An Almost Perfect Life: Life at the Lodge, #1

Copyright © 2016 by Jim Carver

www.authorjimcarver.com

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ISBN: 978-1-988284-00-2

Cover design by Iryna Spica

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An Almost Perfect Life

My father was a smart man, but he didn’t have clever financial reasons for buying the place; he just liked it. He’d bought it from Pete Thivierge, who’d won it in a poker game. Minex International leased the mineral rights from Pete, so for the first time in his life, he was receiving a monthly cheque (not government-related, that is).

After having sent out numerous geologists, soil samplers and geophysicists, the company had been encouraged enough with the resulting data to actually build a lodge, improve the one road leading in and install a telephone.

The lodge was built purportedly as a home base for the exploration crews. While this was true in the winter when the road was closed, in the summer a parade of bigwigs from the mining company entertained their friends and family there.

Pete Thivierge had been enjoying all this, especially when he heard about the lodge being built. Obviously, it increased the value of his land without him having to do anything, but the cheques from Minex were soon gambled away, while his debt to an east-European gentleman named Lilic grew larger. Mr. Lilic was a nasty item, who didn’t look kindly upon those who owe him money. Since Pete wasn’t too keen on the prospect of walking into a room somewhere and being the centre of attention in a surprise party involving axe-handles and baseball bats, he needed to make himself scarce. By accident he bumped into my father in a restaurant; the two of them had shared classes in high school, but had never run with the same crowd. But as it happened, Dad wanted to get away too. He was going through a particularly painful separation from my mother and needed a change.

Finally, he and Pete agreed to spend a week or so at the lodge. The property and the lodge were Pete’s only remaining assets and he was quite sure Lilic didn’t know of them or could track him down.

After speaking in the restaurant, they agreed to leave for the lodge in three days. My father bought an International Harvester pickup truck and taking along various food supplies, they headed for the lodge the next week.

Stopping off at the sheriff’s office, they made various inquiries about the location of the lake. The sheriff, Jeff Grady, helpfully drew out a map for them. They drove a half hour south of town, and after missing the turn-off two or three times, they finally arrived at the lodge.

They parked, then walked down a path leading to the lodge; after getting there and briefly perusing the place, they were surprised to see it was in such good shape. They entered and saw the lodge was well laid out; three private rooms were along the west side of the building and a common room was to the left of the front door.

Dad had a quick look at the private rooms and saw the last one was larger than the first two. You own the place, so you get the big room, he said to Pete. Pete nodded and dumped his gear in the room, while my father took one of the others.

Pete had brought along several bottles of rum, so he’d immediately set about looking for some mix. Since they hadn’t bought any juice or soft drinks, Dad suggested he try weak tea. My father was not the dedicated drinker Pete was, so Dad would make a lunch and grab an axe from behind the lodge. Then he’d spend the day away from Pete, leaving just after sunup and not reappearing until evening. An aluminum row boat had been tied to the wharf in front of the lodge and Dad found a fishing rod in it. He liked catching and preparing a trout for supper and Pete seemed to appreciate the chow, so this somewhat made up for the generally shabby way he presented himself. Nonetheless, Dad enjoyed being by himself for most of the day.

There were game trails circling the lake, but they fizzled out for no particular reason. So dad took it upon himself to cut a trail around the lake, mainly because he left Pete at the lodge for most of the day.

After about a week of this, Dad was putting another log into the wood stove, while Pete sat at the table drinking rum. Dad finished what he was doing, then joined Pete. It was easy to tell Pete had spent most of his time indoors; he had the pallor that constantly being in pool halls and poker rooms can give a person. Pete topped up his mug from the bottle, saying, George, I’m in big trouble. I was in town yesterday, so I phoned a friend. He told me that Lilic wants his money: he’ll track me down somehow, I know it. So I’m gonna have to sell this place, and soon. My father looked at Pete, wondering how he could maintain such a greasy demeanour out here. Pete looked at his watch, as if he was late for something. Running his fingers through his hair, he said, Even if I manage to find someone to buy this property, it’ll take forever to get the money. Dad didn’t think much before saying, I’ll give you cash up front, as long as you give me a good deal, so after haggling for half an hour or so, a price was agreed upon.

The next day they went to town so Pete could make a few phone calls, while Dad visited the bank. After arrangements had been made for Lilic to get paid off, the last my father had seen of Pete Thivierge was the sight of him walking into the hotel with his pack full of cash. Realising for the first time that he actually owned Three Duck Lake, my father felt a surge of adrenaline and well-being. He called the phone company to have the phone reconnected, met with a lawyer to get the paperwork sorted, then picked up some supplies and headed out.

Finally arriving at the parking lot, he walked down the path to the lodge, the quietness of the place enfolding him comfortably. He slept well that night, getting up with the sun the next morning and making a breakfast of eggs and ham. He made his lunch, grabbed an axe and hiked through the fresh lake-morning to his job of cutting the trail around the lake. He noted on these work excursions there were lots of blueberries, raspberries and blackberries. Even strawberries grew in an almost alpine setting at the far west end of the property. And the lake was full of trout.

After a while he phoned and told me how he felt about the place. The topic of the separation never came up, but I could tell from his relaxed tone that he’d changed his perspective. I planned to go visit him as soon as I could get some time off.

I’d been working in a machine shop at the time, making good money. Other than for the necessities, I was hardly spending any money at all. I’d been working at my bench when the boss called me into his office and handed me the phone. Over the line a cop named Jeff Grady told me my father had been killed in a car accident. The news had been so devastating that I stood there frozen, unable to speak. That was on a Thursday, so I took Friday off and spent the weekend in stunned disbelief.

On Monday I went back to work; being among the presses and lathes held me together. Without the job, I couldn’t have survived the weeks and months following. I even had a few awkward dates, but any meaningful relationship seemed beyond me; work at the machine shop was rewarding in itself. It was a small business with about fifteen people working there, all knowing about the death of my father and empathising. Anyway, business was good and we were all so busy that there wasn’t much time for sympathy and commiseration. After what seemed a long time my grief and anger faded, but a horrible emptiness remained.

On a Saturday morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was Stan Parkinson, the guy I pay to do all my taxes and paperwork. We talked about this and that until he finally got to the reason for his call: Why don’t you go into the bathroom and flush all your paper money down the toilet? he demanded.

Huh? I replied wittily.

I’ve been looking over your papers and noticed you’re spending a lot on taxes on that property you inherited from your father. I think it’s called Three Dog Lake.

Duck, I said.

Oh yeah, Three Duck Lake. Then Stan said rather peevishly, You’re wasting money. Do something with the property or sell it, but don’t keep spending money on a place you never even visit. I know it has sentimental value; it was your Dad’s land, but you have to do something with it. I understand there’s a lodge there too and it might be worth a pretty penny. Why don’t you go up to see the place?

It’d been almost three years since my father’s death, so I figured I could handle a visit without too much inner turmoil. Stan was right: I needed to do something with the property. After he’d rung off, I phoned my boss at his home and asked for some time off, starting next week. He knew my circumstances and I’d accrued lots of vacation time, so he told me it’d be okay.

Two days later I took the dreary bus ride to town, so after a lonely three-day trip, I went to the police station. I learned my father’s pickup truck was being held in some kind of impoundment enclosure near the cop-shop. I ended up talking to the policeman who’d given me the bad news about my father. He was a burly guy with thick glasses and had an owlish, almost professorial look. I liked him immediately.

I met your father a few times, you look just like him, he said, peering at me closely through his thick lenses. Normally we don’t hang onto vehicles for so long, but I had a feeling someone would show up to claim this one. Jeff idly shuffled through some papers and said, Just to formalise things, could you show me some picture I.D.? I showed him my driver’s license and asked if there was some sort of payment I owed, for him keeping the truck for so long. He smiled and said, I’ll give you a ticket for illegal parking. Just pay me and I’ll sort out the paperwork. You’re looking for a green International Harvester pickup, he said, thumbing through the pages on a clipboard. I see she’s in the scrap yard, but don’t worry; there’s a tarp over her and she’s up on blocks, so the truck’s probably in good shape. I’ll call the mechanic and he can have a quick look at her. He can probably show you how to get to your property, too. And there’s something else. He took a large manila envelope marked ‘George Carpenter’ from a box at the foot of his filing cabinet. He stuck his hand into the envelope and pulled out a large black key. This is for the lodge, he said, handing it to me. I thanked him and put it into my pocket.

There’s a map in here, he said, unfolding a large piece of paper. This is your place, here, he indicated a penciled circle around the topmost lake in a string of six. Three Duck Lake flows slowly into Chatterly Lake, with the current increasing as the lakes tend towards the west and south. And there’s something else you should know. He hesitated here, then said (rather weakly, I thought), The lodge has an outhouse with a septic system, so the tank has to be emptied on a regular basis.

Martin the mechanic appeared a half hour later and told me it might take him a few hours to get the vehicle road-worthy, so he suggested I spend the night in town. At that point, Jeff told me he should have the night free, and offered to show me the best restaurant and bar in town. Telling me the restaurant was just down the street, he looked at his watch and said he should be off work in about an hour. We could meet at the restaurant and have a good steak, then walk the couple of blocks to the bar he’d mentioned. So, after meeting and eating, we went to the bar.

I liked the place at first sight. It was a small room with five tables and a number of booths, at the ends of which were small lamps. The room was so crowded that the only place for us to sit was in a booth just vacated by a departing couple.

Once we got settled, the bartender came over to take our order. Jeff asked for a draught, while I ordered a ginger ale. The bartender Louis obviously knew Jeff and told him that he had something special this evening.

It’s a sort of trail mix my wife made for the bar, Louis said.

He walked over to the bar and returned with two small wooden bowls containing cashews, walnuts, small pretzels and raisins. After Louis had gone, we munched contentedly, not saying much. After a while, Jeff nodded towards Louis, saying, There’s a guy who enjoys his work. The management was going to knock out the wall to make this an extension of the beer parlor. Very expensive. Instead, the owners gave Louis a month to turn the place around. He’s done all of that; now people come here just to be here. And of course, the ladies love him. Jeff started to chuckle, then recounted what’d happened a few days previously. Three young ladies came in, two supporting the other, he said. When they finally sat at a table, the sober ones ordered soft drinks, while the other wanted a double whiskey and coke. Louis was hesitant and finally told the woman she could only have one drink: a single. She was obnoxious at first, but much to the embarrassment of her friends, she eventually started to hit on Louis. Chuckling, he continued: He, a happily married man, diplomatically tried to dissuade her, but she’d become drunkenly sincere. Then, every time he went by, she’d make a grab for his rear. Jeff laughed, remembering Louis’ indignation.

Let’s you and me go to the broom closet, she’d kept suggesting. Louis finally got so annoyed that he stopped at the table and looked down at her angrily. Jeff sat smiling as he recalled the situation, then said, It was one of those moments. The room was full, but everyone stopped talking at the same time. It was during this silence that Louis was heard to say, ‘But lady, we don’t even have a broom closet!’ Everyone in the room heard him, so it was Louis’ chance to show people how red his face could go.

Jeff had been chuckling as he told the story, but I couldn’t help wondering why he was telling me some of the local gossip. Maybe he wanted to see how I’d react. He was a cop after all, and I guess he was curious about the new kid in town. Louis came over with another beer for Jeff, who took a healthy swig, then focussed back on me.

Do you know anything about this property of yours? he asked.

All I know is my father liked the place, and now it’s mine, I said.

I gather there’s a lot of mineral wealth there, and nothing being done about it. Want to know why? he asked.

Because I own it? I said.

There’s that of course, but there are other reasons. Jeff sat back in the booth and seemed to consider something. Finally he leaned over the table, lowering his voice and saying, Some funny things happen out there. I’m not sure what to think.

What do you mean by ‘funny things’? I asked.

Jeff looked at me with an expression both serious and exasperated. You’ve spent time in the bush, haven’t you, Henry? I nodded. Jeff’s manner seemed forced, as if he was trying to take a ‘matter of fact’ attitude to the topic. When the area around Three Duck Lake was first being looked at by geologists, a number of weird things happened, he said. Obviously having decided to tell me the story despite his misgivings, he went on, A geologist and his helper were in their tent, just north of the lake. They were quite excited by the showings they’d seen that day, so were looking forward to future good fortune. At about midnight, they woke up to a pounding on the canvas walls. It was as though somebody had been standing outside and rapidly punching the side of the tent.

At this point, Jeff sat back and asked, What would you do in those circumstances?

I considered carefully and finally said, I’d probably jump out of my cot and look for some kind of weapon.

Then would you run out to see what was causing the commotion? he asked.

No, I said.

What would you do then?

I’d cower in the tent for a while before investigating. Jeff laughed and said that he’d probably do the same thing.

Jeff went on: The geologist lit a candle and found his rock hammer. His helper couldn’t find anything suitable, so he ended up holding his Swiss army knife. Jeff laughed again and said, It’s silly the way you can think your tent can protect you from the big bad world outside. It only a thin layer of canvas after all, Jeff shook his head and chortled, saying, Those two were huddled inside, listening for any indication of who or what had dealt their tent a flurry of punches. After hearing nothing for a few minutes, the geologist peeked out the front of the tent with his rock hammer at the ready. But there was nothing there. What really upset them was the total absence of any sign something had been there. There were no foot prints, although the ground was relatively soft and there were no scrapes on the side of the tent where the punches had occurred. Jeff shrugged, took a swallow of beer, then gazed off into the middle-distance and seemed to ponder something weighty. Then he resumed talking, somewhat confidentially: There’s another case I should tell you about. Two guys were on the road near Duck Lake, one an earth-mover operator, the other his mechanic. They were out in the evening just before dark, getting ready to repair a rivet in the bucket of the earth mover. They were unloading the equipment they’d need, when a large raven lit on a tree-top and started croaking at them. This in itself was not unusual, although the two of them  noticed the bird seemed a bit bigger than normal. They ignored the noise it was making, till it shrieked particularly loudly. When they turned their heads sharply to look at it, the bird spread its wings and flew from the tree. About half-way to the ground, the bird changed into a human female form with long black hair, wearing a cloak or cape. She landed about fifty feet from them, not making a sound as she walked into the bush. The two guys were astounded of course, so went to the spot where they’d seen her land. But there was no trace, no sight or sound, no evidence anything had happened at all. Just at that moment, Louis brought Jeff another beer. By this time Jeff had drunk six or seven, but seemed completely sober. He turned to me with a serious look on his face and said, You seem to be a decent sort, so I thought I should warn you to be cautious. These stories I’ve been telling you don’t seem to be just gossip. I know a lot of these guys and though they’re not angels, I trust them. They don’t go around making up wild stories that could do their reputations harm. Looking concerned, he finally asked, "What do  you