smouldering
two-hander reading
NARRATOR
It had been a summer of forest fires. They had been smouldering and flaring for weeks on a mountain up the lake, for miles the air heavy with smoke. Chunks of charred timber drifted in the water, and at night from the shorefront of Harrison you could see light trails on the dark mountainside.
One Sunday afternoon—the middle of August—Joanne and I fled the beach gear–laden tourists thronging our village and set out in my father’s Studebaker for a former logging camp—now a park across the lake.
Reaching the park, I slid the car into the shade of a big cottonwood, and—after Joanne wrestled her enormous basket off the back seat—we headed to our spot on the wide arc of stony beach.
Barefoot, I wobbled painfully across the rocky strand. At the lake edge, I waded in up to my waist—my body tensing in the frigid water—then lunged forward and swam out a few dozen strokes.
I dog-paddled around, then caught sight of Joanne observing me and quickly looking down to scribble something in her journal. Whenever she did this, I worried I was being analyzed. I kept checking too for signs that she had more than a friendly interest in me and was always relieved when I detected none.
After swimming to shore, I hobbled past a shirtless man skipping rocks on the water. By then, I’d wearied of guiltily stealing glances at guys and was not quite so cowardly in my gawking. I noted how the curly hair on his bare chest faded into his tan.
Reaching our blanket, I retrieved the towel draped over the log and dried my shivering body.
TEDDY
“Whoever says the water is warmer over here is nuts.” My teeth chattered as I motioned with my chin to the lake. “If the wind whips around, the fire could head this way.”
JOANNE
“Maybe we should head back, then.”
TEDDY
“Nah, we’re okay for now.”
NARRATOR
I marvelled at all the books and magazines she had spread out on our blanket. Along with a copy of Lolita, lay a thin paperback with the word HOWL in large black type on the cover. Within easy reach, her journal concealed yet another paperback.
TEDDY
“What’s that one?”
JOANNE
“Bonjour Tristesse. It’s about this teenager who lives with her father and a run of his mistresses on the French Riviera.”
With a finger, she nestled behind her ear a loose strand of blond hair.
“Can you imagine that kind of thing happening around here?”
TEDDY
I pondered the question a moment and felt a new life in Vancouver call to me. The distant foghorns proclaiming what was to come: boyfriends, sex, something to do that I loved.
“Well,” I said, “I can imagine a lot happening. Only not here.”
JOANNE
“Oh, Teddy. That’s why I like you—you and your little baby face.” Her eyes widened mischievously. “When you’re not being melancholy or morose, you have this sense there’s something beyond.”
She indicated with a tilt of her head the lake and our little town across it obscured in smoke.
“Anyway, I love the book, but it’s depressing. The author was only eighteen when she wrote it.”
TEDDY
“What’s so depressing about that?”
JOANNE
“Look at what she’d already accomplished!” She flung her arms aside in mock exasperation. “And look at us. We’re the same age. Have either of us got any novels—or anything, really—on the go?”
TEDDY
I laughed. “Stop torturing yourself. I’m sure there’s enough material in that journal of yours for several books. And please don’t call me baby face. You know how I hate that.” I flicked her bare thigh with my towel.
JOANNE
“Ouch, Teddy. Don’t be such a brat. I was only joking.”
TEDDY
She rummaged through the nearby pebbles and selected one to fling at me. I dodged the missile, which clattered across the shingle at my back. “Besides,” I said, “you’ve only just turned eighteen. You still have a whole year before you’re over the hill.”
NARRATOR
Joanne stuck out her tongue, went back to reading Lolita.
I stretched out my long legs on the blanket, leaned against the log. The man who had been skipping rocks wandered into the water, his pant legs rolled up past his knees.
I crossed the index finger and thumb of both hands, forming a rough rectangle. Bringing it to my left eye while closing my right, I let my attention halt abruptly at the bare-chested fellow. He turned and stood with his back to the lake, his broad-shouldered torso silhouetted against the plane of the water.
I quickly lowered my hands and pivoted toward Joanne, who was again scribbling in her journal.
TEDDY
“I think that guy is staring at us.”
JOANNE
“What guy?”
TEDDY
“That guy over there.”
JOANNE
“I don’t think he’s staring at us, Teddy.” She lowered her pen, smiling in that way she has of holding her mouth so I’m sometimes not sure if she’s kidding. “He’s probably wondering what you’re doing looking through your fingers. I sure would.” She chuckled.
“Oh, he’s coming this way.”