Seth's Pond

An excerpt from "Bella and Bea," a novel for preteens

Bea got on her bike and went down the hill to the pond.  She put the bike down by the wooden railing and made her way onto the shady path; the coolness of the air inviting like a cloud moving across the hot sun. As she came nearer to the water’s edge she heard whistling.   She began to whistle back. Suddenly the whistling stopped and Bea stood still.

“Hey,” yelled Bea and then she let out a whistle. She looked down the shoreline but it was empty except for some big rocks and  course sand on the shore.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle screeched in the silence. It was so close that Bea jumped.

She turned around and saw Jono

“Hey, what are you doing? That hurt my ears,” said Bea a bit irritated.

Jono just shrugged his shoulders and scampered down the path towards a rock that was half in the water.

Without an invite, Bea followed him thinking that if he didn’t want her there, he would say so.  Near a tree on the shore, Jono had stashed a fishing rod and tackle box.  He took out a fishhook from his tackle box and attached it to his rod. He then held up some bait; a slimy, squirmy worm.

 Bea held out her hand, a gesture that made Jono raise his eyebrow with surprise and curiosity.

“Do you fish?” he asked.

“I have,” said Bea not offering more information.

“Okay, let’s see you hook the worm and set out the line.”

Bea smiled and took the wiggly worm out of Jono’s hand.   She hooked the worm and swung the rod overhead. Jono watched the arc of the line and the spot where the hook landed in the water.

“Nice,” he said.

Bea smiled again and handed the rod to Jono.

For a while all they heard was the soft rustling of leaves and bird songs. Bea broke the silence. “Where’s Lucky?”

“Dad took him to the vet’s,” said Jono looking out into the water.

“Is he okay?” Bea asked with concern.

“Yeah, needs his yearly shots.”

“You must love having him.  He’s such a good dog. So, why the name Lucky?”

Jono’s face darkened as if a stormy cloud covered it.   “Just because,”  he said more quietly.

“Because he gives you luck?” Bea asked

“Not really ...”

“Well, is it because he’s lucky, I mean like being a cat that has nine lives?” Bea persisted.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.  He was brought to the animal shelter when he was a pup. There was a fire and well his mother and another pup from the litter didn’t get out in time. But Lucky did and we got him. We didn’t name him; the people at the shelter did.” 

“Wow that is so sad and happy at the same time.  Lucky was sure lucky,” said Bea as she stole a glance at Jono.

“Yeah he is,” Jono said glancing back at her.

This time, Bea looked straight at him and said, “I hope he brings you luck, Jono,”

Jono did not say anything but looked out into the pond.  It was a beautiful summer day. The water was smooth, soft and still. Every now and then bullfrogs croaked and dragonflies skimmed the surface of the pond.  The blue sky and clouds reflected in the water. Bea looked out to the other side of the pond.

“Jono, what’s the pond like in winter. Can you skate on it?”

“Winter, yeah, you can,” he mumbled.

Before she could stop herself, Bea asked, “What’s it like here in winter?”

The dark cloud came across Jono’s face again. “Cold, icy. I hate it.”

“Oh,” she said softly and remembered  what Dad had told her about the accident  a few winters ago.  She was ready to change the subject when the fishing rod began to bend.  “Jono,” a fish, she whispered, “Reel it in.”

He stood there on the rock and held onto the fishing rod tightly with his left hand as he reeled in the fishing line with his right. He cranked and cranked as the rod kept bending.  Just as he was pulling back on the rod, Bea yelled, “Faster, Jono, faster. It must be a huge fish!”

And out of the water came a good sized bass flopping on the line. With a wide grin, Jono held the fish up high.  The dark cloud on his face was gone.

Marilyn London-Ewing
December 2011

Peaches

Robert leaned back from the well-scrubbed oaken table that took up the sunny side of the kitchen, his bad leg propped on a stool, cushioned by Katherine's folded shawl.  He watched her confident hands as they emptied the dirt-encrusted basket of its cargo of late-season peaches, building a rounded pyramid on the counter by the sink. Water splashed.  Then the afternoon sunlight began to flash against her knife, which quartered and pitted the peaches faster than his eyes could follow. Mesmerized, he sat motionless as the pile of damp golden pieces grew, until he could count the few whole fruits that remained: 6, 3, then one. The knife sped up as it pressed towards the end, chattering against the wooden board. A splashing sizzle from the stovetop drew Katherine away from the impromptu still life, but Robert stared fixedly at the heap of peach slices.

With a sharp metallic clang, Katherine dropped the huge lid she'd been holding while she surveyed the boiling glass jars.  The sound galvanized Robert, whose hands jumped to the table's surface of their own accord, cupping taut air as his finger strained towards the absent trigger.  His eyes roamed the kitchen, alert and wary, and he didn't hear Katherine resume her cheerful humming as she began to line the glass jars up on the clean white towel.

The splintered peaches gaped at him, sprawled helplessly in their massed pile. Each lay at an impossible angle from the next, as if unable to recall what it meant to be whole. Arms, legs, curved against the black ground, blue and khaki and grey pieces of uniformed waste.He felt himself teetering on the edge of a deep chasm, while an invisible tide drew away the sand beneath his feet, bit by bit, each departing grain disrupting his balance that much more. He could only put up token resistance as it eroded the ground on which he stood and the familiar internal contours of self. 

He squeezed his fingers around edge of the thick oak slab that formed the table's top, clutching until the sinews in his fingers stood apart from the white knuckles. He sent his index finger probing the board's underneath, seeking a sharp splinter that he could drive into his eager flesh, craving the pain that would anchor him in this kitchen, on the chasm's rim.   But his finger only caressed the satin-smooth grain of the ancient wood, generations old.

It belonged in this scent-infused kitchen, as he did not. The ripe, fruity smell of cooking peaches had spread through the room, fortified by the smoky tang of smoldering logs, all without Robert noticing.  He was startled to see that nearly a dozen jars of glistening round peaches now stood at the end of the table. Katherine stirred a final batch on the stove, her mouth moving.

"… and I've kept enough to make us a nice, large cobbler for supper. Your favorite." Her lips continued to move, as she turned her head to smile at him.  

With an internal scramble, he tried to find words that would not alarm her. He was spared the effort when a frothing hiss and sudden acrid smell warned her the pot was boiling over and she swung back to the stovetop and began to stir the mixture. He quivered, relieved that he need not force his throat to shape insubstantial words, but aware once again of the lapping tide.

To forestall it, he shoved himself back from the table, lifted his leg to the floor and fitted the splintering crutch under one arm.  He heaved himself up, stood in precarious balance for a few seconds, and then took one tentative step.

"I'll just go and check on Sophie's progress, then."  

He took her answering murmur as assent, and turned towards the doorway.  As he moved slowly down the hallway, he passed the pantry where columns of round tomatoes and pickled cucumbers already stood massed for the oncoming winter.  Their cheerful colors dizzied him, and a heady, yawning darkness opened in his mind.  He felt sand slipping away beneath him. Scrambling for purchase, Robert gripped the crutch more tightly and kept going, down the long hallway that led to the library. 

Liz Bedell
November 2011