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We break for the semester next week, or most students do anyway. I have just a few days off before the summer session starts up. Between classes, work and cramming for the law school entrance exam, the fact that it’s summertime will barely even register. The Westfields invited me to their cottage up on Lake Superior in August, but I declined, thankful that test prepping gives me a valid excuse. I’m extra careful to avoid giving Samantha mixed messages. I think her parents get it, but while doing her best to be subtle about it, she’s still as rabid as a bloodhound.
The cottage, the cottage. She goes on and on about the damn place. The word grates on me. Only uppity people use that word, people who say they “summer” somewhere. Garth lived in what could only be described as a shack, and most of my friends grew up in trailers, some on farms. Just Charlotte and the Perillo twins, they were the only ones I knew fortunate enough to grow up in bona fide houses. But the world I now inhabit is completely different. I’m sure Professor Westfield’s “cottage” is a sprawling lakeside mansion fashioned to look like a log cabin or some shit.
“It’s so charming up there. The people speak and dress like absolute hicks, but their way of life is quaint in the Upper Peninsula. It’s like going back in time.”
I make a mental note to kick my own ass if I ever use the words quaint, charming or cottage in conversation.
“From what I hear, that area is going through tough times. Their economy is shit and the unemployment rate is sky high.”
“Really?” Samantha’s nose is scrunched up. “Marquette looks booming in the summertime. And the locals always seem so happy.”
Do I really need to explain it to her, that people who live in tourist destinations are reliant on the benevolence of people like her, people who waltz into the shops decked out in Vineyard Vines and spend money like tomorrow is their last day? Acting happy is a necessity. Those storekeepers and restaurant owners are desperate to make the experience Disneyland-wonderful for their summertime guests, lest they find somewhere else to spend their disposable income next year. No, she knows all this and obviously doesn’t care; she’s not a stupid girl.
And shit, why am I being so tough on her? She has no reason to spend her days thinking about economic disparity and hardship. Neither do I, but I can’t help it. I’m different from her and from the vast majority of people I now interact with on a daily basis. In the summer vacation scene Samantha paints, I’m the clerk stocking the shelves in the store, not a customer like her. I’m the waiter who smiles when people like her ask if today’s catch is wild or farm raised, and then calls her a twat under my breath as I walk into the kitchen to ask the pissed off line cook her asinine question.
Maybe I dwell on depressing shit because poverty and adversity are in my blood. Whatever the reason, I know I’d rather sweat my balls off in Chicago than spend a week at the Westfield cottage this summer.
I’m suddenly so over this bullshit, want to shake everyone and everything off. Looking over to my bedmate Diana, I say what should have been said months ago, “We need to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Charlotte
Ethan toddles across the yard, giggling as he chases after Lawrence’s dog. Looking on, my heart is full to capacity. It’s warm and familiar, that surge of pure joy I get when I look at my son.
He’ll be two and a half next month. Every birthday, every season, every successful follow-up appointment seems like a milestone, a hurdle he’s successfully navigated.
“Careful,” I say as he goes to grab Moe’s tail. It’s a word that’s become a reflex for me, and one that’s unnecessary in this moment. Moe is the sweetest creature on the planet, much like his owner, Lawrence. He humors Ethan, lets him tackle him, grab at his wagging tail, even lets him take a ball straight from his mouth so that Ethan can throw it for the umpteenth time, only to fetch it for him and bring it right back. One day last week he was barking loudly, making such a commotion. When I looked over, I saw Ethan making his way towards the shoreline. And while Ethan was still a good ways from the lake, it served as a stark reminder that turning your head, even for a split second, is dangerous when you’re responsible for a toddler.
I crouch down and pet my son’s protector. “You are such a good boy, you know that?”
“Good boy,” Ethan parrots as he rubs his chubby little hand along Moe’s head.
“Moe’s going to miss his buddy.”
“Ethan will miss him too. He’ll miss you even more, Lawrence. You are going to come down and stay with us in Ann Arbor sometimes, aren’t you?”
“As long as the boss says it’s all right.”
“Puh-lease, she’ll be lonesome for you, even if she has a hard time admitting it.”
Tomorrow is moving day. Lawrence is watching Ethan while Janelle and I busy ourselves with packing. He plays it off like he’s all good with this plan, but I know Lawrence has come to rely on Janelle in the same way she gets comfort from his presence.
“That woman is stubborn, but she’s already planning to come back here for your fall break, so,” he nods his head in the direction of the house and winks at me, “the gig is up...I know she loves me.” Lawrence whistles then and Moe comes running to his side. “C’mon Ethan, I’m going to teach you and Moe how to make sun tea and then we’re going to pick some wild blueberries for Aunt Janelle.”
“Don’t the bears up here like to hunt for blueberries this time of year too?”
Even though Lawrence has assured me on more than one occasion that Moe is a Karelian Bear dog, a breed that’s loving towards people but known as fierce hunters who don’t cower to bears twice their own size, I’m not having it.
“Tell your mama that us Finns are tough. The bears are scared of you, me and Moe.”
To that, Ethan giggles, but I stand my ground. “The two-year-old stays with me while you and Moe fight the bears for the blueberries.” Looking to Ethan, I say, “Come on, you can help Mommy.”
He’s not happy until I put him in one of the boxes I just assembled and pull him around the yard. He laughs and that sets Lawrence laughing too. “Okay,” he says, waving. “When I get back with the blueberries, I’ll teach you how to make ice cream too!”
This kid has three adults literally wrapped around his finger.
“Charlotte?” Janelle calls up the stairs in a quiet voice. She knows I’ve just put Ethan down for his afternoon nap.
