Another weekend arrived, but this one was definitely a bad weather, stay in the house and read kind of weekend. When I first looked out my bedroom window, the clouds hung black and ominous like big tufts of cotton candy. By the time Grandma had finished her Saturday morning tea, the rain was coming down in torrents, a steady tapping on the roof and windows. The lake was a reflection of grey and gloom. I wasn’t feeling very party-like myself.
Grandma was sad too because she couldn’t paint in her new wilderness location, but then she decided to make the best of it. We spent the morning baking bread, or rather Grandma baking and me kneading the warm dough. I loved the elastic feel of the risen dough as I worked it and rolled it in and over itself. Grandma formed it into the bread pans, and soon the warm, luscious smell of baking bread hugged every corner of the cottage. Meanwhile, Grandma and I each snuggled under a blanket and played gin rummy. By the end, I owed her six thousand dollars and my first-born child. Luckily, she took an I.O.U.
In the afternoon, the rain let up a bit and we drove to town to buy some groceries. Hawk’s Creek has one grocery store, a liquor store, a drug store, a post office and a diner. There’s also a small hospital that serves a few other small communities that rim the north shore of Lake Superior and a recreation centre with an outdoor pool. Most locals make the trip to Thunder Bay to buy clothes or anything substantial they might need. They talk about the two-hundred kilometre trip like we in Southern Ontario would talk about a jaunt to the local mall, even though for them, it involves half a day of driving each way. Grandma was over visiting with the butcher, a fellow art connoisseur, discussing oil painting techniques and lamb chops, while I was in the cat food aisle, reading the back of a can that sounded tempting even if meowing wasn’t your first language. I was about to put the can back and proceed to critique the contents of a box of canary seed when I heard two local women discussing the break-in at Kerry’s cottage.
“I warned Pam Randall that there’d be trouble when that Musquash family moved in. You can always tell by looking at people whether they can be trusted or not.”
The woman’s friend seemed to agree. “I don’t believe in those mixed marriages. The kids always turn out . . . well odd, you know, not fitting in. It’s not that I’m a racist or anything, but that girl stealing from the Randalls just proves what I’m talking about. They should go back where they came from.”
I knocked over three tins of dog food as I dropped my hand. The women became silent, and I heard their carts move down the aisle. I was shaken by their words. I picked up the cans from the floor and went to join Grandma.
She looked at my face and asked, “Are you all right, my dear? You look a bit pale.”
I decided there was no point in troubling her. “I’m fine, Grandma. I guess I’m just a bit hungry.”
“Well, I know how to fix that.” She turned back to the butcher. “Just package up those lamb chops and those sausages, Carl, and we’ll be on our way.”
We finished our shopping quickly, since there really wasn’t too much selection to debate, and left the store with three bags of food. We placed the food in the back of the Jeep before going for milkshakes at the Sprucegrove Diner. We both ordered chocolate malts at the counter and settled ourselves in a booth near the window. Above Grandma’s head was a poster advertising a summer dance at the recreation centre the following Tuesday evening.
“Hawk’s Creek summer teen dance. Nine o’clock, Tuesday night.” I read Grandma the highlights.
“You should go. It’ll do you good. You could spend the night with Kerry in town and meet her friends. I worry you’re spending too much time alone.”
“I’ll ask her. It could be fun.” I’d been lonely since Audrey had stopped coming over every day. It might be good to meet some more kids my age.
While Grandma and I were making a dash to the Jeep with the thunder rumbling overhead, I glanced up and saw Mr. Musquash standing under an awning smoking a cigarette. Audrey stood a few feet from him, with her head down and her shoulders slumped. Mr. Musquash looked angry and was pounding the air with one hand as he spoke in Audrey’s direction. He looked like a wrestler, stocky and strong with his long mustache bobbing up and down as he talked. Audrey kept nodding, and finally he seemed to relax.
I climbed into the Jeep, and while I was staring out of the window between the raindrops, Jimmy walked outside from a door behind Audrey, looking angry too. I hadn’t seen him since he’d brought me home that day from the airport. Even from a distance, he looked good in a denim jacket and blue jeans. His black hair was longer than it had been, almost down to his shoulders. He’d grown a mustache and short beard that looked a lot like stubble. He said something to his dad, and Mr. Musquash looked to be laughing as he patted Audrey on the shoulder. Jimmy lifted his eyes in our direction, and I thought for a second that his bright blue eyes were looking right at me. I looked away, suddenly embarrassed for watching them. I remember thinking that it all seemed very strange. How could Mr. Musquash be so angry one minute and so pleased with Audrey the next? I turned to Grandma for her opinion, but she was looking the other way and missed seeing the Musquashes entirely.
And so Saturday drifted away as did Sunday in a cool, steady rain which lasted until suppertime. I read a novel from Grandma’s bookcase called Cannery Row by an American author named John Steinbeck and helped Grandma to do the laundry in her little washer and dryer tucked into the back of the kitchen. All in all, we had a good time, singing old camp songs and playing a few more games of rummy in the evenings. I wanted the world to stop and stay like this forever. No worrying about my parents, no worrying about failing school and definitely no worrying about people expecting anything from me.
About eight o’clock Sunday night, the phone rang, and it was Leslie. “Hi, Jen. Ballerina camp ended on Friday, but it got better. I made new friends like you said. Molly is my friend again too, so now I have four friends instead of just one.”
“That’s great. Where’s Mom?” I hadn’t spoken to her for a few weeks.
“Mom got called in to work. Mr. Putterman’s here with me.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I wanted to go stay with Dad, but Mom said no. By the way, Dad told me to tell you not to worry about your job, and he hopes you’re having a good time. When are you coming home, Jen?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m not sure I want to come home.”
“I hate it when you’re gone. Pete came by this week. He seemed sad that you weren’t back, and Ambie called twice.”
I felt a tug. Pete came by. “How did Ambie like camp?”
“She said it was okay. She said she’d learned some computer programming, and it was a blast. Do you think Ambie’s getting kind of nutty? Anyhow, she asked what was keeping you up North.”
“I’m having a good time. Besides, it’s peaceful here with Grandma. I’m going to a dance in town on Tuesday.”
“That should be fun. Oh, gotta go, Jen. Mr. Putterman wants to call his office for messages.”
“Hugs and kisses, Les. Sorry I can’t come home yet.”
I noticed that Grandma was watching me over the top of her knitting needles, but she didn’t say anything then or later about when I should go home.
Kerry and her mom picked me up Tuesday afternoon to go into town for the dance. Kerry was excited that I was going to sleep over, and she talked non-stop all the way into town until we pulled into their driveway. Then, she said, “Here we are, Jen. The Randall estate!”
Actually, they did have a pretty big house. It was painted a buttery colour and had green shutters. A circular driveway led to a three-car garage. Kerry hopped out of the car and led me into the house and upstairs to her bedroom. She had a canopy bed and white furniture with pink hearts painted all over it. Her window looked out over the front yard. The curtains were also white and ruffled, tied back with sashes. Pictures of Kerry in different beauty contests and dance costumes filled a bulletin board over her desk. Above the bulletin board was a banner that said, “Winning is Everything.” Kerry spun around the room and flopped onto her bed. I sat down beside her.
“We’re going to meet Mandy Morgan and Leah Pinkett at eight-thirty outside the rec centre. You’ll like them. We’ve been friends since forever,” said Kerry.
“Do they ever come up to the lake?”
“Not in July. That’s why you’ve never met them. Mandy spends July in Europe, and Leah has to go to her dad’s in New York. You’ve always gone back to Springhills before August.”
It was true. This was the first August I’d spent at Grandma’s. I suddenly thought of Ambie. If I were back in Springhills, we’d be hanging out in her bedroom or going to see a movie at the mall. “What do you want to do until it’s time to get ready for the dance?” I asked.
“We could play tennis. We have a court out back.”
Anything beat sitting around missing Ambie. “That sounds great. I can see if the money my mother shelled out for lessons last summer was worth it.”
Kerry laughed. “I have to modestly say that I’ve had a few lessons myself.”
I should have taken that as a big hint and begged off lame. Instead, I survived two hours of Kerry cleaning the court with me as she pounded her serve past my racquet again and again. The few times that I managed to hit the ball back over the net, Kerry thumped it into the farthest corner of the court. She had me running back and forth like a rabbit at a shooting range. Just as I was thinking about collapsing into the asphalt and waiting for some paramedics to carry me off to emergency, Kerry’s mom called us for dinner. I would have kissed her if she’d been within reach.
Kerry bounded around the net, having barely broken into a sweat. “Wasn’t that fun! You have an interesting serve, Jen.”
“Do you think?” I panted.
“You’ll have to tell me how you get it to go so slow . . . and so high.”
I tried to smile good-naturedly as she giggled. “It’s all in the wrist,” I said.
Kerry strode ahead of me and said over her shoulder: “Did I mention I was runner-up in junior tennis provincials two years in a row? I’m hoping to win it this year. I’ll show you my trophies after dinner.”
“I can’t wait,” I said.