Riders Down by John McEvoy Read Free Book Online
Authors: John McEvoy
that his mother drove her Volvo, doors locked, accelerator floored, off the end of a pier leading into Lake Monona, crashing through the ice, her two younger children securely belted in the seat behind her. In the years that followed, Claude spent the school year living with his embittered, alcoholic father, the summers at the home of his doting grandmother. Only once was the boy able to bring himself to ask the question that had tormented him since his mother’s final night: “Why didn’t Mother take me, too?” In reply, his father backhanded him across the kitchen, Claude cracking his head on the edge of the stove. He never asked again.
***
Bledsoe got to his feet and began to walk slowly around the square. He passed food and crafts stands that were being set up for the weekend’s popular farmer’s market. He stepped around a man unloading pumpkins from a large wheelbarrow. All he was aware of was an overpowering sense of betrayal. How could his loving “Gram” have done this to him? He felt a rush of anger, anger of the sort he’d previously experienced just twice in his life: the lingering rage directed at his father in the wake of his mother’s suicide, and, five years later, the sudden explosion of rage directed at his cousin, Greta Prather.
Walking the Madison square this late afternoon, it came back to him in a torrent of unwanted remembrance: his fourteenth summer, that long ago August when he’d been so desperately in love with Greta; their last night together swimming in the small, spring-fed lake on their widowed grandmother’s estate in northeastern Wisconsin.
Claude had had a lingering, lacerating crush on Greta since he was a twelve-year-old sixth grader, the strongest and smartest boy in his private school class, possessed even then of a freakish physical strength and extraordinary intelligence that served to set him well apart from his classmates. He was an odd-looking youth that they referred to as The Weirdo—though never to his face, no, they weren’t brave enough for that.
Other family members became aware of Claude’s crush, especially a couple of his uncles, who kidded him frequently. For the most part Claude ignored the jibes of what he thought of as “those idiots,” concentrating instead on Greta when he saw her at family gatherings three or four times a year.
In her generous fashion, Greta was invariably kind to Claude during the summer vacations and holidays when they were together. A tall, statuesque young woman who worked part time as a model while attending Wellesley, she was used to attention and accepted it gracefully. In his wallet Claude kept a photo of Greta in her high school prom dress, the face of her date for the occasion trimmed out. He wrote letters to her reporting his progress in school and sports, what music he’d recently discovered, the books he was enjoying. He never stated his feelings for her, convinced as he was that Greta was well aware of them. He knew the right time would come in which to confirm that.
That August was one of the warmest on record in Wisconsin’s north woods. The rambling, old log house built by his paternal grandparents a half-century earlier had no air conditioning, and that summer, for the first time anyone could remember, even the protective stands of pines and birches could not thwart the heat, even after sunset.
Shortly after eleven o’clock that night, Claude heard light footsteps on the creaking staircase outside his bedroom. Minutes later he looked out his window and saw Greta walking across the lawn toward the pier and the lake. He quickly put on his swimsuit and moved quietly down the stairs and through the dark, silent house. He knew they would be alone at the lake, the other family members and guests long since retired after a long day of boating, swimming, then volleyball and croquet on the vast green lawn leading down to the shore.
Greta was in the water, floating on her back, when Claude walked out onto the pier.
***
Bledsoe got to his feet and began to walk slowly around the square. He passed food and crafts stands that were being set up for the weekend’s popular farmer’s market. He stepped around a man unloading pumpkins from a large wheelbarrow. All he was aware of was an overpowering sense of betrayal. How could his loving “Gram” have done this to him? He felt a rush of anger, anger of the sort he’d previously experienced just twice in his life: the lingering rage directed at his father in the wake of his mother’s suicide, and, five years later, the sudden explosion of rage directed at his cousin, Greta Prather.
Walking the Madison square this late afternoon, it came back to him in a torrent of unwanted remembrance: his fourteenth summer, that long ago August when he’d been so desperately in love with Greta; their last night together swimming in the small, spring-fed lake on their widowed grandmother’s estate in northeastern Wisconsin.
Claude had had a lingering, lacerating crush on Greta since he was a twelve-year-old sixth grader, the strongest and smartest boy in his private school class, possessed even then of a freakish physical strength and extraordinary intelligence that served to set him well apart from his classmates. He was an odd-looking youth that they referred to as The Weirdo—though never to his face, no, they weren’t brave enough for that.
Other family members became aware of Claude’s crush, especially a couple of his uncles, who kidded him frequently. For the most part Claude ignored the jibes of what he thought of as “those idiots,” concentrating instead on Greta when he saw her at family gatherings three or four times a year.
In her generous fashion, Greta was invariably kind to Claude during the summer vacations and holidays when they were together. A tall, statuesque young woman who worked part time as a model while attending Wellesley, she was used to attention and accepted it gracefully. In his wallet Claude kept a photo of Greta in her high school prom dress, the face of her date for the occasion trimmed out. He wrote letters to her reporting his progress in school and sports, what music he’d recently discovered, the books he was enjoying. He never stated his feelings for her, convinced as he was that Greta was well aware of them. He knew the right time would come in which to confirm that.
That August was one of the warmest on record in Wisconsin’s north woods. The rambling, old log house built by his paternal grandparents a half-century earlier had no air conditioning, and that summer, for the first time anyone could remember, even the protective stands of pines and birches could not thwart the heat, even after sunset.
Shortly after eleven o’clock that night, Claude heard light footsteps on the creaking staircase outside his bedroom. Minutes later he looked out his window and saw Greta walking across the lawn toward the pier and the lake. He quickly put on his swimsuit and moved quietly down the stairs and through the dark, silent house. He knew they would be alone at the lake, the other family members and guests long since retired after a long day of boating, swimming, then volleyball and croquet on the vast green lawn leading down to the shore.
Greta was in the water, floating on her back, when Claude walked out onto the pier.