Places in the Dark

More than anyone I ever knew, my brother Billy felt the rapid wings of summer, how it darted like a bird through the trees of Maine, skittered along streams and ponds, then soared away, bright and gleaming, leaving us behind, shivering in coats and scarves. It was on one of those fleeting summer days that he saved Jenny Grover's life. He'd built a wooden raft out of planks discarded by a local sawmill, packed the space between the boards with rags and mud, then asked me to help him carry it to the spot where Fox Creek widened and deepened, its current growing turbulent again just beyond the bend, where it made its headlong rush toward Linder Falls. "I'm going to make it all the way across," he declared. He was twelve years old, shirtless, barefoot, dressed only in a pair of cut-off trousers. "It's going to sink, Billy," I warned him. "Believe me, it's going to sink like a stone." He laughed. "If it sinks, we'll swim." "We? I'm not going out on that thing." "Oh, come on, Cal." "No," I said. "Look at me." Unlike Billy, I was fully dressed, having made no compromise with summer beyond a pair of sandals. "Okay then," he said. "You can go back home." "No, I'll wait." "Why?" "Because someone has to pull you out of the water," I told him. "That's why I came along. To save your life." This was not entirely a joke. Five years older, I had long ago assumed the part of the vigilant, protective brother, certain that throughout our lives I would be there to protect him. I'd already caught him as he tumbled from chairs and staircases, tugged him away from blazing hearths, snatched his fingers from closing doors. Once I'd even managed to drag him off a rearing pony, lower him safely to the ground. My mother had scolded me for that. "He can't avoid getting hurt, Cal," she said. "Next time let him fall." It was the sort of statement I'd come to expect from my mother, the great value she put on experience, especially painful experience. It was not the sort of advice I cared to take, however. Nor, following it, did I in the least intend to let my brother sink into Fox Pond. "Be careful, Billy," I cautioned as he stepped onto the raft, plunged his wooden paddle into the water, and pushed out into the current. "It's white water just around the bend." His eyes sparkled. "You'll be sorry you didn't come with me." "No, I won't." "You miss all the good stuff, Cal." I pointed to the trickle of water already seeping into his raft. "Like drowning?" His smile was a light aimed at the world. "Like almost drowning," he replied. "See you on the other side, Cal." With that, he shoved the handle against the rocky bottom again, this time with all his might, so that the raft shot forward with such force, it left a rippling wake behind it. I watched as he floated out into the stream, then sprinted for the rickety wooden bridge that spanned it. Billy had already made it a third of the way across the water by the time I reached the bridge. He was paddling furiously now, trying to reach the opposite bank before his inadequate make-shift raft sank beneath him. At midstream he grinned and waved to me. "Will it make it?" I called, growing anxious now. "Sure," he returned breathlessly, the raft still afloat but riding low in the water. I bounded off the bridge, then along the edge of the water. Billy was two thirds across by then, grinning, triumphant that the raft was still afloat. "Land ho," I yelled. He laughed for an instant, then stopped, his eyes suddenly concentrated on some pointCook, Thomas H. is the author of 'Places in the Dark' with ISBN 9780553105636 and ISBN 0553105639.