a thing over and over and over again until he feels you've got it right."

"He's really excited about the windows," I said. "I maybe said too much, though. It didn't cross my mind until I'd left that he'd want them for the Westrum House, but of course he will. I'm thinking I should call the church, let them know he might show up."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much. The Reverend Suzi is pretty savvy. Oliver was bound to find out sometime anyway."

I picked up my cup, which Keegan had filled to the brim, and coffee sloshed onto the counter, onto a stack of papers. I grabbed a dish towel and sopped up the spill, drying off the top few papers, though a faint brown stain radiated across the center of a flyer. It was a copy of the one I'd seen hanging in the library, advertising the town meeting and setting out the Iroquois position on the land. At first I thought Keegan had just picked one up, but then I realized the whole stack was made up of these flyers.

"Yours?" I asked.

"Yep. Don't worry about the spill. I've got plenty more."

"I didn't know you were involved in the land issues," I said, remembering the solstice party, how Art and Joey-and yes, even Blake-had dismissed Keegan as being on the wrong side of history.

"I'm moderately involved. They asked me to help post these, and I said sure. Since Max was born it's seemed more important to me, to have that heritage. To pa.s.s it along. And I happen to believe in this particular cause."

"I guess the land is pretty valuable," I said. "I think most of my relatives are angling to get it."

"Thick as thieves," Keegan said, cheerfully. "I was surprised at Blake, but there he is, right in the middle of it. The Landing," he added, somewhat derisively. "Even the name is stuck in the past."

"Well, what do you think the land should be used for?"

"That's just it. That's the point exactly. It shouldn't have to be used for anything, not farms, not weapons bunkers, not high-end homes. It should just be."

"Not casinos."

"No, I agree with you. We'd like to keep it in some kind of preserve, if we got it. The thing is, Lucy, we see that land as a sacred trust. We want to protect it. And this is a rare opportunity. Even though they've had weapons and bombs and who knows what buried there all these decades, a lot of the land has been left alone. There's a herd of white deer that's evolved over the decades within those fences, and there's a nesting place for black terns, which are endangered. We've been working with the conservation groups, and that's been good. But the developers are hungry. Famished. To be fair, a lot of people have been hurting for a long time, and it got worse when the base closed. You don't see it so much in town, because of all the tourists and the money on the lake. But drive out into the countryside, and it will hit you."

"I kayaked a little way into the lake by the depot, but I was afraid to go too far. I saw the white deer, though. Five of them, disappearing into the trees. Beautiful. I noticed several streams; I hadn't realized they were there. I wonder-has anyone done a hydrology study of that land? There's been so much development on the lake in the last couple of decades. At some point, all the demands-the septic tanks, the piping of water-starts to be too much for the ecological system to handle. Plus there's the issue of runoff." I thought of Indonesia, the rising waters. "Build too much and there's no place for water to go, and you get floods."

"Well, that's interesting. There's been some flooding toward the south end of the lake, but I don't think anyone has connected the dots to all the new houses. And I'm not sure about the runoff issues." He smiled. "Maybe you should come on board as a consultant."

I smiled, pleased at the compliment. "I'm sure there are local hydrologists who know the land better."

"Well, maybe. I think you'd have a lot to offer, though. Want to see the whole thing, see what you think?" Keegan asked. "I was planning to take Max for a boat ride; his mother's still sick and his babysitter can't get here until noon."

He smiled then, invitingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and I was taken back to that long ago spring when we'd spent so many nights on his motorcycle, in a boat, the wind in our faces. Except it didn't feel so long ago now that I was back in town, finding reasons to drop by and say h.e.l.lo. Stop, Stop, I cautioned myself. Because I had this other life in another country, and where could anything with Keegan ever lead but heart-ache? I cautioned myself. Because I had this other life in another country, and where could anything with Keegan ever lead but heart-ache? Just stop Just stop.

"Sure," I said.

"Great," he said. "Let me get my keys."

Downstairs, Courtney, the a.s.sistant, was carrying the green gla.s.s vase to the annealer. She lifted her protective gla.s.ses and called out to Keegan as we pa.s.sed. Her eyes were pretty, dark and large, and her features were prominent, widely s.p.a.ced; she was st.u.r.dy and strong, as well as striking. Keegan paused, talking with her for a minute, while Max and I lingered at the edge of the conversation. Then Courtney came over to stand with Max, and Keegan took my hand. "Want to try?" he shouted over the roar of the fire, and I nodded.

Keegan went through all the motions of the dance, gathering the molten gla.s.s, turning it against the metal table to start its shape. He placed his lips against the pipe, and the gla.s.s began to swell. "Your turn," he shouted, then handed me the pipe. I put my lips where his had been, the metal warm against them. Keegan leaned close to help me turn the pipe, and I blew lightly, the gla.s.s growing larger. Back and forth we went, his lips on the metal, mine, our breath mingling, swelling the gla.s.s. Finally he tapped off the beautiful piece we'd created, the shape of a raindrop, and carried it to the annealer in heat-resistant gloves. I was trembling-from the weight of the pipe, from the heat, from the press of Keegan's arms against mine. I thought of my dream, the spheres that had turned liquid in my hands. Keegan's sure and steady touch with something so fragile was breathtaking. He came back with Max, and we stepped outside into the fresh, rainy air.

"That was just amazing."

He smiled. "You did a great job. No two pieces are ever exactly alike-that's the part that really appeals to me. It's a pretty nice way to make a living."

"When will it be done?"

"A couple of days. How about I come up and drop it off?"

"Good," I said. "That would be good."

Max was running on the gra.s.s, making wide circles.

"So," Keegan said. "I have this supplier coming. Courtney reminded me. He just called from downtown, and he'll be here any minute. It shouldn't take long, but I have to see him. Would you mind taking Max for a walk, say, just down along the outlet? I'll catch up in a minute, and then we can take a ride."

"No problem," I said. Though I'd spent very little time with small children, Keegan was a good father so effortlessly that I figured it would be a piece of cake. "I love that walk and I haven't done it in years."

"Great." He turned back, disappearing into the gla.s.sworks, and I went down the sidewalk to catch up with Max, the warm pressure of the pipe still tingling on my lips.

"Where's my dad?" Max asked.

"He's got to do some work. He said we should take a walk and he'll catch up."

"I want to wait for my dad."

"I was a friend of your dad's, you know. A long time ago."

"My dad knows everyone in town."

"I'm not surprised. Shall we go?"

"No."

We stood there for a moment in the misty air. Finally, I said, "You know, Max, your dad tells me you're very smart. He said you know where the trail is. But I didn't believe him."

It was too easy, so easy I almost felt bad for having done it. Max stamped one foot on the sidewalk and said, "It is so so true," and then he took off. true," and then he took off.

The trail was narrow, gravel-covered, winding its way through the trees, which were still dripping a little from the morning rain. We followed the outlet, veering away from it and then drawing closer again. Max refused to hold my hand. He said he wanted to walk a few steps ahead because I didn't know where I was going.

So I let him, watching him half-run, half-skip over the gravel. He was wearing jeans and a puffy red jacket and his shoes had little lights in the heels that flashed with every step. Max moved with the same lithe agility as his father.

"Maybe we should wait here for your dad," I suggested as we made a slow curve that took us out of sight of the old factory buildings. There was a historical marker noting that this was the site of worker dormitories and later individual houses back at the turn of the century, when factories were thriving in The Lake of Dreams. The ruins of one such house had been left. Another structure, just the framing, a ghost of a building, stood beside it. "Hey, Max!" I called as the distance between us grew; he had gotten quite far ahead. "Come look at this!" He didn't even turn around. "Hey!" I called again. "Wait up. You can't go by yourself."

"My dad lets me," he said, his small voice drifting back to me. "My dad does, all the time. Besides, I'm the leader."

"Right. Okay. You're the leader. Wait up anyway."

I jogged to catch up and we walked awhile longer, Max staying just a few feet ahead, the path drawing near the outlet, which rushed in its banks, the surface as smooth and molten as gla.s.s, then moving back into the trees. My thoughts kept circling back to Keegan, to his lips against the metal pipe, to the swelling gla.s.s, to the play of fire reflected on his skin. We walked, and then my phone rang and I stopped to rummage in my purse.

"Hey, Max, hang on," I called. He turned as I flipped open the phone and paused beneath the trees to talk. It was Keegan.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Sorry, Lucy, slight change of plans. The supplier just called and he's running late. So, why not just bring Max back here? Whenever you're ready, I mean, there's no rush. Everything going okay?"

"Everything's fine. He's a fun kid. Has a mind of his own."

"Yeah, I know. I like to think he takes after his mother that way."

"I'm sure. He must get the charming part from you, then."

Keegan gave a low, familiar laugh. I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering his breath on my cheek, my lips against the metal.

"Glad you still think so."

"Really, he seems like a sweet boy."

I smiled as I spoke, then looked up, expecting to see Max in his red coat poking his stick impatiently on the ground. But the path was empty. He was nowhere in sight. I took a step, scanning the foliage-surely he was hiding somewhere, or had stepped off the trail to look at another bug. With the phone still against my ear I started hurrying.

"Well, bring him back whenever," Keegan was saying. "I'm sure he'd love to stay out all day, but I know you must have things to do."

"It's okay," I said, though it wasn't-I'd rounded the curve and still didn't see Max, and panic was beating through my blood. It was the panic of my dream. "Hey, do you let him walk ahead? He says you do."

Keegan laughed. "He can tell you're a novice. Don't let him push you around."

"All right. We'll be back soon," I said, already closing the phone, already starting to run, calling out for Max. The wet leaves flashed and slapped my arms, the gravel slipped under my feet. I shouted, but my voice faded in the dense wet air. There was no answer. He had stepped into the trees, perhaps, like a child in a fairy tale, lured by some treasure my grown-up eyes overlooked. I was thinking with terrible panic of stolen children, too-anyone could have been here, could have pulled him into the trees and be holding him there right now, even as I ran past shouting, calling his name.

The path curved again. I glimpsed Max's red coat and felt a rush of relief. I slowed down a little, catching my breath, trying to still my racing heart.

Then I saw where he was.

There had once been a bridge across the outlet, but it had long since fallen down. Now there were only two piers remaining, one on the sh.o.r.e and one set a few feet into the river, with a little platform connecting them. Max was standing on this platform, right at its very edge, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were an old man, peering calmly down at the churning water below.

I kept walking, taking a deep breath to calm myself, because it mattered to be calm, I knew.

"Hey, Max," I said, as evenly as I could, when I got close enough. "Hey there, fearless leader. What're you doing?"

He turned and looked over his shoulder, smiling with excitement.

"I'm watching the water. It's neat. I can see shapes in it, can you?"

"That really is neat," I said, climbing up on the nearest pier, slowly, so I wouldn't startle him. I didn't step onto the concrete platform because I couldn't tell how strong it was. Max was looking down again, studying the water, swirling and brown. I could see why he was so fascinated; at this point the outlet narrowed, and the water was forced through the banks with a wild rus.h.i.+ng force, shape-s.h.i.+fting and mesmerizing. The tips of his flashy sneakers extended an inch into thin air. Please, Please, I thought, I thought, let me say the right thing let me say the right thing. "Hey, could you step back a little, Max? 'Cause your dad just called, and I have something to tell you."

He didn't. For a long moment we both just stood where we were, Max staring at the mesmerizing water, all its froth and force, tree branches and litter traveling on its surface, pulled abruptly under.

"Max?"

He turned around. He took one step, then another. I took his hand, and wouldn't let him pull away when he tried to.

"Let's jump," I said, and we did, landing on the muddy earth.

"Ouch," he said. "That was too far."

"Hold my hand again," I said, in a firm but friendly way. This time he did.

"What did my dad say?"

"Oh, he said it's time to come home."

"He did?"

"He did."

"Okay."

Max pulled away from me again on the way back, but not until I'd made him promise to stay close, and this time I kept up with him, I didn't let him get out of reach. I was exhausted by the time we reached the gla.s.sworks. Keegan was standing at the edge of the road, talking with a man who had brought a load of sand. I was still shaking from what had almost happened. Max ran up and flung his arms around Keegan as if nothing had happened, and Keegan reached down absently, tousling Max's dark curls while he kept talking. Finally, Keegan shook the supplier's hand and took a step back, turning his full attention to Max.

"Hey, Max. How was the walk?"

"I showed her the trail," he said. "I told her I knew the way, and I did."

"He did," I agreed, and then I told Keegan briefly what had happened, how Max had run ahead and found a lookout place right above the swirling waters. Keegan listened, his face growing as masked as it once had when we were children bearing schoolyard taunts, and when I finished he squatted down and took Max by the shoulders.

"Max. What do you think would happen if you fell in the river?"

"I didn't fall."

"I know. And I'm glad. But what if?"

"It would take me away like the branch," Max said.

"It would take you away," Keegan agreed, very serious. "And you wouldn't be able to get back. And I would be so sad. My whole heart would break. Don't do that again, Max. You understand? You don't go near the water. You know that."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I nearly stopped breathing when I saw where he was. I just keep thinking how horrible it would be if-"

"Lucy. Stop." Keegan's voice was calm, but firm. He stood up and sent Max to sit on a nearby bench for a minute, then caught my hand, his palms calloused from his work with fire. "Look, nothing happened, right? Trust me, if I spent every moment of parenthood doing the what-ifs, I'd drive myself absolutely crazy. Max is a handful. I should have gone with you. But everyone is just fine. So that's a moment where we don't have to linger."

"All right," I said, though I knew I'd carry that image of Max standing so calmly at the edge of the roiling water with me for the rest of my life. "You're pretty good at this, you know," I added. "This fatherhood stuff. You make it look easy."

He laughed. "I'm totally winging it," he said. "Everyone is. What do you think? Do you still have time? Want to take that boat ride?"

Keegan took one of Max's hands and after a minute I took the other, and we climbed into the boat Keegan kept moored by the gla.s.sworks, at the docks where barges had once pulled up to load their wares. I sat next to Keegan near the bow, and Max, bundled securely in a bright orange life jacket, sat between us. The day had brightened and there were patches of blue, but it was still mostly overcast. I hugged my arms against the wind, glad to have my ratty old sweats.h.i.+rt as we traveled out across the water, spray in our faces as we hit the white-crested waves. We traveled several miles down the lake, and I recognized the point where we crossed the border of the depot land into waters that had once been forbidden.

At first the green hills, forested or covered in swaying gra.s.ses, sloped down to the wide shale beach. Soon, however, the landscape began to change, gra.s.s-covered concrete bunkers rising out of the land in evenly s.p.a.ced intervals. Even covered in sod they looked unnatural, rising out of the earth like the steady sound of a machine, like identical notes in the most boring piece of music in the universe. Their hunkering shapes and monotonous regularity made them seem ominous, too. Weapons bunkers, they must be; I'd seen an editorial from 1940 describing the soil as having been "seeded with bombs instead of wheat." They were empty now, the weapons transferred, but even so I felt uneasy looking at them, the wild, organic beauty of the landscape lost to this precise and repet.i.tious order.