Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [7]
Like most lakes in the southern part of the state, Cloverleaf was rather shallow and no more than six miles in circumference. All the houses on the shore, most of them summer cabins, were distinctly visible. A slight breeze from the west blew over them. With the sky blue, and the temperature in the low seventies, Burrage, as he rowed, felt his heart loosen in his chest while the mildness of the day crept over him. He could see several families splashing in the water at the public beach. He smiled, and noticed that Mrs. Schultz was doing the same.
“Tell me when we get to the middle of the lake,” Burrage said. “Somebody tell me when we’re there.”
“I’ll tell you,” Magda said. It was her first complete public sentence of the day.
“Thank you, Magda,” Burrage said, turning around to see her. She was doing finger-flicks in the water.
Five minutes later she broke the silence by saying, “We’re there.” Burrage raised the oars from the water and let the droplets fall one by one before he brought them into the boat. On the south side of the lake an outboard was pulling a water-skier wearing a blue safety vest. Gregory was letting his hand play in the water, humming a song from the Glenn Miller tape, and Magda was now staring down into the water with her nose only four inches or so from its surface. “I see a monster down there,” she said. No one seemed surprised. “It’s got a long neck and an ugly head.”
“A reptile,” Mrs. Schultz said, nodding. “Like Loch Ness.”
“It could bite,” Gregory said. “Watch out.”
“Sea monsters,” Burrage said, “may not be extinct. Pass me the crackers, please.”
“After I have mine,” Mrs. Schultz said, her hand in the bag. She was sniffing the air again. “I don’t believe I have ever seen a sea monster, not this far inland. I’ve heard about them, though.” She waited. “I like this lake. It’s a nice lake.”
“There’s a bug on me,” Magda said, tapping a finger on her sweatshirt. “There. It flew away.”
“Pass me a cracker,” Gregory said. “Please.”
“Look at that water-skier,” Burrage said. “He’s very good.”
The rowboat began to drift, pushed by the breeze. Gregory munched on his cracker, and now Magda was dipping her fingers in the water and experimenting with wave motion. Mrs. Schultz had taken a handkerchief out of her sleeve and put it on her head, apparently to minimize the danger of sunstroke.
“Does anybody want anything?” Burrage asked, feeling regal.
“No,” the other three said.
“Don’t ask me if I have to go to the bathroom,” Mrs. Schultz complained. “Once is enough.” She waited. “Do you know,” she said, “that my grandfather owned land just north of here? He was Scottish, and, of all things, his life’s dream was to build himself a golf course. He was even going to build the hills. But, for some reason, it didn’t happen. Instead, he learned how to play the oboe and could play it lying down in a hammock, during the summer. He had the lungs of a seven-year-old boy.” She looked at Burrage. “He never smoked cigars.”
“What’s that?” Magda asked. Her finger was pointing toward shore.
“What’s what?”
“That.” She was still pointing. “That smoke.”
“That’s a charcoal grill,” Burrage said. “Somebody’s cooking hamburgers outside, and that’s where all the smoke comes from.”
“Cooking with charcoal is bad for you,” Mrs. Schultz said. “Too much carbon. Cancer.”
“Where’s the grill?” Magda asked. “I don’t see it.”
They all turned to look. Thin strips of smoke rose in the distance behind or near a house. It was hard to tell. The house was a plain white one that seemed to have a screen porch but no other distinguishing features.
“Is that house on fire?” Magda asked.
“No,” Burrage said. “It is not on fire. They are just cooking hamburgers.” He did not want to shout. “It’s Saturday. People cook hamburgers on Saturday all the time.” Because there was more smoke, he felt he should raise his voice somewhat. “You shouldn’t worry.”
“Maybe we ought to row toward it,” Mrs. Schultz suggested, the handkerchief on her head fluttering as her head shook.
“No,” Burrage said. “I don’t think