On Mystic Lake

He’d first seen this house through her dreamer’s eyes. She’d lit a fire inside his soul that night, and this old house had become the physical embodiment of that dream. Perfect for a boy who’d lived in a car for two years and eaten breakfast from Dumpsters.

It had taken him years, but he’d finally saved enough money to buy the place. It had been summer then, August, when he’d signed the papers and written the downpayment check. Yet even on that hottest day of the year, this road had been cool and shaded, and a breeze had swept along the banks of the lake. He had gazed into the distance at Mount Olympus, which stood as an immense granite triangle thrust high, high into the robin’s-egg-blue sky, with only the barest hint of snow left to dust its jagged crown.

The memory was as sharp as broken glass. He’d raced to bring Izzy and Kathy here, but it was night by then and shadows lay thick and dark along the porch rails.

He’d grabbed Kathy’s hand and dragged her through the murky, musty interior.

Can’t you just see it, Kath? This’ll be the sunroom— where we’ll have breakfast . . . and that’s the kitchen, they don’t make stoves like that anymore . . . and check out that fireplace—I bet it’s one hundred years old. . . .

He smelled hope and home and possibilities.

She smelled must and dirt and work.

How had he failed to notice? And why hadn’t he stopped talking long enough to ask her opinion? Why had he just thought, she’s having one of her bad days, and let it go at that?

With a tired sigh, he straightened his shoulders, crossed the grass, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the front door. The wet sack of his useless new belongings hit the floor beside his feet, forgotten.

There was a flurry of footsteps behind the door, and a muffled “just a minute,” then the door opened and Annie stood before him.

The silence between them was deafening; every sound seemed amplified, the rhythmic thunking of the rain on oversized leaves, the quiet licking of waves on gravel.

He wished he could smile, but he was afraid. He looked away, before she could see the sudden longing in his eyes.

“Nick. ” It was just a whisper of sound; he imagined he could feel the moist heat of her breath on his neck. Slowly, slowly, he looked at her.

She was standing so close he could see the smattering of freckles that lay along her hairline, and a tiny white scar that bisected one eyebrow. “I’ve been going to AA twice a day,” he said quickly, without even adding a mumbled hello. “I haven’t had a drink since you dropped me off at the motel. ”

“Oh, Nick, that’s wonderful. I—”

It was as if she suddenly realized how close they were standing. In the pale glow of the porch light, he saw a sweet blush color her cheeks.

She broke eye contact and cleared her throat, moving back a respectable few feet. “Izzy is in the family room. We were painting. Come on in. ”

“Painting. Sounds fun. I wouldn’t want to—”

“You can do this, Nick. ” She took hold of his hand—her grasp was solid and comforting—and pulled him into the house. The door banged shut behind him.

The house smelled clean, and somewhere a radio was playing, but he didn’t have time to really notice the changes she had made. She was pulling him down the hallway.

Her “family room” was what Nick used to think of as the shit room. Years ago, probably in the fifties, somebody had tried to remodel this room on a skimpy budget. Pressboard wood paneling hid the log walls underneath, and mustard-colored carpet covered the hardwood floor. The only nice thing in the room was a big old brick fireplace, in which Annie had a fire going.

The French doors that led onto the back porch were open. A cool, early evening breeze ruffled their gauzy white curtains, and the rain was a silvery veil between the house and the falling night. Multicolored jars and paint-brushes cluttered a portable card table. Spilled paint lay in bright blemishes on the newspaper that protected the carpet.

Izzy stood with her back to them, one gloved hand hung limply at her left side. There was a huge easel in front of her, with a piece of white paper pinned in place. He could see splashes of color on the paper, but her body blocked the picture.

He realized suddenly that Annie was gone. His hand felt cold and empty. Turning slightly, he saw her in the hallway. She gave him a quick thumbs-up and disappeared.

He sighed. Turning back toward the room, he took a cautious step inside. He expected Izzy to spin around and stare at him, but the carpet muffled the sound of his steps, and she kept on painting.

“Izzy. ” He said her name softly, as if a quiet voice could somehow soften the

surprise.

She dropped a baby-food jar full of blue paint. The colorful liquid splashed across the newspaper. Slowly, clutching her paintbrush, she turned around.

She looked like an angel. She was wearing a paint-stained pair of yellow overalls, but there were no streaks of color on her hair or face. Her jet-black hair lay in two evenly plaited braids, tied at the ends with bits of yellow ribbon.

She looked like she used to.