McQuillen’s house hidden in the bend beyond it—looks good.
The lodge itself is idyllic: a dozen lakeside cabins painted the yellow of Smurfette’s hair, on turf that looks as lush as moss. Beside it an inlet with an “E” shape of floating docks, tarp-covered boats parallel-parked along the docks’ edges.
In the rutted and tree-shaded dirt parking area next to the marina are three pickup trucks, including one with a contractor’s cage over its bed, a couple of injured-looking compact cars, and one big, black, perfectly shiny SUV with Minnesota license plates.
We leave our shit in the car in case we have to flee.
Two guys in polo shirts and painter’s pants are coming around the registration cabin when we reach it. We know it’s the registration cabin because it’s got a line of sunflowers along its back wall and a wooden sign above them that says “CAMP FAWN SEE—
Registration
” in log font, or whatever you call it when the letters are burned into wood. One of the two guys is white and in his sixties, with white hair and rimless glasses. The other one’s Hispanic, in his thirties, with a mustache.
“Evening,” the white guy says.
“Are either of you Reggie Trager?” Violet says.
“Hell no.” He turns and yells “Reggie! Customers!” Then he and the other guy head toward the pickup truck with the contractor’s frame.
Violet and I continue to the front of the cabin, which facesthe lake. On the lawn there’s a man talking on what used to be called a cordless phone, and also drinking a beer and steering his crotch away from a large black Labrador that’s jumping at it.
He holds up a hand to acknowledge us while he says “No, listen, Trish, I gotta run. I know. I’m sorry. You too. You too. Okay. I’ll call you later.” He’s got a slight southern accent: Arkansas or Alabama, or some other state I can’t actually recognize the accent from.
The man’s boyish, with muscular legs and dark hair in a thick buzz cut, but he’s wearing corduroy shorts smaller than anyone under sixty would be caught dead in. They show off a long, rubbery burn scar down the outside of his left leg. He smiles at us lopsidedly as he turns off the phone. “Sorry. My mother.”
The dog, seeming to notice us for the first time, springs at us. Throws itself sideways against Violet’s legs, then against mine, where it stops and leans on me, thumping its heavy tail.
“Bark,” the man says to it. It doesn’t bark. To us he says “Dr. Hurst and Dr. Azimuth?”
“Right,” Violet says.
“I’m Reggie Trager.”
“Nice to meet you,” Violet says. “Can we pet your dog?”
Interesting opener. Not that the dog isn’t cute.
“She’s not mine, but go ahead,” Reggie says. “Take her home with you. Her name’s Bark Simpson.”
“Oh:
Bark
,” Violet says, causing the dog to hurl itself off my legs and back onto hers.
Just as well. Reggie’s coming in for the handshake.
Up close, he’s not quite the same person. The left side of his face is a fishnet of scars. Not burns, like on his leg, but fine lacerations, like from shrapnel or spraying glass. The reason hissmile is lopsided is that the left side of his face is paralyzed. His left eye stares wider than his right, almost fully round.
The weird thing, though, is that it’s not a bad effect. The paralysis gives his face a slight cartoonishness that goes well with how young he looks. It kind of works.
“You met Del and Miguel?” he says.
At their names, the dog abruptly stands and looks bereft. Turns around a couple times, then gallops off toward the parking lot.
Reggie shakes his head. “She just realized that Del left. Bark! Don’t go on the highway!”
“They the two guys who got in the truck?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“We didn’t actually meet them. Who are they?”
“We all work together. They’re sort of the Tattoos to my Mr. Roarke, if that means anything to people your age.” He winks at me with his nonstaring eye. “Come on
The lodge itself is idyllic: a dozen lakeside cabins painted the yellow of Smurfette’s hair, on turf that looks as lush as moss. Beside it an inlet with an “E” shape of floating docks, tarp-covered boats parallel-parked along the docks’ edges.
In the rutted and tree-shaded dirt parking area next to the marina are three pickup trucks, including one with a contractor’s cage over its bed, a couple of injured-looking compact cars, and one big, black, perfectly shiny SUV with Minnesota license plates.
We leave our shit in the car in case we have to flee.
Two guys in polo shirts and painter’s pants are coming around the registration cabin when we reach it. We know it’s the registration cabin because it’s got a line of sunflowers along its back wall and a wooden sign above them that says “CAMP FAWN SEE—
Registration
” in log font, or whatever you call it when the letters are burned into wood. One of the two guys is white and in his sixties, with white hair and rimless glasses. The other one’s Hispanic, in his thirties, with a mustache.
“Evening,” the white guy says.
“Are either of you Reggie Trager?” Violet says.
“Hell no.” He turns and yells “Reggie! Customers!” Then he and the other guy head toward the pickup truck with the contractor’s frame.
Violet and I continue to the front of the cabin, which facesthe lake. On the lawn there’s a man talking on what used to be called a cordless phone, and also drinking a beer and steering his crotch away from a large black Labrador that’s jumping at it.
He holds up a hand to acknowledge us while he says “No, listen, Trish, I gotta run. I know. I’m sorry. You too. You too. Okay. I’ll call you later.” He’s got a slight southern accent: Arkansas or Alabama, or some other state I can’t actually recognize the accent from.
The man’s boyish, with muscular legs and dark hair in a thick buzz cut, but he’s wearing corduroy shorts smaller than anyone under sixty would be caught dead in. They show off a long, rubbery burn scar down the outside of his left leg. He smiles at us lopsidedly as he turns off the phone. “Sorry. My mother.”
The dog, seeming to notice us for the first time, springs at us. Throws itself sideways against Violet’s legs, then against mine, where it stops and leans on me, thumping its heavy tail.
“Bark,” the man says to it. It doesn’t bark. To us he says “Dr. Hurst and Dr. Azimuth?”
“Right,” Violet says.
“I’m Reggie Trager.”
“Nice to meet you,” Violet says. “Can we pet your dog?”
Interesting opener. Not that the dog isn’t cute.
“She’s not mine, but go ahead,” Reggie says. “Take her home with you. Her name’s Bark Simpson.”
“Oh:
Bark
,” Violet says, causing the dog to hurl itself off my legs and back onto hers.
Just as well. Reggie’s coming in for the handshake.
Up close, he’s not quite the same person. The left side of his face is a fishnet of scars. Not burns, like on his leg, but fine lacerations, like from shrapnel or spraying glass. The reason hissmile is lopsided is that the left side of his face is paralyzed. His left eye stares wider than his right, almost fully round.
The weird thing, though, is that it’s not a bad effect. The paralysis gives his face a slight cartoonishness that goes well with how young he looks. It kind of works.
“You met Del and Miguel?” he says.
At their names, the dog abruptly stands and looks bereft. Turns around a couple times, then gallops off toward the parking lot.
Reggie shakes his head. “She just realized that Del left. Bark! Don’t go on the highway!”
“They the two guys who got in the truck?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“We didn’t actually meet them. Who are they?”
“We all work together. They’re sort of the Tattoos to my Mr. Roarke, if that means anything to people your age.” He winks at me with his nonstaring eye. “Come on
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