The Notations of Cooper Cameron Page 15

  With all his might, The Father pushes both boathouse doors wide open. They squeak and scrape against the sand. “C’mon, Coop. Help me pull this ol’ girl into the water. I’ll use one of Grandpa’s rods. You’re big enough to use mine. We can get breakfast across the lake. Have a nice little chat.”

  The Father pulls on the boat. The trailer’s wheels screech. Screech in pain. Screech like they’re holding onto the boat for dear life. The Father huffs and groans.

  Cooper sees his fishing rod floating away. Grandpa reaching and reaching. Grandpa’s shirt on fire. He remembers swimming. Hard and cold. Pulling on his grandfather’s arm. Coming up for air. Hollering at the shore. Swimming with all his might.

  Now The Father pushes the boat. Cooper grabs onto the gunwales. Feels his body jerk forward. Jerked into the bright light. He reaches for the big rock. Squints in the sun. The rock is heavy in his hands. He cannot cover his eyes. Cannot cover his ears. He cannot help pull this ol’ girl into the water. He will not go back into the water.

  Ever.

  The boat moves forward.

  Cooper leaps from the stern. Lands in the dead weeds washed ashore. The thick and heavy dead reeds that grab at his ankles. He crawls to the safe, dry sand.

  “C’mon,” The Father says again. He kicks off his shoes. Rolls up his pants. Pushes the boat off the trailer. The bow bobs in the lake. Glides forward. Deeper and deeper. Slides like melting ice cream. Without a sound. “I’ve got it now. Get back in.”

  Cooper does not get back in. He doesn’t move.

  “Cooper.”

  Cooper doesn’t answer.

  “Get in,” The Father says again. “Get in now.” Mad is growing in his voice. “C’mon, I can’t hold it steady forever.”

  But Cooper can hold onto the grandfather rock forever. Forever and ever. And this time he will.

  The Father drops the anchor into the water. It splashes like a bomb. The white, lacy water rises in slow motion. “You’re getting in this boat if it kills me!” The Father says.

  That word. Kills. Cooper imagines the grandfather. Dead. Nothing you can do about it. Don’t think about that word. Don’t think about that word. Don’t think about that word.

  Too late.

  Here comes That Boy again. He wants to wash. Wants to count—the waves, the dead reeds, the gnats, every grain of sand. Cooper is glad his arms are full. Please, not now. Go away, he thinks to That Boy. Go away. Go away. “Go away,” he says out loud.

  “You don’t talk to your father like that, Cooper!”

  Cooper feels The Father’s arms close around him like ropes. Like the coiled black cord of the phone. Twisted tight until he cannot breathe. He kicks his legs—like a frog. Kicks and kicks. The grandfather rock is yanked from his arms. Thrown. It lands in the water. Sinks to the bottom of the lake.

  Drops of water splash Cooper’s foot. They burn cold like fire. Cooper feels the burn rise into his throat. Into his nose. He gags. He gets away. Crawling. Crawling until he feels The Father’s hands clasp his ankles.

  A voice. A sad and crying voice. A voice from the hill.

  “Dad! Dad, stop!”

  But The Father does not stop.

  Does not stop. Does not stop. Does not stop.

  “I’m bigger than you are, Cooper.” He shoves his hands under Cooper’s stomach. Grabs him like a giant claw. Carries Cooper toward the boat. Into the water.

  “Dad!” Caddie’s voice from the hill. “Just let him go.”

  “Go inside, Caddie. I can handle this myself.”

  “But why?” she cries. Caddie runs down the hill.

  “Because,” The Father breathes hard. “Because if I say he’s getting in the boat,”—he fights with Cooper’s kicking legs, fights and fights and fights—“he’s getting in the boat.”

  “Mom!” The shout is loud. As loud as a tornado warning.

  His mother. She is coming. She will be here any second.

  A burn creeps through Cooper. He chokes and gags and spits. Feels another burn. A different burn. A burn that seeps across his lap. Its warmth runs down his leg and across his foot. Drips in the sand.

  “David!” his mother screeches.

  “What?” The Father says. “What?”

  This time when Cooper wriggles free, he falls to the ground.

  Caddie stands there. His mother stands there. They have horror in their faces like beautiful movie stars in a thriller. No one knows what they see until it is too late.

  Except for Cooper.

  And The Father.

  “Go home,” Caddie says, like a mean friend. Like she does not want to play with The Father anymore. “Just leave him alone and go home.”

  “I’m sorry,” The Father says. “I didn’t mean . . . Cooper—”

  “Don’t, David,” his mother says. “Not now.”

  Cooper looks up. Sees the burn seep across The Father’s face. Sees it sting his eyes. Sees the sadness and the anger. And the fear. Sees him not know what to do. Sees him feel exactly how Cooper feels.

  The Father whispers to his mother.

  His mother shakes her head.

  Cooper crawls to the reeds. To the edge of the water. The grandfather rock lies lifeless at the bottom of the lake. Dead. There is nothing you can do about it now. Cooper pounds the sand with his fist. Pound. Pound. Pound.

  Caddie kneels in the wet sand. Puts her hand on Cooper’s back. Her hand is warmer than the sunlight. “What is it, Coop?”

  He points.

  “What? All I see is a big rock.”

  Cooper nods. Shivers. Puts his head down on the dried reeds. Closes his eyes.

  “Sure, Cooper. Sure.” Caddie wades into the water. Picks up the drowned rock.

  The screen door creaks open and snaps shut. In the distance the old boat trailer’s wheels screech. Screech and screech. Then the fancy black car rumbles away. The pump brays. There is no day between morning and night. Only sadness. And more whispers. His mother fills the old tub with warm water. Knocks on the door when he is done. Brings him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Tucks him into bed.

  When she is gone, Cooper lines up his rocks on the black stripe of Grandpa’s red blanket—the big, cold damp rock with the trilobite fossil; the smooth one the size of his fist, the size of his heart; the two small ones, like cardinal eggs; and the little one, flat like a nickel—and reads.

  With his flashlight, he huddles under the covers. He reads every word, every line, every page, and every chapter. Three times. He reads so The Father will not burn up from the inside out. So his mother and Caddie will not turn to ash. So the world will not blow up and burn like an inferno, killing everyone and destroying everything in its path.

  A knock.

  “Cooper?”

  “What?” He tugs the covers away from his face.

  Caddie opens his door. Leans in. Looks at Amicus, eye-to-eye. “I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “That is easy to do with small things,” Cooper says.

  She taps on the glass of the aquarium. “I just wanted to say good night.”

  “To Amicus the Great?”

  “No, Cooper. To you.”

  Today Caddie has been his knight. She has rescued him. As soon as she leaves, he will write this in his notebook:

  It does not feel good to be rescued. Being rescued feels like holding all the world’s worry in one pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Caddie shakes her head. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “What about the policeman?”

  Caddie tilts her head in the air. Looks at the ceiling. “I was talking about Dad. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry it all happened.”

  “You’re my hero,” he says. “Someday I will make it up to you.”

  “Whatever you do, please don’t,” she says.

  Cooper doesn’t answer. Someday he will make it up to her. Truer than true.

  Even Amicus the Great is silent.


  “It’s a joke, Coop.” She smiles, but Cooper can’t smile back. “Really, Cooper, don’t worry about it. You can’t help it. Some things just are the way they are and there’s nothing you can do about it. You have to believe me.”

  “I believe you,” he says. Because everything Caddie says really is getting more and more believable every day.

  He picks up his pencil and opens his notebook, thinking. But what if there is something he can do about it? What if there was something? What if there could be something? How will he ever know for sure?

  “Good night, Coop.”

  “Good night, Caddie.”

  Caddie closes the door.

  Cooper writes,

  You must never give up unless you know for sure.

  News

  Cooper wakes up to the gulping sound of a frog croaking. “Good morning Amicus the Great,” he whispers, getting out of bed. He drops one food nugget into the aquarium. It lands on the plastic lily pad, bounces into the water. Cooper waits for Amicus to snap it up, yawns, and leaves his room.

  “Listen to this,” Caddie says, flattening The North Lakes News across the dining room table. “The suspect, an unidentified minor, is believed to be responsible for a series of local break-ins and may be part of a larger burglary ring that has worked the popular resort area for more than six months. The suspect’s family is cooperating fully with the law.”

  Caddie takes a bite of crunchy cereal. She reads with her mouth full and one finger on the words. “The suspect is being held in the Lake County Jail.” She swallows. “The Loch Ness Monster is locked up where he belongs. And I hope Mike is in there with him.” Caddie folds up the newspaper. “Geez. That was a whole week ago. Nothing like up-to-the-minute news.” She waves the newspaper in the air. “Cooper, you should read this. You were right all along.”

  Cooper does not want to read the newspaper. Does not want to read about The Grinner. Does not care that he was right. The Grinner is not a happy thought. Poor Mike. Poor Mike. Poor Mike. Mike is not a happy thought either.

  Think a happy thought.

  Ice cream is a happy thought.

  Ice cream. Ice cream. Ice cream.

  His mother comes out of the kitchen with a pink towel wrapped around her head. She looks like a giant cone of cotton candy. “Can we go into town and get ice cream?” Cooper asks.

  “Now?” their mother says.

  Caddie drinks the milk from her bowl. Swallows. Wipes a drip from her chin. “Yeah. I want to get some new earrings before we go home.”

  “I guess I could get a few groceries,” their mother says. She unwinds the towel, shakes her dark hair loose and free. “Just to get us through the last few days up here. Hard to believe we’re going home so soon.” Her big pink comb with giant teeth cuts through her tangled hair. Makes it smooth. “Would you like to get a souvenir, Cooper? Maybe some moccasins? Or do something you’ve always wanted to?” She squeezes the wet ends of her hair in the towel. “Maybe we could all play miniature golf,” she says.

  “No, thank you,” Caddie says. She makes a funny face at Cooper. A face their mother cannot see.

  Cooper blinks his eyes at Caddie. He does not want to return to the scene of the crime. “Just ice cream,” he says. Caddie smiles.

  “I mean something we haven’t done yet. Anything you want.”

  “I will think about it,” Cooper says. And he does. Maybe he will buy something he has not always wanted. He will buy something at Ron’s Bait Shop. He will buy the vest with a hundred pockets. A souvenir of his old friend Mike.

  When it’s time to go into town, Cooper lifts up Amicus’s aquarium. Pulls out the five flat twenties Mike paid him for tying flies. He taps them three times and folds them into his pocket.

  Caddie grabs the car keys on the hook by the back door. “I’m driving,” she says. “You hardly let me drive all summer.”

  The screen door squeaks open. Snaps shut.

  Caddie puts on her seat belt. Starts the engine.

  Cooper puts on his seat belt. So does his mother. “Adjust your mirrors, Caddie,” she says. The van lurches forward. Cooper grabs the door handle. Wonders if he is hanging on for dear life. Don’t think about driving. Don’t think about driving. Don’t think about driving.

  “Don’t go so fast,” their mother says.

  “Mom,” Caddie says.

  Now the trees go by so slowly, Cooper could count them. He closes his eyes. Don’t count. Don’t count. Don’t count.

  “Turn here,” their mother says when they pass the gas station.

  “Mom,” Caddie says again. And then the car bumps against the curb in front of Grandma’s Goods Antiques & Collectibles. Caddie pulls the keys from the ignition. Puts them in her purse. “I’m driving home too,” she says.

  “Keep the change,” his mother says when she hands Cooper a five-dollar bill. She looks at her watch. “It’s twenty to four. Meet me back here in one hour.”

  “Okay,” Cooper says. “Four forty on the dot.”

  His mother goes into the antique store. Caddie has already crossed the street.

  Today “tourist trap” is an oxymoron. The parking spaces are empty. The sidewalks are not bustling. Cooper is the only one in line at The Whole Scoop ice cream stand. They are out of chocolate. And cookie dough. He orders a sugar cone with two scoops of mint ice cream and three napkins because it is a very hot day. He watches the door of Ron’s Bait Shop across the road. “I’m in a hurry,” he says to the clerk.

  He runs to the corner with his ice cream cone. Licks the green ice cream. Waits for the pickup truck with the trailer. Waits for the motorhome. Licks his ice cream cone. Waits for the SUV towing the yellow speedboat. Thinks of tourists as birds. Migrating. The flocks are all flying in one direction. South. Everyone is going home. Summer is almost over. He licks the ice cream cone again. Catches the pale green drip running down his thumb.

  Out of breath, Cooper arrives in the parking lot of Ron’s Bait Shop. He reads the sign on the door.

  PLEASE NO FOOD OR DRINK

  He turns around. Licks his ice cream cone in a circle. Catches every drip. Looks at fishing lures and bobbers and hats on a table outside the door.

  END OF SUMMER SALE 50% OFF

  At the edge of the parking lot, he spots an enormous contraption he has never seen before. Not even on Tezorene. It is other-worldly. Perhaps a spaceship. Cooper circles the mysterious structure. Eight big metal cans, like garbage cans, are covered with wooden planks. He kicks one rusty orange can. It bellows like a whale. Full of air. The contraption appears to be some kind of floating device.

  It is a raft.

  Cooper licks his ice cream cone.

  The raft has a white tag taped to one of the orange tanks.

  The raft is for sale.

  Cooper circles the raft again. He thinks of Tom Sawyer and his gang of pirates. Thinks of the Jolly Roger. Thinks of Caddie, who would like to float on something. Of Mr. Bell, who would like to do it all over again if he had the chance. Cooper has an idea. His knees shake with excitement. He will not buy the vest with a hundred pockets. He will buy the raft. He turns over the price tag.

  FOR SALE

  $400.00 $350.00 $200.00 $150.00

  No, he will not buy the raft. He can’t afford the raft. He will buy what he came for. He will buy Jack’s vest. Cooper looks to the window high up in Ron’s Bait Shop.

  The vest is gone. Gone, gone, gone. Like Grandpa. Like summer. Like his friend Mike. Everything is gone. Cooper turns in circles. He looks at the window. Looks at the sun. Looks at the front door of Ron’s Bait Shop. He wants to run. Wants to wash. With his free hand, he counts the rivets on the orange raft. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .

  No counting. No counting. No counting.

  . . . eight, nine, ten . . .

  Think a happy thought. Think a happy thought. Think a happy—

  The bell tinkles. Someone is coming through the door of Ron’s Bait Shop. Someone carrying two big blue ba
gs of garbage. It can’t be Mike, but it is Mike. Mike is carrying garbage to the dumpster.

  Cooper’s knees shake all over again. “Mike!” he yells.

  Mike slows. Turns. Turns back.

  “Over here!” Cooper eats the pointy tip of his ice cream cone.

  Mike turns around again. Finally sees Cooper in the bright sun. “Oh,” Mike says. “Hi.” Like they are strangers. Like he’s never seen Cooper before in his whole life.

  Cooper’s heart sinks. Mike is not the same. Mike has changed.

  Mike swings one garbage bag to the right, and then to the left, higher, then to the right, and finally up and over his head and into the dumpster.

  “You’re not in jail!” Cooper yells. He follows the edge of the parking lot to the dumpster. “I told the policeman you weren’t the bad guy.”

  Mike doesn’t answer. He picks up the second bag of garbage. Swings it into the dumpster. Something is wrong with Mike. Very wrong.

  Cooper wipes his hands. Wads up the napkins. Throws them into the dumpster. “It’s my fault,” Cooper says.

  Mike walks away.

  Cooper follows. “Mike,” he says, louder this time. “It’s my fault.”

  Mike straightens the fishing hats and lures on the table. “Cooper,” he says, “where’s your mom?”

  “Grocery shopping.”

  “Why don’t you go help her. I’m busy.”

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Cooper. Just leave me alone.”

  Cooper’s insides shudder with sadness. Mike is the most confusing Earthling Cooper has ever met. He wants to stomp his leg. He wants to wash. He does not want to do any of these things or he might scare Mike away. “But I’m your friend,” Cooper says. “Friends look out for each other.”

  Mike’s shoulders slump. He shakes his head. “I am not your friend, Cooper.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Mike shakes his head again. This time he shakes it the way Caddie does when she wants Cooper to go away. “I’m too old to be your friend.”

  “No one is too old to be a friend. I have a friend named Mr. Bell. I believe he is many decades older than you are.”