Forgive the River, Forgive the Sky Read online

  We hit the water with a splash and catapulted ourselves into the canoe. In seconds we were shooting down the river. The day was perfect. The river was gold where the sun was shining. In the shade it was green from the reflection of the trees. People were lined up all along the river to watch the race. As Laura and I passed my old place, we saw T.R. sitting in his wheelchair on the landing. He gave us the thumbs-up sign. Our hours and hours of practicing together had paid off. We left all the other racers behind except for Justin and Steve, who were about two canoe lengths ahead of us.

  Laura and I started out by calling out encouraging things to each other, but it took too much breath so we had to stop. The sun was hot, and in spite of a band I had around my forehead, the sweat was running into my eyes. I couldn’t stop paddling to wipe it off, so I had to keep blinking to see. Laura was having trouble, too, and she didn’t know the river like I did. So we started having some problems. We shot around small islands of tamarack trees growing mysteriously out of the water. We nearly hit a sandbar. Once I had to call out, “Laura! Look out! On your left!” Three sharply pointed stumps stuck up like pickets in a fence. We just missed them, the canoe grazing the edge of the last stump. But we weren’t the only ones having trouble. Ahead of us we heard Justin call out to Steve just in time to keep him from being swept out of their canoe by an overhanging branch. The other canoes were well behind us.

  About a mile from the finish line, we came to the island in the middle of the river where Laura and I had been grounded our first day. This was one of the river’s trickiest places. If you paddled to the left of the island — which almost everyone did — you lost time because it was the longer way. But if you went to the right, you got stuck on logs that lay just below the surface of the water. Wayne Sloger had pointed out to Laura and me that because we weighed less than the boys, our canoe could almost pass over the logs. By the time we got to the island, we had nearly caught up with Justin and Steve. They paddled to the left. We headed for the right side.

  When he saw what we were doing, Steve yelled, “We’ll come and pry you loose after we win the race!” He and Justin were laughing so much they could hardly paddle. But Laura and I had the last laugh. Our canoe slipped right through the gap without so much as a scrape.

  What had happened was this. The night before the race, Laura stayed at my apartment. We waited until midnight so no one would see us, and then we sneaked down the stairs and out the back door. Earlier, after Charlie had left the store for the day, I had borrowed a small shovel and the trusty crowbar. With the shovel and the crowbar strapped to our bikes, Laura and I headed for the river. It took us twice as long as it would have in the daytime to make it to the place in the river where the island was. Luckily there was a full moon, so we had a kind of silver pathway to follow.

  First we had to shovel the sand away from beneath the logs. Because of the current, the sand kept shifting back, so it took a while. When we got enough sand shoveled away, we pried the logs loose with the crowbar and sent them down the river. That left a slot deep enough for our canoe to pass through.

  That did it! Laura and I hit the finish line a second before Justin and Steve.

  They couldn’t believe their eyes. They looked at us as if we were ghosts or something. As if maybe we had been flown there by some spirits instead of actually paddling. Anyhow, Justin was pretty good about losing. He congratulated Laura and me and actually shook our hands, pumping them up and down long enough to be sure the photographer from the Avalanche got his picture. I thought of a lot of snotty things to say, but I didn’t say them. It’s easy to be nice when you win.

  As soon as they had seen us paddle by, people had climbed into their cars and headed for the finish line. The Schwans and Mom and Charlie rushed up to congratulate us. Mr. Blanken looked plenty unhappy, but he was polite to us when he awarded the first-place prize: two catcher’s mitts. I’ve got mine in my room because I plan to go out for the girls’ baseball team in high school. Laura has hers hanging in her bedroom with dried flowers coming out of the fingers.

  In their article about the race, the Rivertown Avalanche told how my dad had won the big race three times in a row. The headline read, LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.

  When I finally had a chance to be alone on the river, I laid a wreath of field daisies and Queen Anne’s lace on the water.

  I guess winning the race should have made me forgive the river. Instead, all I could think about was that if it hadn’t been for the river, Dad might have been there to see it happen.

  6

  In August the weather turned hot. A week went by with no rain. The bracken in the woods shriveled. There were more birds dipping into the river for water. The squirrels hung out in the shade, sprawled over the tree branches like small rugs. I worried about Fleabit because he was chained outside in the hot sun. I took to checking on him and bringing him water when the Bad Hads were away. The heat was really getting to Fleabit. When I unhooked him from the chain, instead of chasing his tail like he usually did, he just lay there and panted like a steam engine.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. Monday morning I called Betty Nestor, the animal rescue officer, and told her about Fleabit. I thought she would make the Bad Hads keep him out of the heat. Instead, I got myself into a mess.

  On Thursday when the Rivertown Avalanche came, there it was on page three, along with the names of the people who had been arrested for speeding or burning trash without a permit. The paper said the Durwood brothers had been fined thirty-five dollars for leaving their dog unattended in the hot sun.

  Thursday afternoon, the Bad Hads stormed into the store and marched up to Mom. Hadden announced in a voice loud enough for the whole town to hear, “We know who turned us in. That dog’s not worth its keep. You can tell that nosey girl of yours we took our dog to the pound. They’re puttin’ it away. See how she likes that.” Then they marched out before I could get my hands on them.

  I vaulted onto my bike. The ten minutes it took me to get to the Animal Rescue Shelter were the longest ten minutes of my life. It was just outside of town in one of those little concrete buildings that look like someone started a house and didn’t finish it. I burst through the front door. “Is he dead?”

  Betty just stared at me.

  “Fleabit. Did you kill him yet?”

  “Lily, we don’t ‘kill’ animals. We put them away. That’s very different.”

  “Well, they end up dead. What about the Bad Hads’ dog?”

  “We only put them away when we can’t find a home for them or when their owners, for a good reason, ask that we do. If you’re talking about the Durwoods’ dog, we still have him.”

  I started breathing again.

  Betty shook her head. “I have to admit it doesn’t look too good for him. He’s not exactly the kind of dog that people are looking for. He’s old, half-starved, and covered with fleas.”

  “How much?”

  “How many fleas? Millions.”

  “No. How much to buy him.”

  “Well, whoever bought him would have to pay for his shots and a flea dip and his license. Maybe twenty-five dollars.”

  “I’ll take him.” I had that much saved from the money I was making in the store. It was the money I was putting aside to buy waders to fish the river.

  “Well, that’s nice, Lily, but you’re underage. You’ll need a note from your mother.”

  “You won’t kill him before I get back?”

  “Lily! Stop using that word!”

  I made her swear on a stack of dog-license applications she wouldn’t put him aside or whatever.

  Mom was horrified. “Lily, I can’t take on any more responsibility. I have the store. I have the housekeeping. I have you. That’s more than enough. And it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. We live in an apartment.”

  “If you had a choice between being dead and living in an apartment, which would you pick?”

  “I’m not a dog, Lily.”

  “Just tell me what to
do. I’ll be your slave. I’ll mop the kitchen floor. I’ll clean the toilet. I’ll straighten my room twice a day.” I had an inspiration. “I’ll do the ironing.” Mom says heaven will be entirely wash-and-wear.

  She wrote the note.

  Mom brought home a dog bed from the store and a flea collar and a leash. When she got a good look at Fleabit, she was horrified. “That dog looks like a skeleton, Lily.” Mom’s a great one for feeding people up. She put real hamburger in Fleabit’s dog food. He seemed restless in the apartment, so I took him for a couple of walks. That night he did a lot of pacing and finally fell asleep with his nose at the crack under the front door.

  The next morning I took him for another walk, filled his water dish, pulled the shades so it would be cool, and promised him we’d be up from the store for lunch. Mom has yogurt with a sliced banana mushed into it, which I can hardly bear to watch her eat. I have peanut butter and onion sandwiches, which she can’t watch me eat.

  When lunchtime came, Mom and I went up the stairs together. She was the first one in the apartment. When I heard her scream, I thought something had happened to Fleabit. It was the apartment something had happened to. The screens were chewed; the door was chewed; the laundry was scattered everywhere; a vase of flowers had been knocked over, making a puddle on the rug. At least I hoped the puddle came from the vase and not Fleabit. When I saw the look on Mom’s face, I knew what was coming.

  “It will cost me at least a hundred dollars I don’t have to clean up after that animal. You take him to the animal shelter this minute, young lady.”

  Mom had only called me “young lady” a couple of times before in my whole life, and each time she meant business. I put Fleabit’s leash on him and dragged him off. What I hadn’t realized was that Fleabit was an outdoor dog. Even though he had been chained up, he was used to being outside. I guess he thought being tied up outside was better than being shut up in an apartment. I couldn’t argue with that. But I didn’t want him put away, either.

  When I got to the shelter I kept right on going to T.R.’s place. I opened the gate and led Fleabit up to the door. Before I could knock, T.R. had the door open. He took one look at the dog and started to laugh. “That’s a sorry excuse for a dog.”

  “He’s a present for you.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure, but no thanks. A sick bird is one thing. A mangy, bedraggled beast is another. Anyhow, he looks like he’s your dog.”

  “He’s got to be outside. If you don’t take him, he’ll be put away.”

  “Probably the best thing that could happen to him.”

  Before I could stop myself, I was shouting, “He’s not like you. He doesn’t care if he isn’t perfect. He doesn’t want to just give up like you’re doing.”

  T.R.’s face got all red. “So you think this useless dog and I make a perfect couple?”

  “That dog’s not useless. Not if you love it.”

  T.R. just stared at me. Even I could see I should have shut up long before. I started to walk away, pulling the dog after me. Fleabit had picked up the smell of a rabbit or a wood-chuck and didn’t want to come.

  “Wait, Lily.” I turned around and saw T.R. sitting there, looking at Fleabit like he was some kind of awful-tasting medicine he had to swallow.

  “I’ll take the mutt,” he said. “What’s his name?”

  “Fleabit.”

  “Perfect. But you’re to give me your solemn word you will bring me no more pathetic creatures: no polar bears with colds, no camels with sore humps, no elephants with unhinged trunks. Also, I will regard this animal as yours, not mine. You will be expected to visit it regularly. What you need, Lily, is someone to fly chase on you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  T.R. gave me one of his crooked smiles. “When a test pilot sets off on a dangerous flight, another pilot flies along right beside him to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

  7

  I dropped in on T.R. and Fleabit every night after supper. One evening I came by canoe. T.R. was sitting in his wheelchair at the edge of the river with Fleabit by his side. Fleabit was gnawing on an enormous bone.

  “You’re pretty good at handling that canoe,” he called out. “You want a passenger?” He tied the dog to a tree, leaving the bone next to him.

  I was really pleased but a little nervous about T.R. getting into the canoe. I steadied it against the landing while he maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and onto the landing and then into the canoe. The strength in his arms made up for his not being able to use his legs.

  T.R. sat in the bow of the canoe, his back supported by the seat rest. I sat in the stern so I could steer. He caught on to the paddling fast, and in no time we were skimming along like a team.

  “How come you wanted to come canoeing?” I asked.

  “Boredom, my child. I don’t suppose you know what that word means?”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had been in Mr. Macker’s social studies class with me. Anyhow, if you’re bored, why don’t you try flying again?”

  “You just don’t give up on that subject, do you?” T.R. looked at me, his blue eyes sharp and bright as a bird’s, then looked away. “I’d have to go back to the city where there are special planes equipped for paraplegics. That means seeing other people and listening to their stupid questions. Or maybe I just don’t want to see them seeing me.”

  His unhappiness took all the talk out of me, but there was plenty for us to look at. The sand and gravel on the river bottom sort of danced as the current hurried over it. The reflection of the pine and birch trees made stripes of white and green on the water. Dragonflies in bright blues and reds skimmed just above us. They touched down in little swoops on T.R.’s hat and my hands. A kingfisher kept a little ahead of us, teasing us with his rackety laugh as he dove for minnows. A water snake poked up its head, caught a glimpse of us, and disappeared.

  “It’s getting dark,” T.R. said. “Better turn back.”

  “Just one more bend,” I coaxed. “Anyhow, I know the river with my eyes closed. Can you imagine what this river was like back when it was jammed with millions of logs on their way down to the sawmills? Dad said thousands of houses in Detroit and Chicago were built from the logs that floated down this river. They even floated rafts down the river with whole kitchens on them to feed the loggers. We have pictures of them in our family album.” T.R. actually seemed interested in what I was saying. It was the first time I had seen T.R. when he wasn’t as twitchy as a chickadee around a hawk.

  As we rounded a bend, we could make out a deer in the middle of the river, feeding on watercress. We let the canoe drift until the deer caught our scent and raised its head, watercress hanging like a green beard from its mouth. The deer stood looking at us for a long minute, then bounded out of the water and headed for the woods. T.R. turned around and smiled at me. It wasn’t one of his twisty, undecided smiles, either. Neither of us said anything. It was the the kind of nice silence I remembered sharing on the river with Dad. I thought back to the evening T.R. had spent with Mom and me and how good it had felt to have him there.

  The trout were rising to an early evening hatch of insects. The insects were so tiny they looked like nothing more than a hustle in the air. It was getting darker, and I was about to turn around when I saw a patch of cardinal flowers along the bank. Cardinal flowers don’t bloom until late in the summer. These were the first I had seen. I poled the boat over to the shore and picked some. With these and some white ladies’ tresses I wove a wreath and laid it on the river.

  “What are you doing?” T.R. asked.

  “Every Thursday I make a wreath for my Dad. It reminds the river of what it did to him.”

  “I heard he died on the river, but I don’t know why you blame the river.”

  “You blame the sky …” Before I could finish my sentence, I heard something that made me jump. It was the sound of a motor. The river is too narrow and shallow for a motorboat. Besides, the sound of a motor scares
away the trout and everything else. The only people who use one are the Bad Hads. They think it’s too much work to paddle upriver. And they don’t care about the trout. They think the people from downstate who come up flyfishing for trout are wimps. The Hads fish for trout with huge earthworms. Dad always called people who used worms for trout “Plunkers.”

  Sure enough, the Hads’ boat came buzzing along like a rattlesnake. It was headed straight for us.

  “What do you fools think you’re doing!” T.R. yelled at them. “You must be crazy!”

  Probably they just meant to give us a scare, but T.R.’s shouting at them made them see red. They just kept coming. All I could think about was getting out of their way. I started paddling with all the strength I had. The canoe lurched out of their path. They went speeding by, never looking back.

  Only I hadn’t had time to see where I was steering. Inches ahead of us was a sweeper sticking out from the shore.

  “Duck!” I screamed to T.R. in the front of the canoe. It was too late. T.R. got swept into the water. I kicked off my shoes and dove in after him. The water was like ice.

  “T.R.!” I called his name. I felt sand under my feet. The next minute the river bottom disappeared and I had to tread water. I was scared that T.R. might have been knocked unconscious by the sweeper. I knew the current would carry him downriver. To find him I would have to let myself go with the river. Water filled my mouth, nearly choking me. I got pitched against a tangle of logs. A second later the river threw me onto shallow bottom where stones scraped my knees. I didn’t dare stand up. I had to let the current carry me. It was the only way I could follow T.R. I called his name again and again, but my voice was choked with water.

  On a night like this one my father had collapsed, fallen into the river, and drowned. Over and over I had awakened from nightmares of my father struggling in the river. I hadn’t been there to help him. Now it was T.R. I had to save him.