William Krueger - Copper River

“Is there someone you do like that way?” Cork ventured.

Ren seemed totally absorbed in pulling at a wood fragment that was separating from a porch plank. Finally he said, “I guess. Her name’s Amber. But I don’t want to tell Charlie that.”

“I wish I could say there’s a right way to go about something like this, Ren, but every situation is different. Mostly I’d advise you to do your best to be honest with Charlie. If you tell her things that aren’t true, hoping to spare her feelings, you’ll only end up making everything worse in the end.”

Ren succeeded in breaking loose the long splinter. He tested the point of it against his thumb. “Why does everything have to change?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. I only know it does and that you can’t stop it. What you can do is figure how to deal with it.”

The boy looked at Charlie, who stood with her back resolutely turned toward them.

“So…should I talk to her?”

“What do you think?’

“I guess.”

Ren roused himself, descended the steps, and headed toward Charlie.

The exchange with Ren caused Cork to think about his own children, the stumbling of his daughters particularly as they’d made their way across the threshold of adolescence to the worldly realizations that awaited them on the other side. His son was only seven, but he’d make that journey, too, someday. Cork missed them, missed them terribly, and he was suddenly afraid that somehow in his absence-or even because of his absence-horrible things might be happening to them. He wanted desperately to hear the music of their laughter, feel the bump of their hearts against his chest. He wanted to protect them, but it felt to him as if they were on the far side of the sun.

Watching Ren make his awkward way toward Charlie, struggling to find the right words to keep their friendship sealed, Cork understood that at the moment he couldn’t do anything about his own children. He could, however, do something about these. And he would. He’d be damned if he’d let any harm come to them.

Ren’s feet crunched on dry leaves. He knew Charlie heard him coming, although she didn’t turn around. He stopped a few feet shy of her.

“Charlie, I’m sorry.”

He circled so that she had to look at him.

“What do you want?” She glared at him.

“I don’t want you mad at me. Well, that’s okay really, ’cuz you’ve been mad at me before. I just don’t want you mad because you think…”

“What? Think what?”

“I don’t know.” He felt hopeless, all the right words hiding. “If you were gone, I think I’d die.”

“So go die.”

“Damn it, Charlie, I mean it. Remember when my dad died, everybody got all weird around me, even my mom. Everybody except you. I could still goof around with you, talk to you like always. That helped more than anything anybody else tried to do for me. I mean, you were just being you, you know. I mean it. If I lost you, I’d be lost, too.” He scratched his forehead over his right eye although nothing itched there. “I’m sorry if I hurt you or something…”

“Shut up.” She said it quietly, without anger. She stared at her boots. “I don’t know what’s going on, Ren. Sometimes I want to cry for no reason. Sometimes I feel all this stuff and it scares me because I don’t know where it’s coming from. I look in the mirror and I hate who I see. This head.” She slapped at the dark bristle. “I’m not pretty like Amber Kennedy. I don’t have boobs.”

“You want boobs?” he asked incredulously.

“I didn’t used to but I do now. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Look, I think it’s a heredity thing. Did your mom have big boobs?”

“The pictures I’ve seen of her, yeah, I guess.”

“Well, there you go,” he said with a flourish of his hands. “You’ll have boobs, too, someday. I’ll bet anything. Ask my mom. She knows all about that stuff.”

Charlie glanced up, frowning a little. “I should ask Dina Willner. She’s the one with the boobs. You sure noticed.”

“Ah jeez, Charlie. She’s, like, pretty and all, but way old. I know that.”

“You don’t like her?”

“Well…” He thought about what Cork had advised. The truth. “I like looking at her and all, but I don’t really want to talk to her or anything. I like talking to you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Way better.”

She smiled. “I like talking to you, too.”

Ren reached out and rubbed the bristle on her scalp. “I probably shouldn’t have helped you shave your head, huh?”

“It’s okay. But I’m thinking I’ll let it grow for a long time before I cut it again.”

Ren shook his head doubtfully. “If it gets too long you’ll trip over it when you’re running bases.”

She punched his arm lightly. “Not that long, dude.”

“And listen, if you had boobs you probably couldn’t swing a bat.”

“Yeah, but I’d have a nice cushion whenever I had to slide into second.”

They laughed, and for a little while Ren’s world felt right again.

T he road to the Copper River Club was narrow and not well maintained. Jewell had always suspected that this was because the high-profile members didn’t want to broadcast the true nature of the bit of Eden they’d fenced off for themselves at the end of that road. She’d never been past the main gate, although she was acquainted with many in Bodine who had, folks who worked in the compound as cooks or on the grounds crew or doing maintenance or security. And there was Ned. She’d been told that each family had its own lodge, but there was a common dining hall in which truly magnificent meals were served. By the standards of most people of enormous wealth, the accommodations of the compound would be considered rustic. However, the idea at the heart of the Copper River Club, as Jewell understood it, was to preserve forever the virgin beauty of the Huron Mountains and to offer the members a unique escape from their tailored estates and the glass-and-concrete towers from which they oversaw their industries and their fortunes. Which might have made one think a bit of Thoreau and Walden Pond but for the gate across the road, the guard box there, and the firearms carried by the security personnel.

“Afternoon, Wes,” Ned said to the guard who leaned in the window of the constable’s Cherokee.

Wes Barnes was a resident of Bodine, though not a native. He’d come for the job at the Copper River Club. He was not particularly tall, but he was muscular, with an octopus-shaped scar on his jaw that spread tentacles down his neck. The scar suggested violence, but Jewell hadn’t been able to figure exactly what kind. Disfigurement from fire or an explosion was her best guess.

“Ned.” Barnes greeted him, then looked at the women. “Jewell, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Wes.”

He studied Dina with an eye that seemed to be considering more than just security. “I don’t believe I know you.”

“Right back at you,” Dina said.

“I need to talk to Calvin Stokely,” Ned broke in. “Is he around?”

“He went off duty a couple of hours ago,” Barnes replied.

“Mind if I drive up to his place, see if I can catch him there?”

“What’s the nature of your business?”

“That’s pretty much between him and me.”

Barnes’s eyes crawled like spiders over Jewell and Dina. “And between them, too, apparently.” He shook his head. “I can’t clear you, Ned, but you want to talk to his brother about it, fine by me. I’ll have him come down.”

“Appreciate it, Wes.”

“No problemo.”

Barnes returned to the guard box.

“His brother?” Dina asked.

“Isaac Stokely. Head of security.”