Photo by Danny de Jong on Unsplash
“Hang on kids, we’re going in!”
We screamed in terrified delight as Uncle Don barreled the little De Havilland Beaver toward the lake, then—whoosh—he pulled up as the floats touched the surface. A frothy wave splashed over the front windshield and the engine groaned with effort as we lifted off again, banking away from the thick forest edging the water.
“One more?” he said.
“YES!” we screamed. The four of us were crammed together in the second row: Jimmy and Joey, Kimberly, and me. It was the last weekend of summer and a frisson of frantic energy crackled between us.
“Okay, one more, then home,” Uncle Don said, glancing back, a big grin pushing wrinkles around his mouth, his blue eyes bright with joy. “Caroline, you okay with one more loop?”
I nodded, too excited to speak. I was the youngest of us, but I felt braver than the others. Uncle Don circled the lake in a lazy loop and talked into the radio in the bush pilot lingo we’d all heard a hundred times. The plane banked and made a steep descent toward the lake, and my stomach pressed up against my ribs. Down we went, shuddering against gravity. Uncle Don laughed as we squealed in unison. This time, he throttled back as the floats touched and the plane settled on the deep blue lake. Beads of spray clung to the windows as Uncle Don steered slowly toward the dock. He landed lightly on the dock, tethered the red and white De Havilland, then lifted us down.
“You were screaming like a little girl,” Jimmy said, doing his impression of me.
“Yeah, but I am a girl. What’s your excuse, Jimbo?” I said, as we giggled and shoved each other.
Uncle Don turned when he heard Aunt Patti’s flip-flops thumping on the dock. Her blonde ponytail was swinging in time.
“Hey doll …”
“You son of a bitch.” She slapped his cheek so hard his head snapped to the side.
“Hey … what the … what’s going on?” Uncle Don said, pressing his palm to his face. I gasped and Kimberly grabbed my hand, pulling me away. The twins went quiet and linked arms, looking toward the parking lot.
“Kids, go wait in the truck,” Uncle Don said.
“Let’s race!” Jimmy said, and away they went, skinny, sun-browned arms pumping. Kimberly and I ran after the twins, across the bobbing dock, up the metal ramp, into the dirt lot.
Uncle Don’s beat up crew cab pickup was parked at the top of the lot. It seemed like Kimberly and Joey arrived at the same time, so we had to argue like refs on game day about who touched the back bumper first. I glanced back at the dock where Aunt Patti was jabbing the air with her index finger while Uncle Don shook his head. A damp gust of wind rippled across the lake, carrying a chill.
“I’m cold. Can we sit in the truck?” We did a round of rock-paper-scissors to decide who got window seats. Jimmy and I won, so Kimberly and Joey slid across faded blue velour to share the middle seat. It was warm and quiet in the truck, like a cocoon.
“Why’s Aunt Patti mad?” I said, craning to see the dock below.
“It’s nothing. Just grownup stuff,” Kimberly said. At almost 11, she was a year older than the twins and two years older than me. It seemed like everything was grownup stuff, and I was anxious to be in on it. I expected Kimberly to interpret for us, not keep all this grownup stuff a secret. I elbowed her in the ribs.
“Put up or shut up,” I said.
“No you shut up, baby!” Jimmy said, siding with Kimberly.
“No you shut up, baby!” Joey chimed in.
“Yeah, baby, you shut up!” Kimberly said.
“I’m not gonna shut up until you shut up,” I yelled back, and then we were all yelling at each other, but in a fun way that felt like joking. Then the doors opened.
“All of you shut the hell up,” Aunt Patti said.
Uncle Don slid into the driver’s seat and Aunt Patti got in the passenger side and slammed the door hard, pushing a puff of cigarette and wine fumes into the back seat.
“Pee-ew,” I said, fanning the air and giggling.
Aunt Patti turned on me. “Goddammit it, Caroline, zip it.” My cheeks burned in shame.
She lit another cigarette, rolled down her window a couple of inches, turned on the radio, and stared straight ahead. Uncle Don hunched over the steering wheel. The air was thick with smoke and something else.
The drive to their house from the marina was only a few minutes, but it felt like an hour. As Uncle Don pulled into the driveway, we spilled out of the back seat like ants. We ran into the house, screen door thwacking behind us, jostling our way to the kitchen, slurping water from the faucet like the boys did, then out the back door to the deck. My parents were there, bare legs stretched out on loungers. Dad had taken his shirt off, his belly white like a fish, even though his shoulders were turning red. Mom was sipping a cocktail, wearing a straw hat and big sunglasses like a movie star.
“Here’s the daredevils! How was it?” she said, slurring a bit. Mom was tipsy, as she called it.
“It was so much fun and Uncle Don took us up really high so we could see the whole town and the whole lake and we even saw the house,” Kimberly said. “And when we landed in the water it came right up over us!”
“Were you scared?” dad said, squinting against the afternoon sun.
“Not me! I loved it!” I said, even though I had been a little bit scared at first.
The boys were pushing each other and laughing, Joey said I screamed like a little girl, and Kimberly said he was the little girl the way he hung onto Jimmy. I grabbed a handful of chips from the bowl on the picnic table and crammed them in my mouth.
“Caroline, get out of those chips. We’re gonna barbecue right away and you’ll spoil your appetite,” mom said.
“Where’s your mom and dad?” dad said to the twins.
Jimmy’s face flushed. “Nowhere.”
“What do you mean nowhere? They brought you home, didn’t they?” dad said. He was a lawyer and was used to asking questions.
“They’re having a fight,” Kimberly said.
“No they’re not. It’s just grownup stuff,” Jimmy said, a little too loudly.
Joey shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. Mom and dad exchanged glances.
“Hey, is it time to start grilling?” dad said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together.
“I’ll go get some sodas for you starving urchins, how about that? Who wants what?” mom said, and we all yelled over top of each other, orange and root beer and grape. Except Jimmy.
“Jimmy, what kind of soda do you want, honey?” Jimmy’s face scrunched up and he ran off the deck to the back of the yard.
“Jimmy likes orange, Auntie Mo,” Joey said. He looked just like Uncle Don, tan and blonde, in his blue polo shirt, hands in the pockets of his chino shorts. He was the senior twin by 32 minutes, but he seemed so much older than Jimmy. Dad said Jimmy had a hair trigger, whatever that meant.
“We’ll be right back with soda and hot dogs, express delivery,” dad said, grinning.
“And don’t hog all the chips,” mom said to me, as they hurried inside.
The twins had a big swing set at the far corner of the yard. Jimmy was out there twisting himself around on a swing, and we all ran down to join him. There was an electric line of tension around the house and I was glad to be away from it, swinging under the sun-warmed pines. But even down here we could hear Aunt Patti shouting as a door slammed and the pickup tore out of the driveway too fast.
“I hate grownups!” Jimmy declared.
“I’ll never be a stupid grownup,” Joey said, commiserating.
“Yes you will, dummy,” Kimberly said.
“I won’t, but you will,” Joey shouted back.
And then we were yelling at each other and Jimmy started flailing against Kimberly, defending his brother’s right to never grow up. I laughed until I saw the rage in Jimmy’s face and realized he wasn’t play-fighting. He landed a solid punch to Kimberly’s right eye and, as she went down, Joey shoved me. Somehow, we ended up in a kicking, punching, screeching pile before I was hauled out by the back of my shorts. Dad had me in one hand and Joey in the other while mom bent over Kimberly. Jimmy sat cross-legged, crying, pulling out clumps of grass with angry fists. Dad dropped us in the grass and commanded us to sit, like disobedient pups, which I guess we were.
“You too, Jimmy. Now,” he said, pointing. Even though he was still bawling, Jimmy obeyed.
Kimberly was holding her eye and whimpering, while mom told her to hold still so she could see if she was hurt. Aunt Patti came out the back door and marched over to where we sat, panting in the grass. Jimmy wiped his nose on the tail of his shirt.
“What the hell got into you?” she said to the twins. I stared at my dirty knees. “These are your cousins, guests in our home and this is how you act?” she said, waving her cigarette around for emphasis. “How would you like it if I did the same to you?” she yelled.
“Like always, you mean?” Jimmy said, his face splotchy from crying.
Aunt Patti’s hand went back and I think she would have slapped Jimmy just like she slapped Uncle Don, except dad was right there to grab her wrist.
“Oh, no you don’t, Patti. Go on up to the deck and take a breather. We’ll get these hooligans sorted,” dad said.
“Fuck you, Eric,” Patti said, but she walked away because dad is her older brother and what he says goes.
“Language, please,” mom said. Patti responded by flipping the bird.
Mom took us one at a time to the garden hose and made us wash our grubby hands and hot faces in the icy water, handing us paper towels to dry off.
“Now get up to the deck, sit yourselves down like humans, and no more fighting. Got it?”
We sulked our way back to the picnic table, the surge of childish rage fierce, but fleeting. Unlike Aunt Patti, who was glaring at mom and chain smoking. Dad lit the grill and arranged hot dogs and hamburger patties while mom fussed over Kimberly. We heard the truck in the driveway, and Uncle Don came out the back door with a bottle of wine and a pack of Marlboros.
“Hey doll, got your smokes and Chardonnay,” he said, and kissed the top of her head.
Aunt Patti didn’t look up.
“So what, you son of a bitch.” Jimmy said, in a loud voice.
A deep, shocked silence followed. My armpits tingled in fear. Then Aunt Patti snorted and burst out laughing. Uncle Don took a step toward Jimmy, but dad stepped between them.
“Jimmy’s having a rough day. Let it go,” dad said, quietly.
“Awwww. Have you had a rough day, Jimmy? Get used to it, kid. It’s called life,” Aunt Patti said, and my stomach lurched as if we were once again barreling headlong into the lake.
“Hey, that’s enough now. Let’s enjoy the weather. We’re not gonna get too many more days like this,” dad said, looking beyond us, beyond the deck, to the long stretch of lawn and the forest behind the house and to the sky, streaked with late afternoon clouds. He couldn’t have known how true it was. It seemed weird that dad defended Jimmy for backtalking, but even now—what is it? 20 years later?—after all Jimmy’s done, dad still sticks up for him. Addiction is an illness, Caroline.
Uncle Don ran his hand over his face and heaved a sigh. “Jimmy, watch your mouth,” he said, stepping back into the house.
As the hotdogs and hamburgers sizzled, we forgot about how mad we’d been and started joking around, guzzling our cold sodas, swinging our legs, and sneaking chips from the big bowl on the table. Mom got up and started towards the house.
“Hey Mo, need something?” Aunt Patti called out to her.
“Just gonna freshen my drink,” mom said. “Can I get you anything, hon?”
“You sure that’s all you want, Queen Maureen?” Aunt Patti said, and something hard in her voice made dad turn away from the grill, gripping the big metal spatula.
“Let it go, Patti,” dad said, his voice low and threatening.
“You know damn well I’m right, Eric. Mo the Ho has the hots for my old man,” she slurred. I could feel the fight beneath her words.
“Patti, for the love of god, what is wrong with you?” mom said, shaking her head and turning to dad. “Deal with your alcoholic sister, would you?”
I went to stand by dad, leaning into him, as if I could defend him from whatever was coming. The smell of charcoal smoke and grilling meat mingled with Coppertone and grass; the signature scent of my summer memories.
“Ignore Aunt Patti, punkin, it’s just silly grownup stuff,” he said to me, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dad went back to grilling. Aunt Patti gulped her glass of wine and pulled a cigarette from the new pack. She blew a cloud of smoke at dad.
“You know it’s true, Eric,” she said, her voice breaking like she might cry.
“That’s enough, Patti. I’m all done with your bullshit. And lay off the wine,” dad said, and his jaw clenched. They glared at each other and I suddenly saw them as just big kids, squabbling. Not grownups at all.
Jimmy jumped up and ran to Aunty Patti’s side, throwing his arms around her neck. “Don’t be sad, don’t be mad, it’s all gonna be okay, okay, okay,” he sang in a whispery voice, like he was soothing a child.
“Get off me, Jim. You’re just like your father.” Aunt Patti grabbed Jimmy’s wrists and removed his sun-browned arms from her neck. His face flushed crimson as he jerked away.
Uncle Don came back outside and sat by Aunt Patti, pulling her close and murmuring into her hair until she smiled. Jimmy glared at them over crossed arms. When mom walked by, she caught Uncle Don’s eye and they smiled, a small secret smile. But I saw it.
“Who’s hungry?” dad said as he shoveled burgers onto a plate. His wide smile had fallen into a grim line.
A gust of wind blew goosebumps onto my arms and I leaned against the warmth of Kimberly’s shoulder until she elbowed me into giggles. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy draining Aunt Patti’s glass of chardonnay, his face defiant and flushed. Joey stared at the sky, his blue eyes bright with tears, as if he already knew what lay ahead.
Pamela Donison, JD, released her first full-length novel in 2022 under the name PJ Donison. Death Comes For Christmas is a soft-boiled murder mystery set in Regina, Saskatchewan, and the origin story for Camelia Belmont, an aspiring female investigative attorney based in Phoenix, Arizona. The second novel in the series, Death At The Crossroads, will be out later this year. Pamela is a member of Sisters in Crime, Crime Writers of Canada, and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, as well as a member in good standing of the State Bar of Arizona.