Feels like Home (Lake Fisher 2)

Jake is the first one to get drunk. I know he’s drunk when he lets out a fart that people can probably hear in the campground. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just does it and says nothing.

“Jesus, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson says. “You could at least walk around the corner.”

“Why?” Jake asks as he scratches his ass.

“Because it’s polite,” Mr. Jacobson replies. But I can tell he’s a little tipsy, too, because he slurs his words. “Get off the ladder,” he commands, as Jake gets ready to go back up to the roof of the little building that’s almost finished.

“I’m not done yet.” Jake scratches his ass again, looks from the ladder to Pop, and then plops down in a folding chair that Mr. Jacobson opens up just for him. He opens two more chairs and Aaron looks at me like it’s a trap. I shrug, grab a beer, and go sit down. Aaron does the same.

Aaron guzzles his beer and Jake tosses him another. “Do you remember that time we drank until Aaron threw up all over Lynda?” Jake suddenly asks. “She was so mad at you, dude.”

“I had to put up with her and Bess, because Bess was pissed off that I’d gotten so drunk.” He burps really loudly. “It was a shit night, if I remember correctly.” He looks at me. “How old were we? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one,” Mr. Jacobson supplies. “Because I had to take all of you home with me when your parents wouldn’t let you back in your houses. You’d all gone home singing a dirty little song. No idea where you learned it. You sang it at the top of your lungs all the way back to the cabins and your parents locked you out because of it.”

Jake’s mouth falls open. “You jackass,” he says, pointing a finger at his dad. “You taught us that song!”

Mr. Jacobson scratches his belly. “A man needs a full repertoire of music to choose from in times of need.” He picks up a clod of grass and throws it in our general direction. “None of you could hold your liquor.” He looks at Jake. “Apparently, you still can’t.” He snorts out a laugh, finishes his beer, and crushes the can beneath his heel. Then he pops open another one. Suddenly he blurts out, “We’re going to bury Aaron here.” He nods in the general direction of the little cemetery. “I already made the arrangements.”

“Pop. This isn’t the time,” Jake hisses at him. Jake looks at Aaron but Aaron just shrugs.

“It’s fine,” Aaron says. “Better to talk about it than not.” He shrugs again.

Aaron has never been a happy drunk. He’s a quiet drunk. And he’s an honest drunk. Shit comes out of his mouth when he’s drunk that he’d never say sober.

“Do you remember that time we went down to Five Mile Bridge and jumped off?” Jake suddenly asks.

“Yep,” Aaron and I say at the same time, which makes me laugh. I’m not entirely sure why.

“One of you shoved me in!” Jake cries. He looks from Aaron to me and back. “Which of you was it?”

Aaron holds up his hand like he wants to be called on by the teacher. “It was me. You were waffling, dude. Had to commit.”

“If we’re spilling secrets,” I say, “wh

ich one of you told Bess I had once had a crush on Susie Millerson when I was twelve? Bess didn’t talk to me the rest of the day.”

“Dude, everybody had a crush on Susie Millerson,” Jake offers. Susie Millerson was a lot older than the rest of us, which meant she was filling out in all the right places, and every boy wanted to spend time with her. And of course that made all the girls jealous.

“So who told Bess?” I ask, sulking a little.

Mr. Jacobson raises his hand. “It was me.”

“You dirty fucker,” Jake replies. But he laughs and there’s no heat in the words.

“Never did like that Millerson girl,” Mr. Jacobson says. “She had a mean streak a mile wide.”

“Bess didn’t like her, either,” I say.

“So,” Jake says slowly, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He stares at Aaron. “You have any last wishes?”

Aaron freezes. “I’ve never thought about it.”

Jake rubs his hands together like he’s warming them by the fire. Mr. Jacobson tosses him another beer. “We’re here. This is as good a time as any to figure it out.”

He thinks for a moment. “If my daughters want to play football, you let them,” Aaron says and he points at me.

“Okay.” I don’t know what else to say.