The Secrets of Lake Road

“Chris.” She poked her head into his room, double-checking. His bed was empty.

She changed clothes, shoved her feet into work boots, and went back outside to the shed in search of a handsaw. It was too late at night for the chainsaw, which was too bad because it would’ve made the work that much easier. The door to the shed stuck, and she had to yank hard to get it open. She heard a small animal scurry to the corner when she stepped inside. She pulled the string to the bare light bulb and looked around. She found the handsaw hanging on a nail above the workbench. Underneath the saw was an old, deflated inner tube, the one Chris used to ride on behind their boat, the same inner tube her father had used to pull her and her brother, Billy.

She lifted the tube, and the unmistaken smell of rotting rubber wafted through the air, the scent unpleasant to most but not to her. It was the scent of happier times. She remembered not only the times when Chris was a young boy riding the tube, but also, more sharply, the times with her brother. When Billy was young, well before puberty, he’d sit between her legs and grip the handles. “Hold on!” she would yell as they sailed across the water. It had felt like flying.

And one time when their father had made a particularly sharp turn, the tube had flipped, sending both her and Billy jetting across the lake, their bodies slapping the water, their laughter filling the air. On the pier not far from where they were thrown, a group of girls around fourteen years of age, Dee Dee’s age at the time, jeered and poked fun at her. Even then her strong body and large frame evoked ridicule.

“Come on,” an eleven-year-old Billy had said, tugging on Dee Dee’s arm, pulling her away from the sneering girls. “I’ll race you to the boat.”

The endless summer days on the lake with her brother had been some of the best days of her life. He had been her best friend.

*

She grabbed the handsaw and slammed the door to the shed and the memories. She walked around the tree limb, careful not to trip over the smaller branches. It was thicker than she had originally thought. It split from the old oak tree next to the cabin. They were lucky it didn’t hit the roof. On the bright side, it would make good firewood. She tried lifting the end, grunting at the heft of it. “Well, shit.” Nothing was ever easy.

She set to work, sawing off the smaller branches and tossing them aside. She worked for another thirty minutes, her back and arms tiring from the labor. When she sawed off most of the smaller pieces, she began the arduous work of sawing the limb in quarters, her thoughts on the drowned little girl. She hoped she was found before the storm hit. The lake bottom was treacherous, formed by a glacier thousands of years ago, leaving behind shelves and caverns and ravines. It would be anyone’s guess where the strong current in a storm would take a little girl—anyone’s guess where she would be hidden.

After another thirty minutes or more she dragged the last piece of the limb to the side. She pulled the car into the opened space, cut the lights, and sat down on the porch step in the dark to wipe her brow and catch her breath.

She heard footsteps, recognizing at once who it was by the shape of the hat on his head. “Just like a blister,” she had said to Sheriff Borg when he had been within earshot. “Showing up when the work is done.”

He walked over to where she was sitting and placed his foot on the step, resting his forearm on top of his thigh. “We need to talk.”

Her first thought was Chris. “Is it my boy?” she asked, and pulled herself up, her muscles exhausted. It wouldn’t be the first time the sheriff had paid her a visit: minor stuff Chris had been involved in, graffiti, peeling out in the Pavilion parking lot, pissing in public. The sheriff always had brought Chris home rather than slapping a fine on him—or worse, locking him up in jail for the night. He was willing to help her out, knowing she was raising Chris on her own.

“No,” he said. “It’s not about Chris.”

“Well, then come on in.” She was thirsty, and whatever it was he came to tell her, it could wait until she had a drink. She went over to the door and held it open. He stepped inside and removed his sheriff’s hat. His gray hair was clipped close to his scalp. His brow was furrowed. He followed her to the small kitchen where she offered him a glass of lake water. He declined.

When she finished drinking and set the glass down, she noticed the blister the size of a quarter on her hand. It was almost funny given her earlier comment. She poked at it, the fluid inside squishing around. Man hands. The thought reminded her of an episode on an old sitcom about a guy breaking up with a woman for having man hands.

“So what’s this about?” she asked.

“It’s about what happened today.” He was tall like her. If any man at the lake could match her height and strength, he was the one.