Return to Indian Island
Indian Island, Idaho, July 1976
The rowboat smashes into the dock with a thud. A startled mallard plunges into the lake and paddles quickly away.
“I’m home!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I’ve waited eight long years to hear myself say those two words again. Stepping onto the shores of Indian Island is like stepping back in time. Hidden among the trees in the Pitchy Pine Forest sits little Papoose, our lost cabin, waiting for its family to return. Voices and laughter still echo from its walls: Mama, Daddy, Adriana, J. R., Dino, and Benji. The faint squeak of a hamster wheel drifts from the shed like a sad melody, carrying the memory of Ruby Jean.
Running toward the cabin, the words ring over and over in my head, I’m home! I’m home! I whisper it this time, just to hear myself say it again. I let myself in, relishing the thought that no one else knows I’m here. I’d debated over clanging the bell on the main shore, knowing the mini-tug would come for me, but I wanted my reunion to happen right here, on my old beloved island.
I’m relieved to find everything in Papoose the same as when we left, as though no one has taken our place. My eyes dart to the phone number of Big Chief, still tacked to the wall above the phone. I’ve played this moment in my mind so many times.
Lord, help me to pull this off. Dialing the number, my hands begin to shake. The old familiar ring blares in my ear …
“Hello?”
It’s Danny. That same Southern voice that made my heart skip a beat the first time I ever heard it is making it pound now. “Well, howdy on ya!” I bellow, in the best Southern drawl I can muster—not easy, after spending eight years in Italy.
There’s a long pause. “Howdy yourself. May I ask who’s callin’?”
“You can ask all ya want, but I ain’t gonna tell ya. I’m frankly more in’erested in that log cabin you’ve got over yonder from your place a piece. Any chance it might be up for rent this summer?”
There is no way Danny would even think of being stuck on an island with some kook. He’d rather leave Papoose empty than have to deal with a nutty neighbor.
“Who’s this?” He sounds more curious than annoyed.
“Well, who in the Sam Hill do ya think it is?”
“Um, I really don’t know, but in answer to your first question, I don’t rent that cabin out. I have a family I keep it reserved for whenever she … whenever they come back.”
I can’t stand it any longer. “Well, Danny boy, it just breaks my li’l heart that you don’t recognize a true Southern belle when you hear one.” That’ll get his wheels turning.
“… No way … A. J.? Is that you?”
“Bingo! Race you to Juniper Beach—and bring my dog!” I slam down the receiver and dart out the screen door so fast it nearly flies off its hinges.
I’m whippin’ down that old Pitchy Pine Trail faster than a baby jackrabbit. The first thing I see when I reach Juniper Beach is my big old dog.
“Sailor!” I cry, with tears streaming down my face. Sailor comes barreling down the beach, twice as fat and half as fast as when we parted. He pounces on me so hard I nearly fall over. I bury my face in his fur and sob like the day I found him on death row. When I look up, I see Danny walking toward me real slow, as though he doesn’t want to intrude on my reunion with Sailor.
As I wipe my tears, my eyes come to focus on the face I’ve so longed to see—besides Sailor’s. Oh … my … gosh. This is not the Danny I remember. Before me stands a towering six-foot-somethin’ sandy-blond, sun-bronzed cowboy—a perfect cross between the Duke and Little Joe Cartwright. When we’re within arm’s reach of each other, we both just stop. Eight years is a long time—from saying good-bye as kids to saying hello as adults.
“Hey, A. J.,” Danny says, real tender.
No one has ever said my name the way Danny says my name … with the most beautiful Southern accent I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I stand still, just staring at him … and I have only one thing to say. “Can you ride a horse?”
Danny looks taken back and amused at the same time. “Did you just ask me if I can ride a horse?”
(Daddy once told me, “A. J., when you find your cowboy, make sure he can actually ride a horse. Any man can put on the hat and the boots and call himself a cowboy, but only a real man can actually ride the horse.”)
“Um … never mind,” I answer. “But can you?”
“Ride a horse?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.”
Now he’s grinning, like he just realized I must be the same quirky kid he knew before. Not bothering to ask why, he just answers the question. “Yeah, A. J., I can ride a horse.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Is that good?
“Yeah. That’s good.” That’s real good.
Now Danny’s looking at me with those blue, blue eyes that always made me feel like he could see right into the depths of my soul. Is this really my childhood friend? Our nearly four-year age difference that once posed such a gap between us seems strangely insignificant now.
Danny sticks his hands in his pockets. His quizzical expression suggests that maybe he’s thinking the same thing.
Yep, I’m the same freckle-faced kid, with the fake Southern accent, who could squirt half the lake between my two front teeth. At least I’ve grown into my teeth now and speak Italian instead of Southern.
So here we are face to face, after all these years, in a standoff, wondering how we’re going to fill this awkward moment …