Page 3 of Lake Hollow Curses

In private. Natalie won’t understand half of it, but she isn’t discreet. All the things I’ve learned just this morning because she doesn’t think before sharing, are Skip is researching acquiring land by the Country Club, the Marlows put a spotlight up in their yard facing the Funpark, Wilder made a comment about not wanting to use his motorcycle because of the unpredictable nature of his seizures, and… this one still has me twisted… Remington re-enrolled in art school in Florida. Classes start in less than a month.

“Uh… well, I mean… yeah, yeah we can just fish off the dock,” he says with hesitation. After a quick kiss goodbye to Natalie, he follows me to the boathouse for his tackle and a couple of rods.

Growing up, dad, Mitch, and I would fish off the dock early Sunday mornings… until the morning Katie was missing. The only one taking the activity seriously was dad. We used the time to get him to talk about Lake Hollow. All the ways it’s changed through the years. It’s the most impassioned we’d ever see him. His love of his hometown is impressive, while he’s never been that effusive over his love of his children. He’d regale us with stories of him and Daniel running wild, playing in the water.

Until…

But dad would avoid the talk of losing Daniel. If an outsider would’ve heard the stories, they’d assume Daniel was still with us. Maybe he is.

“Why are my rods always getting moved? Someone dug through all my fishing gear, the line in my tackle box is all tangled up,” Mitchell gripes, hauling his cumbersome four drawer black tackle box off a shelf. “No one should even be coming in here.” He goes to set the box down on the cement pad that runs the perimeter of the boat house, but it tips, spilling its contents all over. Artificial lures, bobbers, weights, his fillet knife, and keys spill out.

I pick up the set of keys, raising an eyebrow. I ask him, “What are these for?”

The sloshing of the water from the front of the boathouse, the loon calls, and a distant motor almost cover up Mitchell’s reply. He grabs the keys from me, shoving them in his pocket, he repeats himself, “Don’t worry about it.”

I haven’t been in the boathouse since the Fourth of July when I snagged the keys for the pontoon. In fact, I don’t keep any of my belongings out here. Besides it being dark and dank, it’s not convenient. My water skis, wakeboard, most of my fishing equipment are in the basement storage room of the house. Eliminating the need to move any of it when colder weather setsin and the boats are lifted out of the water. “I’m not. But… you seem to be?”

Over and over since I returned to Lake Hollow, I’m reminded that my younger brother isn’t the same person he was when I left. Whether it’s been the proximity to all the rumors, or he knows things he’s keeping to himself… Mitchell is acting nervous as hell.

I need to get to the bottom of it.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, as we take up each side of the cedar decked dock. Our view is clear of the country club to the left of us, the Funpark across the lake, and in the distance to the right of us and beyond the bridge, The Bends. The slimy worm I grab from the Styrofoam container we keep in the boathouse fridge dangles from the hook, while I balance the seven-foot rod with the open-faced reel in between my knees. “You need a bobber and sinker on your line,” I remind Mitchell, whose head seems somewhere else altogether.

He nods lightly at me, while cutting the line to put a weight on it. “Dad’s really selling the house… for real this time?” His voice is saddened and hushed.

Finally. Why hold onto it, if my parents avoid being here? “That appears to be the case.”

Standing here with Mitchell, the weight pulling us to this place, to Lake Hollow feels tethered to me. A feeling of revulsion creeps up my spine. How could a place so beautiful, so serene seeming hold such treacherous secrets? The gentle waves of the water are a taunting presence. A reminder that nothing is as it seems.

“I’m still not moving. Lala left her house to me, after I get all her things packed up and distributed how she wanted, that’s where I plan to stay.” His voice cracks, wiping a tear from his cheek he continues, “I half expected the Marlows to fight everything.”

“Right. Well, her brother anyway,” I respond to him. Grady could care less about his aunt’s possessions. In some ways he seems almost emotionless about her being gone. But Grady has always been guarded around me. Fair enough, we’ve never been all that friendly until recently. Until Remington James came into our lives. “Gary Marlow would fight you just because you’re a Gibson. Are you sure he knows?”

Snagging a good-sized Perch, Mitchell starts to reel in, distracted he says, “He was served paperwork. I don’t know…” I set my rod down, grab his pliers to work the hook out of the fish’s mouth, as he continues, “What does dad need from me?”

I do the mediating between Mitch and dad. Years of disappointment dad has fostered over Mitchell’s shortcomings… his sensitivity, his mediocre grades, lack of ambition, his neediness… they’ve culminated in dad leaning on me. He expects me to be the messenger, by default that’s what Mitch wants me to do in return to dad. It’s exhausting and pointless. “He wanted me to tell you that you can keep anything you want from the house out on the airstrip property, but it has to be moved by the end of the summer.”

A deadline. On so many fronts.

“Fine. Tell him I don’t want or need anything other than my clothes and… and I want the family picture that hangs over the fireplace.”

Interesting choice, but even though I wanted it, too, I nod at him, my smile tight. “That’s it? What about the runabout?” The boat he has always favored. “Or your camping stuff, dad’s hunting mounts, or his nature prints? No furniture, appliances, tools… None of that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t need it. I’m good.”

Trying to assess his facial expression, I feel the slight nudge of acknowledgment. He may know more than I ever realized aboutdad. About the past. He wants to cut ties as quietly as possible. So do I.

“Alright.” I toss my line back into the water. “Say the word and I’ll help you get things over to your new place.”

Beaus on the water is always busy on Tuesdays during the summer, not only are the wings cheap, but happy hour specials bring in a young and boisterous crowd off the lake. The docks are full of boats, the outdoor music loud, and the tables are full. Carter waves both Cal and I towards him. “You fuckers took long enough to get here. I had to hold off several people from grabbing these chairs.” DBD, or Dave as he should be referred to now that we’re all adults, holds up a pitcher of beer over his head, while waving enthusiastically.

I had to talk Cal into being here. He’s been especially crabby since Remi has been quiet. Avoiding him at work, not answering texts again, and not being around when he stops at her cabin. I told him to relax, he’s only going to push her away, if he gets clingy.

Cal Truitt as clingy… never thought I’d see the day.

Once we’re all seated at the sticky laminated round table filled with markings, drawings, and a gummy film, Carter says, “Hemminger reached out and wanted to talk to me. About weird shit, too.” Dave sets the pitcher on the table along with the stack of cups. “Told him that he needs to talk to Wilder Lee again.”

Cal rolls his eyes grabbing a cup to pour himself a drink. “You mean her? Hemminger is a woman. Can we have a night free of drowning talk?”

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