David Gates - Preston Falls

Outside, he finds the hammer in the grass, sticks it back in his tool-

PRESTON FALLS

belt, and carries the stepladder (undamaged) back to the woodshed. The hammer he's going to need. Out by the barn he's got a pile of scrap lumber he tore out of the house; one of those old pieces of particleboard should do the trick. Except just now he doesn't trust himself with the circular saw. So what the fuck: why not just put plastic? The true North Country look. He lays out two black garbage bags, joins them with duct tape, gets his staple gun — one thing, he's fucking equipped — and staples the plastic to the outside of the window frame. Then he nails scrap one-by-twos over where he's stapled so the shit won't rip away in the first stiff wind. He steps back: pretty decent-looking job.

He wrenches apart the pieces of wrecked window sash and busts them up for kindling. He puts what broken glass he can find inside folded newspaper inside more folded newspaper and dumps it in the garbage, along with the few fragments of sheetrock he clawed down; then he sweeps up the dirt and mouseshit. Rathbone's lying on the kitchen floor watching him. He must like that cool linoleum on his belly. Willis whistles, and he raises his head.

"C'mon, Big. Go for a walk?"

They take the path that leads down into the woods. A road to the lower pastures when this used to be a farm. Rathbone finds a stick, head-fakes Willis with it, jumps back. Willis lunges a couple of times. If his heart's not even in this, what's he doing with a family? Rathbone fakes with his stick again. "Sorry, Big," Willis says. "I just feel so shitty."

In addition to whatever else, he's starting to worry about what could happen at that campground. First he can't wait to get rid of them, now he's imagining serial killers and buggering, throat-slitting prison escapees. (Yes yes yes, he knows fears are secret wishes. What doesn't he fucking know.) And he let them go — no, he didn't let them go, he fucking drove them out. Well, not exactly. But. What he'd better do, he'd better put Rathbone in the truck and get the hell down there before dark. Which is insane. But what if you ignored this premonition and something happened to them? Oh, so now he's elevated this bullshit to a premonition.

Back at the house, he hides his guitars: the Rick and the Tele behind shit in the woodshed, the J-200 under the bed, the D-18 in the cellar. CDs into drawers, boombox back behind the canning jars. Rathbone, thinking they're going back to Chesterton, where he gets cooped up all day, cringes away when Willis comes for him.

He's pouring some Eukanuba into a plastic shopping bag when it

hits him that maybe he should bring the.22 just in case. That shit about serial killers is a little over-the-top, but don't campgrounds breed raccoons? He goes upstairs, gets down on his back and springs the bicycle lock that holds the rifle up under the bed. From the sock drawer, he takes the rolled pair of socks with the clip inside.

The gun just fits into the long duffel bag, which is excellent because he can sleep with it right by his side and Jean and the kids won't know shit; he sticks it behind the seat of the truck. So. All squared away. But wouldn't you know: just as he's pulling out of the driveway, some asshole cruises by and gives the swivel-head stare. Might as well have a fucking loudspeaker announcing that Willis of Westchester and his faithful watchdog are now vacating their weekend home and that every teenage doper in the county is now invited to come on in and rip off all his expensive shit. Though he's probably overreacting. It's a Lumina van, which always makes Willis think of Sendero Luminoso, but which is in fact a car for decent people.

By the time they get to Lake Edwards, Jean actually wishes the trip could have taken longer. It felt so good getting farther and farther from Preston Falls; couldn't they just go and go, the three of them, forever? The kids were a joy. They stopped at Grand Union for picnic stuff and Roger didn't whine when she told him he couldn't have some Schwarzenegger video he picked up and brought to the cart. (She did let him get a bottle of Sportif; the caffeine wouldn't kill him this once.) They stopped at a Stewart's for ice cream, and Mel took Jean's word for it that Stewart's stuff didn't have bovine growth hormone (in fact Jean has no idea) and ate a small dish of peach frozen yogurt.

And her luck's holding: they score the last available lean-to. The ranger points out the location on the big map and gives her a small map, on which he traces the route in yellow highlight pen, marking their lean-to. Aspen, with a star. The afternoon has stayed hot and the kids are eager to get in the water, so they'll probably eat well, then sleep well. And it's supposed to stay sunny, so they can hang here till late tomorrow afternoon and get their fill of swimming; she'll worry about fighting the holiday traffic when it's time to worry about it. (The Tappan Zee will be a nightmare.) Maybe she can even get them to go on a hike. And if she can keep them from napping on the drive home — car games? loud rock and roll? — they'll be ready to pop into bed right after supper and be well rested for the first day of school. Which she truly can't believe Willis wouldn't want to be home for. But let's not get into that.

She parks in the space by their lean-to and just leaves all their things locked in the Cherokee; great as it would be to come back and have their camp all set up, stuff gets stolen even in places like this. She hands Roger the map and has him find the path to the lake; really, it takes so litde to make him feel proud. As he leads them down sandy switchbacks

through the pine trees, she considers telling him he's the man of the family today, but that's laying it on too thick. Just let him feel good about himself, without getting him thinking about why he's feeling what he's feeling and so on and so on — what Willis used to call Willis's Disease. And maybe still does, to somebody

Roger spreads their blanket on the hot white sand, and Jean waits until his back is turned to smooth out the folds and creases, Mel says she's going to go change: the first word out of her, now that Jean thinks of it, since they were at Stewart's. So something's up with her. It's all fine and good to tell yourself they're hardened to their father not being around, but the fact is.

"How come you have to go change?" Roger pulls at the neck of Mel's t-shirt; she yanks his hand off and twists away. "You have it on under there, stupid," he says. "Why don't you just take your pants off? That is so stupid."

"Roger," says Jean.

"It's not any of your business, Roger," says Mel, turning red.

"It's not any of your —''

"Stop," Jean says. "Your sister's entitled to change where she wants to change, with no input from—"

"But she's not changing," says Roger. "She's just—"

"One more word," says Jean. "Got it? Let's please not have anything ruin this beautiful day, all right? All we have is today and tomorrow, and that's it for the summer. You guys are back in school, I'm back at work…" Admitting, in effect, that despite all the propaganda she feeds them, school and work are a drag and a burden.

"But Mom?" Roger says. "Isn't it summer until September twenty-second?" Borderline backtalk, which he thinks he's craftily disguised as a point of information.

"So they say. See how you feel about it Tuesday morning."

Jean watches Mel walk toward the bathhouse; she's gotten so lanky you can see space between the thighs of even those loose cotton pants. Mel's being siUy, but Jean goes through the same thing: once you're on the beach in a bathing suit you're on the beach in a bathing suit, but taking down your pants in public to reveal the bathing suit feels immodest. Well, better to have Mel be this way than the other. Roger, meanwhile, has pulled off his t-shirt and is working on his shoes and socks.