For Billy, the mist had lost its novelty. He had fished the flag and a tangle of lanyard out of the water. We spread it on the lawn to dry.
"I heard it was wrong to ever let the flag touch the ground, Daddy," he said in a businesslike, let's-get-this-out-of-the-way tone.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Victor McAllister says they lectercute people for it."
"Well, you tell Vic he's full of what makes the grass grow green."
"Horseshit, right?" Billy is a bright boy, but oddly humorless. To the champ, everything is serious business. I'm hoping that he'll live long enough to learn that in this world that is a very dangerous attitude.
"Yeah, right, but don't tell your mother I said so. When the flag's dry, we'll put it away. We'll even fold it into a cocked hat, so we'll be on safe ground there."
"Daddy, will we fix the boathouse roof and get a new flagpole?" For the first time he looked anxious. He'd maybe had enough destruction for a while.
I clapped him on the shoulder. "You're damn tooting."
"Can I go over to the Bibbers' and see what happened there?"
"Just for a couple of minutes. They'll be cleaning up, too, and sometimes that makes people feel a little ugly." The way I presently felt about Norton.
"Okay. Bye!" He was off.
"Stay out of their way, champ. And Billy?"
He glanced back.
"Remember about the live wires. If you see more, steer clear of them."
"Sure, Dad."
I stood there for a moment, first surveying the damage, then glancing out at the mist again. It seemed closer, but it was very hard to tell for sure. If it was closer, it was defying all the laws of nature, because the wind - a very gentle breeze-was against it. That, of course, was patently impossible. It was very, very white. The only thing I can compare it to would be fresh-fallen snow lying in dazzling contrast to the deep-blue brilliance of the winter sky. But snow reflects hundreds and hundreds of diamond points in the sun, and this peculiar fogbank, although bright and clean-looking, did not sparkle. In spite of what Steff had said, mist isn't uncommon on clear days, but when there's a lot of it, the suspended moisture almost always causes a rainbow. But there was no rainbow here.
The unease was back, tugging at me, but before it could deepen I heard a low, mechanical sound - whut-whut-whut! - followed by a barely audible "Shit!" The mechanical sound was repeated, but this time there was no oath. The third time the chuffing sound was followed by "Mother- f**k!" in the same low I'm-all-by-myself-but-boy-am-I-pissed tone.
Whut-whut-whut-whut
- Silence
- then: "You cunt."
I began to grin. Sound carries well out here, and all the buzzing chainsaws were fairly distant. Distant enough for me to recognize the not-so-dulcet tones of my next-door neighbor, the renowned lawyer and lakefront-property-owner, Brenton Norton.
I moved down a little closer to the water, pretending to stroll toward the dock beached on our breakwater. Now I could see Norton. He was in the clearing beside his screened-in porch, standing on a carpet of old pine needles and dressed in paint-spotted jeans and a white strappy T-shirt. His forty-dollar haircut was in disarray and sweat poured down his face. He was down on one knee, laboring over his own chainsaw. It was much bigger and fancier than my little $79.95 Value House job. It seemed to have everything, in fact, but a starter button. He was yanking a cord, producing the listless whut-whut-whut sounds and nothing more. I was gladdened in my heart to see that a yellow birch had fallen across his picnic table and smashed it in two.
Norton gave a tremendous yank on the starter cord
Whut-whut-whutwhutwhut-WHAT! WHAT! WHAT! ... WHAT! ... Whut.
Almost had it there for a minute, fella.
Another Herculean tug.
Whut-whut-whut.
"Cocksucker," Norton whispered fiercely, and bared his teeth at his fancy chainsaw.
I went back around the house, feeling really good for the first time since I got up. My own saw started on the first tug, and I went to work.
Around ten o'clock there was a tap on my shoulder. It was Billy with a can of beer in one hand and Steff's list in the other. I stuffed the list in the back pocket of my jeans and took the beer, which was not exactly frosty-cold but at least cool. I chugged almost half of it at once rarely does a beer taste that good-and tipped the can in salute at Billy. "Thanks, champ."
"Can I have some."
I let him have a swallow. He grimaced and handed the can back. I offed the rest and just caught myself as I started to crunch it up in the middle. The deposit law on bottles and cans has been in effect for over three years, but old ways die hard.
"She wrote something across the bottom of the list, but I can't read her writing," Billy said.
I took out the list again. "I can't get WOXO on the radio," Steff's note read. "Do you think the storm knocked them off the air?"
WOXO is the local automated FM rock outlet. It broadcast from Norway, about twenty miles north, and was all that our old and feeble FM receiver would haul in.