Derecho

A Midsummer Tale ~ Third Place
Lou Nell Gerard


Photo Credit: Pat Gaines/Flickr (CC-by-nc)

Mile 1, Elise, Metro 295, Morning Dove Coffee

One of the new hybrids, sparkling and quiet, pulls into Transit Center Bay 4. It is early dawn and already hot, rather, still hot. There is a pneumatic puff as the doors open and cold air from the bus tumbles out, lost to the heat wave outside. Woven scents of soaps from all the morning showers descend and hang in the air as students bound for the community college, office workers, laborers, and nightlifers step down off the bus.

Elise rolls her bike to the curb and waves at the driver. He gives her the thumbs up. She rolls it off the curb, lowers the bike rack, loads her bike on the front section, secures the support arm over the front wheel and moves into the queue, bus pass ready to scan.

She smooths the back of her skirt as she settles on one of the higher seats at the back of the first section of the articulated bus. She pulls out her iPad and balances it on the backpack in her lap. She leaves the seat next to her open anticipating a full commute into the university district, Pill Hill, then the downtown core. The pneumatic puff repeats as the doors close and the bus pulls away like a quiet dragon. The air conditioning works double-time to make up for the heat that boarded the bus like another passenger.

The deep blue sky is full of towers of cumulus clouds doing a quickstep march. They are positioned exactly where one of the local hot air balloon festivals takes place. She watches them sail quickly toward her. Her attention shifts as the kids bound for early university classes settle in with their energy bars, Odwalla drinks, and bloodshot eyes. A few pull out texts or tablets; most look hopeful for a few more winks. One is already curled up in a fetal position, her checkered canvas sneakers tucked on the seat, jungle red nails at the ends of her small delicate fingers cup her ankles. Her black knit watch cap implores “Love Me.” She has a little pout painted red.

Back outside, the sky on the horizon has turned from deep blue to dark gray-green and the cumulus clouds, racing in her direction bump into each other, flare out flat, and connect at the top. She hears something slide as the bus rounds a corner and brakes for the next stop. She looks down to see a bright pink toothbrush with green bristles slide out from under a seat. A woman’s cane crashes to the floor. Across from her an Asian girl in black watch plaid skinny jeans and four-inch suede peach stilettos picks up the woman’s cane for her. A wraith thin woman with a fever sheen to her face climbs on with heavy luggage. Elise wonders that she could lift it. She sits and a big shiver wracks her body. She digs out her cell phone and throws one leg atop her bag.

A woman sits down next to Elise. Her benchmate’s feet with celeste blue toenails swing freely in white leather flip-flops. A flash of departing morning sun lights the chin of a passenger in a dragon tee and the forehead of another across the aisle with his Beats and his music. Nooks, Kindles, iPads, phones. The crackle of a couple of good old-fashioned newspapers, books. Watchers with smiles, with arms crossed bleary-eyed, with straight-ahead stares. The articulated center of the bus, the last seats to be filled, hosts a lanky boy with baggy trousers and a ball cap pulled down low.

There comes a changing of the guard at the transit center. The new benchmate sits down on the flare of Elise’s skirt. Thumbs still poised over his phone, one man sleeps through it all. Beats person reads the newspaper over another man’s shoulder and the bus is now at standing room only. Elise watches the lake turn serious gunmetal gray-green, reflecting the color of the horizon. Sunlight no longer makes its way past the bank of clouds which have formed an arched shelf. Low, dark, and menacing.

The couple across from Elise release hands as the man gets up for his stop. The woman, smiling a private smile, now holds her own hands on her lap as they pass into the dark of the tunnel.

The bus emerges from the tunnel to amplified crackling and an alarming jagged light. Another, followed by two enormous booms, reverberates Elise’s insides. The clouds now form a ceiling, like the low dark roof of a sports dome, crack, crack, crack—a series of lightning bolts is followed by the bellowing thunder.

In the seat in front of Elise little hands hang on the window sill. A child’s face, freckles pressed against the glass, head turning, laughing, pointing, smiling with joy, and speaking his own special language. His world goes by the window of the 295 and it is wonderful. His fellow passengers show mixed feelings, few share his enthusiasm, most of them have never seen a sky like this, some hope this means the end of the heat wave.

As Elise puts her iPad away and readies for her stop, the deluge begins, driven almost horizontal by the wind. Great! She’s early for her meeting. She shrugs her shoulders. Oh well. As she waits in line to get off the bus she spots a place of refuge from the storm, Morning Dove Coffee, named after the Mourning Dove, but the proprietor feared the word mourning might steer some people clear of the premises. She isn’t the only passenger planning a dash for the Morning Dove. She taps her bicycle helmet at the driver and he gives her a nod and thumbs up. She removes her bike from the rack, lifts the rack back into place in record time. Soaked, she runs head down against the driving rain with her bike across the street and locks it on the bike rack near the entrance. She is not alone taking refuge in Morning Dove Coffee. It is packed with bedraggled folk, pools of rainwater are already gathering on the floor. Streaks of lightning crackle and thunder booms.

The screen over the baristas that usually displays album art and info about the current song has been tuned to a news channel. A news anchor is interviewing a NOAA spokesperson who is standing in front of storm cloud diagrams. “…and can you explain why the extent of this thunderstorm, this, um, derecho, was not predicted?”

“While typical thunderstorms are reasonably well-forecast, the complexity of a derecho-producing storm system is not yet fully understood and observation networks…”

Elise orders a quad, no room.

Mile 325, Exit 18, Peg’s, “Homemade Pies, Fresh Coffee All Day”

Peg carries the round tray full of plates of food as though it is an extension of her left arm. The coffee pot in her right hand, likewise, seems like part of her anatomy. Skinny as a rail, tough as they come.

“Ha ha ha, what Lucy don’t know won’t hurt ya, Dan’l, fresh out of the oven this morning. Peach, loaded with cinnamon the way you like.” Peg’s smoker’s voice can be heard from one end of the little crossroads café to the other.

“Come on, go for it, Dan’l, you know we’re not squealers.” Jolene, Daniel’s cousin, chimes in from the center of the café.

An impromptu barbershop quartet from the back corner starts up:

I dream of pie with the light brown crust
Baked by Peggy, with loving care
I dream of fresh peaches baked within
That crust of care and cinnamon

“All right already you clowns, but if Lucy finds out about this…” Daniel growls.

Peg, who knows her customers, already has Daniel’s pie on her serving tray. She triumphantly places it in front of him. “There you go, Dan’l, I think this is one of my best yet, but you tell me.” She sets the coffee pot down and puts her right hand on her cocked hip, waiting for his first bite.

He cuts his first piece from the point, closes his eyes, and makes a wish as he chews—a childhood habit. He chews dramatically slowly. “Hmmm, mmumph.” He nods, opens his eyes, swallows and reaches his arm around Peg’s waist. “Darlin’, they’ll be serving this up in heaven.”

She nods, satisfied, picks up the coffee pot, tops his mug off and continues her rounds.

“Gettin’ dark in here, Peg, did ya pay the light bill?” Jeff asks from the counter where he likes to sit, the first stool but one.

Peg dips at the waist a little and peeks out a window. “Say, would ya look at that sky? Ain’t seen a sky like that, since, nope, well, never like that… dark like that, but not that big… damn if it don’t look like an alien spaceship dominating the sky like that. Well, folks, hope you aren’t seeing’ the end o’ the world here in ole Peg’s.”

“I could think a worse places. Peg, top off all our coffees, and how about pie all around since Dan’l says its good enough for heaven! Oh, and make it on the house. Har har har har.”

“Now I just might to spite ya, Levi, you old coot!”

The door opens and bangs and bounces as a gust pulls it out of the new customer’s hand. The couple are probably travelers, no one knows them, but they are just as welcome as the regulars. Peg, still busy with serving, says over her shoulder, “Sit anyplace you like, well except Johnie’s table over there.” She points with her chin at a table in the corner window. It has a single place setting, a poppy in a vase, a photo of a boy in uniform and a display of medals. Sitting on one of the window sills is a US flag folded and displayed in a triangle.

“Say, what is this storm you’ve brought in folks?”

“We feel like it’s been chasing us!” the woman says as she heads for a table toward the back. “Davey tells me not to worry so, of course, now I’m really scared.”

Everyone in Peg’s chuckles.

Davey grins, as he pulls out a chair for his wife. “Aw, now, Lois. Well, everybody, I don’t believe I can take credit for this one. The radio is saying it is what’s called a derecho, like a giant, fast moving conga line of a storm. The thing is crossing state borders. Not very common especially this far west. From what I can gather we are maybe about in the middle of the thing. I guess over 250 miles is not uncommon. They say the North American record holder covered 1,300 miles. Yah, Minnesota, into southern Canada then headed out off the coast of Maine.”

“Never heard of one. You, Nosey?” Peg pours Clement “Nosey” Gray another cup.

“Not I, not I, Peg. Cheers!” Nosey lifts his now-full cup, nods at Peg, then downs the hot brew in short order.

Outside the windows it looks like nighttime until a bolt of cloud-to-ground lighting lights up the sky and the café followed by a rolling thunder. Another streak of bright electric light reaches from above the clouds to the ground and rebounds back. Its thunder roar takes less time to reach them. It feels like Peg’s little café actually shakes. Crack-crack, double-strike, and a roaring rolling boom prompts sounds not dissimilar to the sounds made by crowds watching fireworks.

The lights flicker.

“Oh oh, get out yer Zippos, boys and gals, we’re about to go down, glad we got the gas going in the kitchen already!”

The regulars pull out lighters or matches, lift the little glass globes from the candles in the center of their tables, light the candles like it is common practice here. Davey and his partner Lois, non-smokers, look around. Jolene, at the adjacent table, passes them her lighter and Davey lights the candle. “Much obliged.”

Mile 815, Holly, Code J45.901, Mostly Caff Café

Holly, a long-time barista at Mostly Caff, is now also interning as a pulmonologist at Mercy, the nearby university hospital. Very near—across the street actually. Many of the customers at the Mostly Caff Café are in scrubs. She was advised to quit her day job as soon as her internship started but she is young and energetic and has her eye on an elite racing bicycle. Everyone told her she’d be consumed by exhaustion, but she decided to wait and see.

She likes working the café. There is something familiar and comforting about it. Even crowded. Somehow the blending of multiple, low conversations sounds like a loft full of messenger pigeons coo-coo cooo, coo-coo cooo. Then there are the regulars, many of them fellow students. She likes the contact.

She and Hank are an efficient duo with the shift change crowd. It is especially busy today with regulars and non-regulars. Today is a guest day. Easy to spot, the first group huddles rather than queues. Five of them all wearing visitor badges around their upper arms like blood-draw Cobans. They are talking amongst themselves; she pegs them for the type that chat constantly as the line moves forward. She is right. They form a block oblivious to the people just trying to maneuver through the café. When it is their turn they look almost shocked, the clump disperses as they peer into the cases of food and crane their necks to read the drink offerings. She smiles, right every time. Her eyes make contact with one of her regulars behind the group; they both shrug their shoulders, amused. “What are ya gonna do?”

Holly has not seen the sky since arriving for work. Everyone coming in is describing it differently, but all agree it is like nothing they’ve ever seen before. Fast-moving, a solid bank of low cumulus-like stuff, dark and menacing and heading their way. One person likens it to Birnam Wood’s assault on Dunsinane. All she knows is that, her ears, particularly sensitive to pressure changes, are bothering her. Suddenly the already dim Mostly Caff becomes even darker, like blackout curtains dropped, they way they do in the classroom prior to a video lesson. Just as sharply, darkness is broken as strobes, brilliant and revealing—almost blinding—flash brightly and give the room the feel of an old Gothic mansion in a bad horror film.

Soon a deluge is audible on the roof. More people pour into the already crowded café. Many, just off work, decide to wait out the thunderstorm before catching their bus home. None of the bus shelters are adequate to the task of shielding people from this thing.

Pitched above the cracks of lightning and the rumbling of thunder comes the sound of aid cars. It is not unusual to hear sirens since the ER is just across the street, but it is unusual to hear so many so close together. Suddenly beepers, phones, and watch alerts are capturing the attention of almost everyone in the place, including Holly. She glances down at her watch and asks one of her co-workers who was about to leave, “Hey Rhond, can you, um, not leave? I have an emergency call, I gotta run over to Mercy.”

Rhonda looks at her, shrugs back into her work apron by way of answer and mutters, “I won’t say it…”

“Thanks, Rhond, I owe ya.”

Over at Mercy, Holly is startled by the array of ambulances and aid cars. Inside, she finds chaos instead of what is usually a well-oiled machine of efficiency. She recognizes at least three triage nurses with their hands full with so many patients looking “life threatening” or at least “urgent.” She races through gurneys with people clearly in distress, many with intubations, and makeshift stations with oxygen bottles. She makes it to the locker area to jump into her scrubs. The locker room is more crowded than she’s ever seen it.

“What’s up, Bec?”

“Just up your alley, Holly, severe asthma attacks, some folks who’ve never experienced it before. The numbers… crazy. Almost like a fast-moving epidemic.”

“An outbreak of asthma attacks? Sure it isn’t some demented terrorist chemical attack?”

“Here? You watch too much news, kid. Hey Zack! They called you in too?”

Sandy, still in scrubs, who works in the office of the Unit Secretary, pops in just to drop off his backpack and interjects, “Yep, they even called me back. I guess they’ll want me pre-filling intake and charge forms. I already have it memorized. Code J45.901—asthma, unspecified, acute exacerbation.”

“I think they are calling everyone in. I saw this when I was a paramedic in Melbourne.” Zack is a resident. “Thunderstorm asthma. Lots of work done on this in Australia.”

Holly, Bec, and Zack, now into their scrubs, continue their conversation as they rush down the hall to see where they are most needed.

“Come on Zack, this is no time for one of your down-under stories.”

Zack continues. “No, straight. Lots of research done after several events including deaths. Theory is the violent activity of a thunderstorm breaks pollen grains into even finer particles than usual. The fragments or particles are so small they pass through the body’s natural defenses and get into the lungs. That’s why it gets some people who’ve never had asthma before and really does a number on asthma sufferers.”

The charge nurse puts Holly on preparing salbutamol and adrenaline syringes, some for the ER, some to go out with the aid cars. Bec is sent to help set up more resuscitation beds. Zack is given his first patient, a terrified boy. Already intubated, eyes wide, he clings to Zach’s outstretched hand.

pencil

Lou Nell Gerard’s “Fixies Adrift” won Gold in the 2014 Three Cheers and a Tiger Mystery Writing Contest. It was published in the Toasted Cheese Literary Journal (June 2014). Other published work includes “Wetlands’ Role in Water Quality Enhancement” (City of Bellevue, Stream Team News Splash, 1989), “Secret Dreams,” (Rider Magazine, Women’s Forum, 1986). These and her blog, Three Muses Writing, reflect her enthusiasm for motorcycles, road trips, movies, music, plays, paintings, and books. Lou Nell and her husband, Klee, live in Ashland, Oregon with three cats, her muses, Little Bear, Louie, and Valè. Email: lng-writing[at]gerards.org

Fixies Adrift

Three Cheers and a Tiger ~ Gold
Lou Nell Gerard


133
Photo Credit: Ian Hoar

Autumn

The white pelican thought little about the two bodies slipping into the water and floating away through the canoe path between the sedge reeds. As long as they stayed clear of his school of rainbow trout he cared not about the activities of these wingless land creatures. He was working fast packing away fish before those double-crested cormorants showed up.

Winter

“I still say that is an odd shape for reeds, seems too solid somehow.”

“Well, feel free to head out on that ice to check it out… your snowshoes might help keep you from breaking through.”

“It might just be thick enough this year, but then so am I, thick this year… naaaww… we’ll see come spring.”

“Thank you.”

“Huh?”

“Thick… you’re thick because of my irresistible cooking, right? Don’t tell me that wasn’t a compliment.”

Spring

The reeds had shed their winter snow hoar leaving shining wet and brilliant green against cerulean blue.

Lois and Lonny were enjoying their shore walk sans snowshoes. Soon they’d be bringing the canoe down to its fair-weather dock they shared with the summer folk.

“Look at that heron with pink feet!”

“Herons don’t have pink feet. Grey, kind of a yellow-orangey color I think, maybe black. No, no pink feet. You’ve got that pink-toed tarantula on your mind. It must be standing on something pink. What is it standing on?”

“What do you mean? I’m talking about that one there in the reeds.”

“No no no… look at it. I mean yes, I know you are talking about the one in the reeds. Look, that’s that spot, that odd shape we saw in the snow all winter long. There is something there in the reeds. That heron is standing on something pink.”

“Let’s go get the canoe.”

Raft

As they approached the reeds they squinted and strained to try to justify some of the odd angles and colors they were seeing in the reeds. Finally as they slipped through one of the old canoe channels they saw something pink, probably what the “pink-footed” heron was standing on. They nosed further in and there stood amongst the reeds two bicycles, one of them with a pink saddle. The bikes were aboard a rather substantial raft. Using their lines they fashioned a loop around a corner of the raft and given that there wasn’t much movement of the lake water in this little bay they felt secure stepping aboard the raft, after all, it had overwintered there. This, then, was the “odd shape for reeds” they’d debated about. They felt like children, the both of them, who’d found a great discovery. One bike was a black Bianchi fixed gear bike, the other, also a Bianchi “fixie,” sort of a turquoise bluish color—called “Celeste” they were to learn later. The latter was the one with the pink saddle. Wonder and excitement alight on their faces, they felt as though they were getting a tour of a stage set.

“Fixies on a raft… out here… and look at all the rest!”

All the rest included a picnic basket still propped open and lined with a blue, yellow, and white checked waffle fabric dish towel. There was a quarter-empty jar of pickled walnuts, shreds from a box of some sort—maybe crackers—and a red wax half-shell full of beak marks that very likely came off a cheese. There was a small ceramic knife and a bamboo five-inch by eight-inch oil-stained cutting board and an empty sardine can. Of course nothing edible remained. Whether it had been dined on by humans or devoured by lake dwellers was unclear, although the dish towel did have some distinctly beak-like marks and was in a bit of disarray. Perhaps cormorants and otters got together and dined on the raft. Was heron invited? Ducks?

Centered on the raft, the fixies, held by portable triangle stands, created an enclosure like that of a small sidewalk wrought-iron fence. This framed a light outdoor cafe table and two matching chairs. A floral muslin shawl draped over the back of one chair had slipped and was hanging as if placed “off-the-shoulder” of the chair. It was a delicate creation of pale greens and blues and yellows and pinks, flowers and vines on a cream background. Part of the shawl draped itself on the rough-hewn timber of the raft—the corner just dipped into the water as if taking a sip.

On the table, an empty bottle of 2009 RoxyAnn Viognier, two crystal wine glasses (one of them still bore pink lip prints overlapped as though the drinker rotated the glass to drink from a lipstick-free rim with each sip), and two bamboo fiber and melamine plates in a bright Mediterranean pattern. Lois thought immediately how odd to contrast the delicate breakable crystal wine flutes with the practical but still quite lovely plates. Tucked under the wine bottle was a piece of heavy paper. It looked as though it had a sketch of some kind on it but the melting snow had left simply a pattern of washed-out colors. Had that been a blue elephant? Letters of some kind?

Thirty-eight degrees, still cold even in the full blast of early spring sun. Everything about the scene sparkled. Even the rough-hewn timbers of the raft itself, still wet from snow melt, glistened. Under each chair a pair of shoes sat neatly as if on display. The shawl-draped chair guarded a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals with a spiked four-inch heel, pale green, size 8. No scuff marks, but worn enough that the ‘JIM’ part of the label on the footbed was slightly faded from friction. Later investigation revealed them to be from Jimmy Choo’s 2014 line. ‘Lance’ sandals in Peppermint retailing for around $775.00. These shoes had not been in contact with a bike pedal of any kind. Facing directly, as though in conversation with the sandals, were a well-worn pair of Converse Chuck Taylor “Year of the Dragon” men’s high tops, no laces, size 13. Probably retailed in 2012 for around $90.00. This particular pair did not have an ‘original owner’ look about them. Later close inspection revealed that the footbed was worn in two distinctly different pressure patterns. The bottoms, as well, were worn like they were worn by both a pronator and supinator, and they bore a look of having once been laced frequently.

The table was set with a pale yellow linen tablecloth. A lapis-blue linen napkin was wadded up to the left of the plate belonging to the high tops and the matching napkin was draped across the seat of the Jimmy Choo chair. A silver fork rested tines down at three o’clock on the empty dinner plate. Next to this plate was a tube of Laura Mercier ‘Spring Renaissance’ Crème Smooth Lip Color, in Palm Beach, still sitting upright as improbable as that may seem. Lois reached for the tube, then caught herself just as she was about to pick it up. Luckily, enthralled as they were, they had not yet handled anything.

On the raft itself in the corner opposite the picnic basket sat a Crosley Echo portable battery-operated turntable in a retro red-and-cream case. One vinyl had been playing: Billie Holiday’s All or Nothing at All, 1958 on Verve records. Still in their cardboard album sleeves sat: Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue, 1959 on Columbia Records and Ascenseur pour l’échafaud, 1958 on the Fontana label along with John Coltrane’s Ballads, 1961 on Impulse! Records. Tucked between the portable turntable and the albums, propped against the side of the lid, was a slim, folded cane. A white reflective cane used by someone who is blind. Magic and wonder gave way to gravity. Two bicycles, one cane. Lonny had been in a marathon once with a runner who was blind; she had a runner guide… could that work for a bike? He just couldn’t visualize it… well, of course, but…

This, the cane more than anything else—the bikes, the shoes, the emptiness of the picnic basket—sent a chill up Lois’s spine. Lois looked at Lonny and they both reached for their phones with grim faces. Adventure and discovery had given way to a feeling neither of them could describe. That feeling when there seems no ready explanation, when time slows and sounds of life like the lapping water against the raft, soft wind through the reeds, the quiet bark of the canoe against the raft, bird song, the occasional splash of a fish or a landing lake bird all disappear and are replaced by a tone of the imagination much like the deep, deep tonals of the throat-singing monks of Tibet. Seeing each other pulling their phones out they each started to demure—then they compared signal strength and his phone “won” or maybe “lost” so Lonny made the 911 call.

“Sir, please don’t touch anything else and get off the raft. Can you paddle to Harbinger’s landing and meet the sheriff to guide him and his team out?”

 

The sheriff’s department launch idled alongside trying not to overtake the canoe. Deputy June Wolmar was wishing she had her pole and line to string along behind… why not grab some trout on duty? She and the sheriff were both fit with winter-tan faces. Both wore Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, June’s with brown tint—what she called “happy glass”—Dan’s with a dark grey-green tint. She always found that tint depressing while her brown tint added a golden light.

Everyone was quiet, seeming to enjoy the sun, the quiet purr and sputter of the barely-idling outboard, the light splashes of the oars, the occasional knock of an oar against the canoe—winter had deconditioned both Lonny and Lois from paddling smoothly.

When they reached the raft, Deputy Wolmar dropped the bow anchor and took a few pictures with her phone, then nodding to the sheriff, she and Sheriff Dan Markham stepped aboard the raft. Markham called in the forensics team who had been on standby in case of hoax or false alarm. He asked them to arrange for divers too. The team would use GPS to locate and join them. Then he pulled out a pocket spiral notepad and mechanical pencil. Wolmar had grabbed her iPad out of a pack she had thrown on board the launch. They worked well together though their choice of tools was different. Almost back-to-back, they slow-waltzed around each other in silence taking a full three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the scene before starting to take notes. Wolmar periodically used her iPad to take pictures. Markham knew he didn’t have to direct her; she was methodical and thorough. Some people said she was “OCD” as though it were a precursor to the plague or something. Well, fine, he thought, all the better for my team.

Lois and Lonny weren’t sure if they were in the way, dismissed, or witnesses so they sat rather uncomfortably in the canoe and shrugged their shoulders at each other. It was getting cold now that they weren’t moving. After about fifteen minutes Lonny cleared his throat.

“Oh, sorry, can you give the deputy here your names and phone numbers, then you can go for now, we’ll be contacting you later… and please keep this to yourselves?”

“Well, they certainly didn’t come out here in the winter…” June was crouched down admiring the Jimmy Choo sandals without touching them. “When was our last good picnic weather?”

“You are assuming that these people buckled to the types of choices we make—maybe they came out when it was already cold… well… we’ve had no rainfall in a record period, so I’ll grant it was likely dry. Then snow, cold, snow, and now melt. How long? How long?”

“Look here, Dan, attached to the side here.” June had located two punting poles and a paddle snapped into place by a pair of sideways-mounted shovel-and-rake snap holders. “Where did they launch the raft? Did they stop here or drift here after, after whatever? It is a pretty spot.”

“OK, let’s do the list, not much more we can do until forensics and the divers arrive.”

“The bikes, fairly new, expensive-looking; they still have serial numbers. Purchased where, by whom, reported stolen?” June was a fast typist and easily frustrated by her voice capture tool so she madly tapped away in Pages using her onscreen keyboard as they talked.

“What depths do those punting poles work in? Lake depth, can we backtrack and map possible paths for the raft? Any kind of current here, it is a big lake?”

“There are big sections where it’d be nearly impossible to get a raft that size to the lake, we can eliminate those and let’s first focus here on Upper Lake. No candles or lantern, longer day? Oh! And the drawing.”

“No signs of violence, but it looks so awfully like a stage set… that could mean nothing.” Dan, in fact, was thinking about street art but wasn’t ready to say anything. This wasn’t a city building or sidewalk that had been painted, after all. This was remote, where was the audience… no, highly unlikely… it certainly would be an expensive temporary ‘installation’.

“Or everything, everything…” June, too, was thinking of a stage set, a stage set by a perpetrator to make everything look “copacetic.” That’s the word he or she or them would use.

“Where are the clothes? Well, shoes left behind, but no little pile of clothes neatly stacked… it would fit wouldn’t it?”

“Well, something unfortunate happened or someone had an expensive little celebration and walked away or swam or rowed or…”

“Or not.”

Summer’s End

Lois and Lonny walked and rowed almost every day through spring and summer. They often speculated about the raft. The Sheriff’s Department towed it away after a week’s worth of in-place investigation. No information was forthcoming to the folks who found it. A brief flurry of local talk and headlines, then the biggest rainbow trout catches regained their rightful place.

June and Dan, unbeknownst to each other, frequented the archive room, each looking for an overlooked clue, each haunted by questions and their own particular theories. Dan loved the idea of a stage manager or someone like that creating this set for whomever came across it to draw their own conclusions… sort of a three-dimensional Banksy for the great outdoors. In which case it was too bad the raft couldn’t have stayed out there in the reeds for as long as the weather, otters, cormorants, herons, pelicans, ducks, woodpeckers, flickers, and bugs let it stand. Of course, someone would have made off with the bikes and those Jimmy Choos. June was of a less-optimistic mind, but unclear as to details. Neither of them wanted this one to end up “Unsolved.”

pencilLou Nell Gerard is a freelance writer of poetry, essays and short stories. Her essay “Secret Dreams” was published in the Women’s Forum of Rider Magazine. Her enthusiasm for motorcycles, movies, music, plays, paintings, books and road trips are frequent topics of her blog. She lives in Kirkland, Washington with her husband, Klee, and their cat, ShuLien. Email: louge[at]gerards.org