Bookends

My feet dangled down off the edge of the dock just shy of touching the water. Despite the minor separation I could feel the lake's coolness chilling my toes. It was a little after five in the afternoon and I'd had my share of nautical recreation. The novel next to my left elbow made way for the book of crossword puzzles under my chin. If a gin and ginger was dripping condensation onto the pressure-treated planks under me I just might have died happy right then and there.

Thankfully, no moment is perfect.

Two shirtless, golden-brown elementary school boys rowed into view as if to prove the above statement by breaking the precious silence I'd worked so hard to obtain. They were obviously brothers, my conclusion being drawn on their matching bowl cuts that were clearly the work of their mother. Shiny, chestnut-colored hair with streaks of sun-bleached blonde fell gracefully around their tender skulls. They were too young to appreciate their full heads of perfect hair and too naive to tell mom that the style they donned was far outdated. It'd be at least another eight years before they'd start to see their mother, their father, their grandparents as mere mortals perfectly capable of fucking up royally. I was precocious, started at seven. Wouldn't wish that on anyone.

"I don't want my butt to touch the weeds, Andy," said the younger of the two. "It tickles." His inflatable tube was being towed along the surface of the late-August water by Andy's canoe. "You don't take me through the grass now, I won't take you through the grass when it's your turn to get pulled." It seemed like a fair deal.

"OK, Tate," called Andy over his life-preservered shoulder. "Watch out, here comes Pat."

Enter Canoe Number Two, Stage Right. It's occupant, Pat, was at least two years older than Andy, and being that he was sans bowl cut, did not appear to be a third sibling. His puffy, white cheeks had the beginnings of what would later develop into sunburn. A faded green T-shirt underneath his too-tight life jacket suggested that Pat was old enough to realize he was on the verge of a life of ridiculed obesity; old enough to know it, and old enough to try to cover it up with that silly T-shirt. Prior experience told me that Pat's personality would probably try ever-so-hard to compensate for his physical short-comings.

"Slow down, Andy!" he yelled between paddle strokes. "I want to run Tate over!"

Sometimes I hated being right. Still do. Turns out there are a lot of Pats in the world.

The Bowl Brothers responded to the approaching threat accordingly. Andy paddled harder, Tate propelled himself as best he could with his arms. Pat was certainly en route, but his larger size could be exploited if they made it under the low-hanging branches before he could ram the tube. They knew damn well he wouldn't be able to fit under the canopy formed by the drooping maples near the water's edge. They knew that Pat knew that they knew they'd be safe if they made it there in time. Being that this is a somewhat true story, they did.

"23 Across. Early Germans. Seven letters, third letter U."
I sucked on the back of my pen and thought for a moment.
"Teutons," I whispered, filling in the corresponding blocks. I decided to pay attention to my crossword puzzle instead of the splash-fest that was going on twenty yards away on my once-peaceful lake. The maple leaves deflected most of the water sent airborne by both sides, though that didn't deter the combatants one bit. Armistice was a long way away. If only I'd had that lovely gin and ginger I might've leapt in and joined the battle. But for which side? I suppose it wouldn't have mattered.

"Try and hit me now, Pat!" Tate yelled as he smacked water towards his portly friend.

"Yeah! Leave him alone!" Andy was laughing more than he was splashing.

"You guys are so dead once you come out of there," replied a frustrated Pat, his cheeks no longer white at all. "I'm telling your mom you got my good shirt wet."

It was a desperate move, the mother card. Pat's choice to play it, even if he was bluffing, was a self-declared defeat. The Bowl Brothers stopped splashing, I believe more out of pity than fear.

"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went a whistle from way across the lake. The three boys' heads turned simultaneously in the direction of the noise that was apparently so familiar to them. They'd probably associate the sound of a whistle with childhood summers as long as they'd live. It'd be a good memory.

"Come on, they want us back at the camp."

"Truce?"

"Sure."

"We'd better get back there soon," said a suddenly responsible Andy. "It's almost dark and we're all the way over here."

"We'll make it before night-time, right Andy?" inquired an audibly concerned Tate.

"Yeah, of course."

"I don't know about me, guys. I'm pretty tired from all this messing around," sighed a nervous Pat. He was probably afraid that abandonment would be the punishment for his attempted sins.

"I can throw you the other rope and tow both of you back," said Andy. "As long as you row a little at least."

"Thanks."

"Great," huffed Tate. He had yet to learn the value of forgiveness. Turns out there are even more Tates than Pats in the world.

I glanced back down at my crossword puzzle, the drama finally over.
"34 Down. To Quit. Five letters. Second letter B, last letter T."

"Pat, are you even paddling?" Andy asked over his shoulder as the three boys sailed off out of sight.

"No, of course he's not," Tate answered agitatedly.

"Hey, give me a minute to catch my breath," Pat defended. That was the last decipherable statement.

A small fish jumped as if to signify the official departure of my temporary company. Their non-descript voices trailed off into the quiet dusk of the Adirondack evening. The delay in their voices carrying over the water was comforting, the pixelated reflections of the dripping maple branches a work of art that no painter could reproduce. A duck dove in search of prey, came back up swallowing something. I hoped the fish I'd just met had made its escape.

I sucked the back of my pen in search of the answer to the last crossword clue I'd read. It came to me like an invisible bullet.

The word slipped off my lips curtly, my thumb clicking the ballpoint out to its ready position.

"Babe, you alright?" Cecilia called from the porch behind me.

"Yeah. Be right in." There was not as much conviction in my voice as I'd intended.

I heard the screen door slam shut as I filled in the letters with a shaky hand. A well-deserved splinter pierced my knee as I rose from the dock to join my beloved inside.

The summer was over for all of us all over again.