Figure Eight Read online

  I couldn’t help looking through the crowd to see if I could catch a glimpse of Julie, but no such luck.

  In my meandering around, I found myself trapped smack in the middle of an exuberant family of brothers and sisters, moms and dads, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas. They were all geared up to run the race. The eldest member, a distinguished looking and very spirited gentleman they called Uncle Jimmy, asked me if I would take a group picture for them. I agreed and was handed a half-dozen individual cameras and phones. I fumbled through the serious smiling shots and the hilarious ugly faces and bunny ear photos. We visited for a bit while waiting to line up for the race. Their family had been coming to the same place every year since the oldest of them here was a baby, over 60 years. Originally from Madison, they now also came from Houston, Texas; Spokane, Washington; and Los Angeles, California. They had continued an unbreakable tradition that had become a touchstone in their lives.

  I had taken a continuing education class a few years before involving the sociology of the family. The professor maintained that one of the things that had caused erosion in the fabric of society was the loss of tradition. How many families were held together by tradition? How many families fall apart for lack thereof?

  The only tradition I really ever had in my life was my summers on the lake. I had let that tradition get away from me. I had lost it for a time. I promised myself then and there to never lose it again. Musky Falls was a good place for tradition to begin anew. The race announcer gave the call of five minutes to race time, and the crowd began to move toward the starting line. There was lots of good-natured jockeying for the best position. Suddenly, the crowd tightened up and moved over to the left in an almost involuntary wave. The reason was sharks had just invaded the school of fish. Half a dozen iron pumpers dressed in wife-beaters moved through the crowd toward the front. None other than officer Lawler led them. He spotted me immediately and, of course, walked over.

  “Nice day for a run, Cabrelli,” he sneered as he looked me up and down. I didn’t respond, and he laughed and walked away.

  I did notice one thing: he had a big surgical scar on his right knee, possibly from his former days as the high school football standout that never made it. Anyway, it was good information, something I needed to take note of.

  The race announcer called the ten-second countdown and, just before the gun, Julie Carlson elbowed her way in next to me. I looked over, and the gun went off. She took off like a rabbit chased by a group of kids, her students Nathan, Anna, and Danny among them. As I have said, I am no sprinter, but I am durable and good for the long haul, and I took off with my plodding pace as most of the crowd disappeared in front of me.

  The run took us through the streets of Musky Falls, uphill and down. All along the route well-wishers cheered us along. After the first mile I found myself gaining ground on a few of the other runners. My first big move came as I passed the group wearing t-shirts from Weight Loss Extreme. Then I passed some parents with children in strollers and began to work my way up. Two pregnant women were my next target, but each time I approached them, they would speed up. I finally dropped back hoping not to be the cause of or a participant in an early delivery on the race course.

  After mile two I was still lumbering along and began to routinely pass the former runners, now walkers. Although setting a rapid pace by my standards, I had not caught a glimpse of Julie or the kids, or Uncle Jimmy or any of his crew. Mile three was gone and I turned the corner to the final stretch. Ahead of me I saw what from the back appeared to be a herd of rhinos running through the middle of everyone. It was Lawler and company.

  Personal victories often have little or no value to the world around you. It’s because they are, well, personal.

  The opportunity does not present itself often, and one must be prepared to take advantage when the chance comes your way. I did that day. With a burst of deeply hidden speed, I ran up next to Officer Lawler, smiled at him, then blew his doors off. He responded with a visceral noise and a burst of speed of his own. Before I knew it, we were neck and neck, running hard into the home stretch. He was so close to me I could smell his animal sweat. The crowd was yelling, and the announcer said, “Here comes one of Musky Falls’s finest in a dead heat. Who will cross the line first?”

  The wonderful photo family, who had now been joined by Julie and Bud, were screaming their lungs out for me. I pulled ahead of Lawler and crossed the line, beating him by a couple of yards. Ever the sportsman, as I slowed after crossing the line, he continued and ran into me from behind, knocking me to the pavement. He was quick to respond to his overt act.

  “I am really sorry, Cabrelli. I wasn’t looking, sweat in my eyes. Let me help you get up. Boy, you ran a heck of a race. I hope you are okay.”

  I am sure he fooled some in the crowd but not many. As a result, the tone of things became instantly more somber. I got up on my own, my knee bleeding from road rash, my elbow throbbing from the fall. I turned and walked toward the friendly crowd and raised my hand with an “I’m okay” wave; they burst out in cheers.

  At that point I doubled the number of items on my to-do list. Find Uncle Nick’s killer and kick the shit out of Officer Lawler.

  Julie brought some medical wipes from the registration table and gave them to me to wipe off the blood.

  Uncle Jimmy from the photo group turned out to be an emergency room physician, and he gave me a once over including a range of motion exam on my arm. He pronounced me fit and offered me a chocolate donut as medicine. We shook hands, and I limped away.

  Lawler was nowhere to be seen, but Chief Timmy was and walked over. “Cabrelli, do you really think you need to aggravate that guy to get his attention?”

  “You mean by beating him in a charity fun run, Chief? Or getting blood on his street? The last time I checked, winning a race was not just cause for hitting someone from behind. Maybe it’s different in Musky Falls. Do you have some different bullshit laws here, Chief, that I should know about? Because if you do, let me hear them now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

  “Settle down, John. I don’t blame you for being mad. Our laws are the same here as everywhere else. So is my job, and among other things, it involves keeping the peace. You pimping Lawler is not a road to peace, whether you are in the right or not.”

  I started again and caught myself. It wasn’t the chief that was the problem. Giving him hell would accomplish nothing. Bud and Julie were next to me, and we walked off toward the coffee shop together.

  Julie, apparently never at a loss for an opinion, chimed in. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but the chief is right. Lawler is a bad guy and getting him all worked up is not going to make anyone’s life better. He is clearly looking for a reason to hurt you. You don’t need to help him along. Just ignore him. Hopefully he’ll get tired and go away.”

  “He’s not going anywhere, Julie. He was waiting for me when I got here. He knew about me long before I knew about him. He’s part of this thing, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere either so whatever happens, happens. In the meantime, I am not going to go out of my way to avoid him, but I am not looking for a fight either.”

  Julie and Bud both took off, and I walked back to Main Street to get myself a seat for the parade. The casting contest was still going on, and it was fun to watch. A boy about twelve plunked the wooden lure they were casting right smack dab in the middle of the hula hoop laying on the ground. He won a gift certificate at a local sporting goods store and was smiling from ear to ear.

  In the distance I could hear fire whistles and band instruments. The paraders were lining up, and the announcer gave the five-minute warning for the start. Everyone was asked to clear the streets and stay back from the curb.

  The parade began right on time with the whirring whine of an antique fire siren, and old engine number nine led off. Number nine was a perfectly restored 1930s model fire truck. The back of the truck was filled with well-wishers who threw the first of many pounds of candy
to be thrown to the crowd.

  The parade had it all. Shriners riding mini-bikes in formation and a clown riding a weird wobbly wheeled bike. The Musky Fest float followed an open convertible with the mayor and his wife sitting on the back. Seated on the float, waving to the crowd were the Musky Queen and her court. Interspersed in the parade were three different drum and bugle corps. Each group stopped in front of the grandstand and played a number.

  It was just as I remembered. Kids running out to grab candy thrown from the floats. Everybody waving, everyone smiling.

  Even the boy and girl following the horse-drawn wagons with scoop shovels had smiles on their faces.

  Then much to my happy surprise, I saw a big pickup truck wrapped in ribbon and banners, manned by several kids all wearing electric blue tie-dyed sweatshirts. Somehow they had lashed down a canoe on top of Bud’s racks, and there were three kids in it, one fore and one aft paddling, another in the middle waving an American flag. Those students that weren’t riding were running along handing out school pencils, candy, and brochures about Northern Lakes School. As they passed the grandstand, the announcer gave them a super plug and called them the national award-winning Northern Lakes School and everyone cheered. By the looks of it, if Julie Carlson ever quit teaching, she would have a great future in marketing.

  Watching the parade let me be a part of the world that is dwindling away before our eyes. For that moment, a display of community pride, simple laughter, and the proud Musky Court replaced the insane hyperactive nonstop, on-demand entertainment we have come to expect. Being there, even just sitting on the curb, I was part of the parade, part of an event that was real. Will a tree make a noise if it falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it? Is a parade even possible without people lining the streets? I was disappointed when the last fire truck passed. This year’s parade and Musky Fest had come to an end.

  I lingered downtown for a while to watch them take things down. The unseen injuries sustained in being knocked to the pavement began to make themselves known in the way aches and pains do. My leg was throbbing, as was my arm, and my back had begun to stiffen where I had been hit. Nothing serious though, according to Doctor Uncle Jimmy; all would heal on their own without further medical intervention, so I needed to persevere. Perseverance over any kind of pain is the only way to survive in the world. Get over it and get going.

  I also noted a post-run aroma emanating from me. That particular odor is fine when among a large group that had run the same race. However, when walking among those freshly showered and in town for the day, it became a bit more noticeable. I walked back to the jeep and drove to the hotel.

  For whatever reason, instead of turning right to the hotel, I turned left and headed toward the lake, soon rolling down the highway as if on my way home.

  I pulled in and saw that Bud and Julie had not yet returned.

  Back in the shop it only took me about a minute to find a snorkel, mask, and fins. The day had warmed to the eighties with clear skies. There was a small sandy area just a little way from the cabin where I used to swim. I walked over and waded in. The water was cool enough that it made me stop for a second to get used to it. I put on the gear. The underwater world was waiting.

  You know, you never think about it: we are busy walking around on the dry earth, driving cars, talking to people, and on and on. We drive by lakes and rivers, but we only look at them from the surface. Below the surface, though, is another whole community occupied by species that if moved to our world would perish, just as we would perish if moved to theirs. I couldn’t stay, but I could visit.

  I swam carefully using only my hands to propel and avoid kicking up a sediment cloud that would obscure my vision. I investigated an old rock and timber pile that had been part of a dock more than a century before.

  Hundreds of bluegills and sunfish swam around through the weeds, some as big as my hand. Others were only an inch or two long, perfect miniatures of the bigger fish. Crayfish hid in the nooks and crannies of the old structure, waiting for a passing snack. At the far end of the old pier was a school of minnows. While the bluegills and sunfish moved this way and that, based on individual desire, the minnows moved together in formation, communicating directional changes telepathically.

  As I swam along, I saw something shiny on one of the submerged logs, and I took a deep breath and dived down to see what it was. Stuck in the log was a six-inch long fishing lure with about a foot of line still attached. I wiggled it loose and headed for the surface. It was a silver Rapala Countdown, a good musky and bass bait. I swam it back to the shore, and once it was shallow enough, I stood up and began to do the fins on your feet backward walk toward shore. I turned around to walk back out when I saw Julie coming down the hill toward where I was snorkeling.

  “What a perfect day for a swim,” she proclaimed. “Get rid of the day’s grunge and grime and cool off.” With that, she stripped off her t-shirt, exposing a conservative one-piece suit, and dove in. No testing of the water for this girl. Total immersion was her style. With strong strokes, she headed across the lake.

  I took off my gear, threw it on shore, and followed her. She slowed until I caught up, and then we swam together all the way to the opposite shore. We stood on the bottom, water up to our necks, and took a break before swimming back. The exercise and cool water did wonders for my aches and pains. The knee stung a little but not for long. We came to our home shore and climbed out. She picked up a towel and dried off, while I stood and drip dried, not having thought to grab one.

  I couldn’t help but glance at her in the swimsuit. She was slim and fit, and her physique matched her personality perfectly.

  She must have caught me looking and wrapped herself up in the oversized towel.

  “How are your knee and arm?” she asked.

  “Good. That swim was just what the doctor ordered. I feel a lot better.”

  “You better come back to the house and put some antibiotic cream on that scrape. It’s looking kind of red already. Clean it up and cover it for now, and it should limit any chance for infection.”

  We walked back up to the house. On the way she surprised me.

  “John, I thought about it, and I want you to move into the house. It’s your house and you have been very kind not to throw me out on my ear. Eventually, though, I am going to have to move, and I’m pretty much packed up now, so I might as well get it done. Bud will be glad to have me if for no other reason than to clean his place up. It’s not that it’s a total pigsty, it’s just that, well, he is a man. You know.”

  I wanted to be offended at the sexist comment, but I couldn’t be. Some things are just true.

  “I thought about it too. I don’t want you to move. I’m going to meet with Anderson tomorrow if everything goes as planned, no bumps in the road. You can stay here, and I’m going to keep Bud on as the handyman. I do have a proposal. You can continue to live in the main house, and I’m going to move my stuff into the cabin. There is plenty of room for me there and it will be tons better than staying at the hotel.”

  “No. John, I will move into the cabin, and you should stay in the main house.”

  “Sorry, Julie. Not open for negotiation. If you don’t like the terms, you can move into Bud’s place. I’m not changing my mind.”

  She reluctantly agreed.

  I smeared antibiotic cream on my knee, got into the jeep, and drove back to town for my last night in the hotel. The evening passed uneventfully, and after a quick dinner down the street, I collapsed into exhausted sleep, not waking until seven the next morning.

  I did not bounce out of bed. I noted numerous issues with parts of my body that were loudly complaining when I moved, not just from Lawler’s cheap shot, but also my usual jogging legs as stiff as wood from the unaccustomed sprinting. A hot shower did little to help, so I got on my running shorts and t-shirt and headed down to the hotel jacuzzi. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the breakfast bar. The jet-powered hot water felt great and restored a portion of t
he flexibility that I had recently lost. I sipped my coffee and stared out the huge bay of windows that faced Lake Musky Falls. An old couple joined me. They had been coming up here every year for a month around Musky Fest for 20 years, and God willing they would see 20 more. Tradition.

  I got up to leave and kind of hobbled out and the old guy said, “I see you’re walking a little stiff. Sure is hell to get old isn’t it?”

  “Old? Who’s old?” I replied. He just chuckled and turned back to his wife.

  Dressed and ready, I was a little early for the meeting with Anderson so I stopped by the body shop to check on the status of my car. It was in the garage on a low rack, with the right front fender removed. The owner came out and told me that they were waiting for the parts and expected them sometime the first part of the week. After that, a few hours to put it back together, time to paint it, and it would be good to go.

  “I bet driving that jeep is culture shock after cruising in this little hotrod,” he mused.

  “Not really. The jeep runs great and is pretty comfortable. I kind of like it.”

  “Well, I’m sure Doc O’Malley down at the garage would trade you even up anytime you wanted!” he laughed.

  I drove over and parked in front of the attorney’s office. The street was pretty empty and amazingly clean; litter left from the huge crowd and all the tents and booths were gone.

  The office was already open, and I walked in.

  The receptionist was not smiling and clearly not in a good mood. “Good morning, Mr. Cabrelli. Did you have an appointment this morning?”

  “I don’t, really. I was just hoping that Derek could work me in so we could finish things up.”

  “I’ll ask him, but I don’t think it’s going to work for him today.”