As Simple as It Seems (5 page)

It was my father who taught me how to fish. By the time I was four, I knew how to thread a night crawler onto a hook to get the most mileage out of it and how to catch a catfish by tying lead sinkers to the line so the bait would dangle down near the bottom. Bonners Lake was about a quarter of a mile away from our house, and sometimes when I was younger, my father would wake me up early in the morning before he left for work and we'd go fishing there together.

My mother didn't like our little fishing trips. Even though it was one of the only things my father and I ever did alone together, she felt jealous and left out. If she could possibly have come with us, she would have, but she had bad knees, and the only way to get down to the lake was on foot, down a steep path that wound through the woods. She would try to stall our
departure as long as possible by insisting on coating every inch of me with sunscreen and bug spray, and tucking and retucking my pant legs into my socks to protect me from tick bites. She would tell us to watch out for poison ivy and water snakes and whatever else she could think of, but the final warning was always the same—“Don't take your eyes off her, Tom. Not even for a second. You remember what happened to that little Allen girl.”

My mother was afraid that I might drown in the lake the way Tracy Allen had, but I wasn't worried about that at all. A person can't drown if they don't go in the water. In the pool in Washerville, there was a nylon rope with blue plastic floats tied to it separating the shallow end from the deep end. It was easy to tell where the water would be over my head. But Bonners Lake was dark and murky and you couldn't see the bottom at all. There was no way of telling how deep it was, or where it might drop off, which is why I had never gone swimming there. And I never planned to either.

Bluegill and perch would practically jump onto our hooks the minute my father and I put them in the water, and if we were willing to put up with the inconvenience of tangled lines and lost lures, sometimes there were pike
and bass lurking in the weedy spots. I enjoyed those fishing trips with my dad, but as his business took off, he had less and less free time, and pretty soon the poles began to gather dust out in the garage. A couple of years back Annie and I had come across them one day when we were bored and looking for something to do. We'd asked my mother if it was okay for us to go fishing together.

“Absolutely not,” she'd said. “I don't want you girls anywhere near that lake by yourselves.”

But I was older now, almost twelve. Old enough to go fishing by myself, whether my mother thought so or not. And best of all, I knew that she couldn't follow me there, so at least for the afternoon I could let down my guard and not have to worry about losing my temper.

I'd hiked up my nightgown, and was down on my hands and knees in the flower bed digging for worms to use for bait, when I heard the sound of a car approaching. Hopping up onto the speckled rock, I looked down the hill and recognized my mother's car, raising a plume of gray dust behind it. Band practice was over. I had planned to change out of my nightgown into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt before heading out, but there wouldn't be time now. My mother would be home any minute. I ran inside, tiptoed past my sleeping father,
and scribbled a note saying that I'd gone for a walk—which was the truth, just not the whole truth. I noticed there was a little breeze coming through the open window, so I anchored the note to the counter with one of the silver spoons. By the time my mother's car started up the driveway, I was already in the woods following the path down to Bonners Lake.

 

Jack decided to tag along, but after a while he picked up the scent of something I sincerely hoped wouldn't turn out to have a white stripe running down its back, and took off. Even on only three legs he was fast, quickly disappearing into the bushes. I was barefoot and my progress was hampered by the nightgown, which billowed out around my ankles as I moved, snagging on the prickers and blackberry brambles that grew along the edges of the path. Eventually I got tired of having to stop and work the tiny thorns out of the fabric and took to yanking myself free, which quickly reduced the hem to tatters. I wasn't worried, though—it was an old nightgown, and I had plenty of others at home.

Near the end of the path, the trees began to thin and the undergrowth changed from brown to green. As I stepped out of the cool woods into the heat and light
of the day, the air was completely still. Without even a wisp of breeze to ripple it, Bonners Lake stretched out before me like a giant sheet of green glass. Jack barked in the distance. I saw what looked like a promising skipper, bent down, and picked it up. Wrapping my finger around the curve of the flat stone, I cocked my arm back and skimmed it out across the smooth surface of the water—one, two, three long skips, and then a bunch of smaller ones, too close together to count. When I bent down to pick up another stone, something glistened in the sun near the edge of the lake and caught my eye. At first I thought it was a shiny black rock, until I realized it was actually a turtle sunning itself on a log, and curious to see what kind it was, I crept slowly toward it. As soon as my shadow fell across the water, the turtle slid quickly off the log, disappearing with a soft
plop.
That's when I saw the boat.

It was an old wooden rowboat, stuck in the dark mud at the edge of the water and almost completely hidden by cattails and reeds. Propping my fishing pole against a tree, I made my way carefully over to the boat, concerned with the possibility of stirring up a water snake. As I leaned over the splintery side, peering in at a couple of inches of brown water teeming with mosquito larvae, an idea began to form in my head. I could fix
up the boat. Patch any holes it might have and sand it smooth. Maybe even get it to float.

I had learned to float on my back in the swimming pool, but I hadn't been able to enjoy it. I was always afraid that I might accidentally float too far and end up in the deep end where the water was over my head. If I got the boat to float, I could tie it to a tree to keep it close to shore and float in it without even having to get wet.

There were no oars in the boat, just a rusty blue coffee can filled with cement lying in the bottom, a homemade anchor tied to the bow with a hunk of dirty gray rope. Maybe I could use the rope to pull the boat out of the mud, I thought. I hauled out the heavy metal can and, dropping it on the ground, grabbed hold of the rope near the end where it was tied to the boat. Planting my feet firmly, I leaned back with my full weight and pulled. The rope broke almost immediately and my feet flew out from under me, sending me tumbling awkwardly backward into the tall weeds.

The fall knocked the wind out of me and I had to lie there for a few minutes, waiting to catch my breath. After a while, I heard a soft tinkling, like the sound of the wind chimes that hung from the corner of our front
porch. Closing my eyes, I listened. It wasn't a bird, that much I could tell. But what could be making the sound? When I stood up, I was shocked to discover that flatlander boy, Pooch, standing a few feet away from me, his hands sunk deep in his pockets. Startled, I screamed—and to my surprise, so did he.

“What are
you
screaming for?” I said, putting my hand over my thudding heart. “You're the one who scared me.”

He took his hands out of his pockets and quickly stepped backward.

He was still wearing his long pants and long-sleeved shirt, but for some reason he'd added a red necktie to the outfit. His eyes were small and dark, like two raisins pressed into a ball of soft dough, and now that I was close enough, I could see that his freckled nose was crooked and set slightly off center on his face. I pushed my glasses up with a knuckle and pulled them partway back down.

“Who do you think you are, spying on me like that?” I demanded.

He took another step backward.

“I wasn't spying on you,” he said. “Honest.”

He looked ridiculous in his necktie.

“Why are you so dressed up?” I asked. “It's summer, in case you haven't noticed. Don't you have any shorts?”

He looked down, nervously fingering his tie. Then he looked back up at me and swallowed a couple of times before answering.

“I don't usually wear a tie,” he began. His voice cracked and he swallowed again before continuing. “I put it on for you. I thought maybe I should be dressed up. You know, out of respect.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can take it off if you want,” he said quickly. “I wasn't sure what to wear. I've never done this before.”

“Done what? Scared someone half to death?”

He broke into a goofy grin.

“You think that's funny?” I snapped. “You could give somebody a heart attack, sneaking up on them like that.”

His smile faded immediately.

“I'm—I'm sorry,” he stammered. “I didn't mean to scare you. Honest. It's just, well, you have to admit, it is kind of funny, you know, the idea of
me
scaring
you
.”

“Yeah. Hilarious,” I said sarcastically. “But maybe that's your idea of fun where you come from.”

“I'm from the city,” he said.

I didn't need to ask him which city he meant, since people from New York City always referred to it as “the city,” as if it were the only one worth mentioning.

He stepped forward, extending his hand for me to shake.

“My name is Robert, but you can call me Pooch,” he said.

I crossed my arms over my chest, making it clear I had no intention of shaking his hand.

“Don't you city people know it's rude to spy on someone?” I said, even though I'd been spying on him myself earlier.

Pooch let his hand drop down by his side. Then he started scratching his elbow through his shirtsleeve.

“I wasn't spying,” he said. “I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you,” he said, still scratching.

“How could you be waiting for me? Nobody even knows I'm here.”

“The lady at the post office does,” he said. “She's the one who told me.”

“Francine? How would she know where I was? She must have been talking about somebody else.”

Pooch shook his head.

“She was talking about you. I'm positive.”

Flatlanders were such know-it-alls.

“How can you be
positive
she was talking about me? You don't even know who I am,” I told him.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “You're Tracy Allen. The girl who drowned in the lake.”

I was so surprised, my mouth dropped open like the metal flap on the end of a mailbox.

“
Tracy Allen?
How could I be Tracy Allen? Don't you know what
drowned
means?”

“I know what it means,” he said.

“Then how could I be her? What do you think I am, a ghost or something?”

“Well,” he said, looking up at me, “aren't you?”

I laughed.

“Do I look like a ghost?” I asked.

“All except for the glasses,” he said. “I didn't know ghosts wore glasses. And I thought you'd be more see-through. I can't believe I'm standing here talking to you. This is the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.”

I didn't know if it was my true nature rearing its ugly head again or if I was justifiably mad because
he'd snuck up on me and his mother had thrown a stone at my dog, but whatever the reason, I decided to have a little fun.

“You're right,” I told him. “I am the ghost of Tracy Allen.”

And he believed me.

“The most fun part about being a ghost is flying and the hardest part is walking through walls—it's not as easy as it looks.”

I was perched on a rock, my knees tucked up under my nightgown, and Pooch was sitting on the ground at my feet hanging on every word.

“Do you know any other ghosts?” he asked.

He had taken off his necktie and stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Tons,” I told him. “We all get together and have tea parties. Ghosts love tea parties.”

“Where are all these other ghosts?” he asked, nervously looking around.

“There are three sitting in that tree over there,” I said, pointing. “And don't look now, but there's a big fat one standing right behind you.”

He jumped up and spun around, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Where?” he whispered. “I don't see anything,”

“That's 'cause ghosts are invisible, “I told him. “Everybody knows that.”

Pooch looked at me and squinched up his eyebrows.

“How come
you're
not invisible?” he asked.

I was having a ball. I'd never met anybody so gullible.

“The reason I'm not invisible is because I'm tired today,” I said, faking a big yawn. “Invisibility wears off when you're sleepy.”

It felt a little bit like being in a play, except there was only one person in the audience and instead of having to memorize lines, I could make things up as I went along.

“Do you know why ghosts moan?” I asked.

Pooch thought about it for a second. “To scare people?” he said.

“Nope. We moan because we're hungry.”

I grabbed my stomach and moaned loudly to demonstrate.

“I've got a granola bar,” he said, quickly reaching
into one of his many pockets. “It's a little smushed, but you can have it if you want.”

I hadn't had much acting experience. In fact, I had been in a play only once, the year before, in fourth grade. I got nervous when I had to speak in public, but after years of being on the costume committee and painting scenery for our class plays, Annie had convinced me that we ought to try out together for the parts of two Native American sisters in a play our teacher had chosen called
Lenape Drums
. Annie and a tall, dark-haired girl named Danielle ended up being cast as the sisters, and I was given the role of Crow Tongue, the town gossip. It wasn't a big part, but I did have one important scene, where I had to deliver a speech over the deathbed of my husband, who was being played by a boy in my class named Harris Kohler. I can still remember the lines I spoke:

At the dress rehearsal when Harris Kohler lay on the stage supposedly dead and I was about to deliver my big speech, he got a terrible case of the giggles. What set him off was my necklace. My mother had made it out of brightly painted macaroni strung onto one of my father's leather bootlaces. For some reason, the sight of that macaroni got to Harris, and once he started laughing he just couldn't stop. I was so afraid that it would happen during the performance that I became instantly paralyzed with stage fright. I would never have been able to go on if Annie hadn't come to my rescue.

“Don't worry,” she told me after the rehearsal. “I'll take care of Harris.”

At the performance that night, I delivered my deathbed speech without a hitch, and even though I wore the macaroni necklace, Harris Kohler lay still as a river stone, the crisp new twenty-dollar bill Annie's grandmother had sent her for her birthday tucked into the front pocket of his pants.

Despite my limited experience on the stage, Pooch seemed to be swallowing my act hook, line, and sinker. He pulled the granola bar out of his pocket and held it out to me.

I shook my head.

“Thanks, but ghosts can't eat granola bars,” I told
him. “Everything we eat has to be white—otherwise it shows through. I eat mostly marshmallows and mashed potatoes.”

Pooch squinched up his eyebrows again.

“Remember those tea parties you were telling me about?” he said. “Tea isn't white, so how come it doesn't show through when you drink it?”

He was a careful listener, and I was going to have to stay on my toes if I wanted to keep him on the line.

“We call them tea parties, but we don't actually drink tea,” I explained. “We have hot water with lemon instead. Or sometimes hot milk.”

“I can't drink milk,” said Pooch, folding his arms and scratching both elbows at the same time. “I'm lactose intolerant. I'm also allergic to feather pillows, dust mites, pollen, bee stings, walnuts, and—”

“Is there anything you're not allergic to?” I interrupted.

“Sugarless gum,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his shirt. “Want a piece?”

I did, but I shook my head when he held out the package to me. I wasn't sure whether gum counted as a see-through food or not. Pooch unwrapped a stick of pink gum and folded it into his mouth.

“Do you think any of your ghost friends would like
a piece?” he asked, waving the pack in the air.

I'd forgotten I'd told him there were other ghosts.

“They all left,” I said. “There's a big tea party over in Washerville today. I'm the only one here now.”

Pooch blew a little pink bubble, which popped and stuck to his lips. He grinned that goofy grin again, and this time I noticed there were gaps where some of his permanent teeth hadn't grown in yet.

“How old are you?” I asked him.

“Nine,” he answered, picking at the remnants of bubble sticking to his lower lip. “Same as you.”

I was eleven and a half. Even though I'd started school a year later than everybody else, making me the oldest in my class, I was used to people assuming I was younger than I really was because I was so small for my age.

“I figured that's how it worked,” he went on. “However old you are when you die, that's how old you stay forever, right?”

Now I understood. He thought I was nine because Tracy Allen had been nine when she drowned.

“Is it true what they say about the light?” asked Pooch.

“What light?” I asked.

“The white light you see right before you die.”

I shivered. It was one thing to make up stories about ghosts having tea parties and walking through walls, but I didn't want to have to think about how Tracy Allen must have felt when she drowned, or the last thing she saw before she died.

“Aren't you hot in those clothes?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, but I have to keep covered up because I burn easily,” Pooch explained.

“Ever heard of sunscreen?” I asked.

“I'm allergic to PABA.”

“What's PABA?”

“I'm not sure,” he said. “But whatever it is, I'm allergic to it.”

He wasn't exactly what I had expected. There was something sad about him, standing there talking about his allergies with the end of his necktie hanging out of his pocket like a little red tail.

“Where'd you get that nickname of yours, anyway?” I asked.

Pooch lifted his foot and used the toe of his shoe to scratch the back of his leg.

“Richard the Third came up with it.”

“Richard the Third?”

“My mom had three boyfriends in a row named Richard,” Pooch explained.

I must have looked surprised, because he added, “My parents got divorced a long time ago. My mom does internet dating.”

“Oh,” I said, having a hard time imagining what it would feel like to have a mom who went out on dates with someone other than your dad.

Pooch bent down and scratched his knee.

“You sure are itchy,” I said. “You got bug bites or something?”

Pooch shook his head.

“Eczema. It gets worse when I'm nervous.”

“Am I making you nervous?” I asked.

“No, no,” he said quickly, but then he blushed. “Well, maybe a little.”

We were both quiet for a minute.

“Anyway, I got the name on account of the scratching,” Pooch told me. “Richard the Third said I looked like a dog with fleas. He started calling me Pooch and it stuck. I have some lotion at home that helps, but I forgot to bring it.”

There was another silence between us. Pooch slipped his hands into his front pockets and began to jiggle
them. To my surprise, the air suddenly filled with a familiar tinkling sound.

“Oh,” I said, “so that was you before. What have you got in there?”