35

Mike had borrowed Bernie’s old fishing boat with the plans of staying out on Old Chip all day while Joel was at school and Mom and I were at work. It was his last day in Fort Colson for a year. He planned to catch and release every single fish in the lake. At least that was what he told Mom.

“It’ll do him some good,” Bernie told me when I got to work.

“He could have come here. He could have asked Mom to take the day off,” I said.

“Nope.” Bernie shook his head. “He needed some time by himself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh well.”

I left the kitchen, starting the first pots of coffee for the day. Outside, the sun still hadn’t risen and all I could think about was Mike’s boat in the water, oars dipping below the surface.

It made me feel lonely.

The day had never sloughed off the gloom of dark clouds and I wondered if it would rain. I went the long way home, the way that took me along the shore of the lake, hoping that I’d see Mike and that I could talk him into coming with me.

What I didn’t expect was for him to call out my name, yelling for me to “hold on.”

He rowed in to shore, which didn’t take too long. There was no current to push against his oars. Once he got close to where I was, he didn’t get out. Instead, he gave me his goofy grin.

“Get in,” he said.

Any other day I might have argued, resisted, told him he was off his rocker. I might have pointed at the laden clouds and asked if he noticed how chilly it was. I’d have told him we might freeze to death should we capsize.

But this was no ordinary day. So, without a question, I climbed into the boat.

The rubber soles of my sneakers clonked against the aluminum bottom, and the water on either side of the boat sloshed, making a sound that was as familiar to me as my own voice. Sitting, I felt of the damp wood of the seat, knowing that my pants would be wet by the time the ride was over.

Mike rowed us all the way to the middle of the lake. When I looked to the south of us, I could see the house we’d lived in before and the Vanderlaans’ next door. To the north was the old campgrounds. West was a beach, and east the public access. And all the spaces in between were wild with reeds and cattails.

“See them?” Mike whispered, nodding his head toward the cove carved out of the shore to the north of us.

Sitting as still as I could, afraid to scare them off, I watched the loons with their chick. They regarded us but weren’t spooked because Mike had made sure to keep a respectful distance.

“It won’t be long,” he said. “They migrate soon, don’t you think?”

“Probably by the end of the month,” I answered. “If not, then at the beginning of November.”

“You’ll miss them, won’t you?”

I nodded.

Soundlessly, the loons moved back into the cove, keeping their eyes on us. They were shy, and I couldn’t blame them. But what they lost in being shy, they made up for with their evening songs.

“Can you believe I’m leaving tomorrow?” Mike asked.

I shook my head. “You know Mom forbade this conversation, right?”

“She’s not here,” he said. “And I need to talk about it.”

Swallowing, I wished I’d brought a cup of coffee with me or some hot tea to take off the chill.

“You know why they let us have these weeks before we go to Vietnam, right?” He leaned his elbows on his knees.

“No,” I answered, not interested in venturing a guess.

“So we can see our family one more time,” he said. “In case we don’t come home.”

“You’re coming home.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Everybody at church is praying for you, Mike,” I said. “They started as soon as you went to training. And I know they’ll keep praying.”

“Prayer is good. But it can’t make me bulletproof.” He looked up at me, his face serious. “Things happen. People die.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Come on, sis.” He shook his head. “Don’t duck and cover now. I need you to think about what to do if I end up in a body bag.”

“God won’t let that happen to you,” I said, my voice sounding like it came from a little girl. “He wouldn’t do that to us.”

“He might.” He grabbed my hand. “Annie, it’s happening every day over there. It could happen to me.”

Had I not worried about hypothermia, I would have climbed right out of that boat. I would have gladly submerged in the water, letting it fill my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear him talk anymore.

“I shouldn’t be saying all this to you,” he said. “It’ll just worry you.”

I didn’t bother telling him that I was worried already.

But I was sure he knew it.