“Every day, son.”
“How is it you’re chosen to die?”
This was getting heavy. “Hard to say. The only thing certain is everybody’s time comes.”
Some sooner than others, though.
“Your daddy’s time came here on the lake, didn’t it?” James asked.
He looked at the boy. “How did you know that?”
“Grandma told us.”
“It wasn’t out here on the lake. Happened that way, up in one of the creeks.” He pointed toward the northeast.
“How did he die?”
“Nobody’s sure. He was fishing alone and had an accident.”
“Could we see where?” James said.
“Why would you want to?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
It was an innocent request, like children sometimes made, but it bothered him. After Paula died he’d always avoided that stretch of local highway, never wanting to see that power pole again. Likewise, since two summers ago when his father’s body had been found floating facedown, his boat stuck among the thickets, he hadn’t thought of ever returning to Brooks Creek. Why was he like that? Reality many times was far less frightening than what the imagination envisioned. The concrete pole. Brooks Creek. Places where something awful had occurred? Or were they barriers that needed breaching? What had his mother said earlier? “Life goes on.”
That it did.
Maybe a visit would do them all some good.
“Okay, let’s take a look.”
He reeled in the line. The boys did the same. He cranked the outboard and they chugged north. Thanks to high scattered clouds the hot midafternoon sun shone more peekaboo than direct. The lake lulled at almost a dead calm so the flat-bottomed skiff slipped easily across, a ribbon of dirty-brown foam unfolding behind them.
He studied the wooded shoreline. The trees seemed thicker with homes, cabins, and trailers than he remembered. Three years had passed since he’d last traveled across Eagle Lake, that day with his father for an afternoon of fishing.
Their last ever together.
Up ahead he spotted the familiar break in the shoreline.
He released the throttle and slowed the skiff.
“Where is it?” Grant looked ahead.
“Through that opening.”
Both boys stared at the impenetrable shoreline dense with trees and bushes. Almost directly off the bow was a narrow break where the water disappeared inland. It could be missed if you didn’t know where to look.
But he did.
The skiff inched toward it and he said, “This is Brooks Creek.”
He clicked off the outboard knowing what waited. Almost immediately he saw the limbs, the sight forming a knot in the pit of his stomach. He’d earlier dodged James’ question about how his father died.
But he knew what happened.
According to the police report his dad apparently misjudged the limbs’ height. Blood and tissue samples found on the bark matched a corresponding contusion on his father’s forehead. He remembered the autopsy report and pictures and would never forget the comment at the end of the report.
