Lake Bottomless
By Joe Curtis
Copyright 2012 Joe Curtis
Smashwords Edition
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ROUND the
back of our house, if you push back the broken chain link fence and
creep past the chicken hutch, where the cocks strut around like
they're lords of the manor, you reach the road to town. Right where
it passes our place it dips down in the middle, like an old valley,
and when it rains real heavy huge sheets of water tumble down and it
starts to fill up like a great big bath. Before you even know it it’s
become a lake of unfathomable depths. That’s what Robert calls it:
Lake Bottomless.
Me and Robert ain’t ever been to town:
the closest we got was four miles down the road on our bikes before
Father caught up with us. But plenty of townies come down here in
their seven-seaters on their way to the forest. Father's friends are
endlessly complaining about the litter they drop but I don’t mind
it. Empty cigarette packets, broken cassette tapes, burger wrappers,
they all line our road. And when you get a heavy thunderstorm, maybe
four or five times a year, all these forgotten bits of trash get
swept along the gutters to the storm drain, ready to start a new life
somewhere far, far away. Now and again some of the trash is so big it
won't squeeze down, and that's when the lake starts to form. That's
when we get to go treasure hunting.
“Look at what I found,
Laurie!”
Robert's head emerges from the depths as he yells over
to me, arm raised triumphantly overhead. “Watch out for those
arrows!” I shout back. We're cowboys hunting for treasure, ducking
and diving to avoid the Injuns' darts, which sting the surface of our
lake till it bubbles like a witch's cauldron. Robert wades over to me
and unclasps his right hand.
“Look at that,” he says in awe.
He spreads his palm and reveals a rusted locket, so dull now it looks
like a scarab beetle with its wings folded up, scared of our
touch.
“It's beautiful Robert,” I cry. “It could’ve
belonged to a princess!”
“It prob’ly did,” he says
excitedly. “Her grandmother told her it contained a picture of her
true love. But she could never get it to open so she never knew which
prince she should marry, and eventually she died of a lonely
heart.”
Robert trudges over and puts the locket below the tree
to protect it from the rain. We also got Mother Theresa's rosary
beads there, the ones she had as a girl my age, and a shiny bit of
metal. Robert says it's the very tip of Excalibur. The Lady of the
Lake practised in Lake Bottomless before she got good enough for her
very own pond, he told me, and as she left she accidentally raked
King Arthur's sword along the ground with her. He didn't notice all
those years later though, on account of being so besotted with her
beauty. I look around but Robert's already dived back in. The
cauldron's really sizzling now, I'm afraid I'm gonna boil right up
and all my brother will find when he resurfaces is my skull and
crossbones and he'll think pirates took me. I play a bit at dodging
the arrows but not even John Wayne would've stood a chance. Robert's
still not surfaced.
“Robert?” I ask the grey sky. “Robert?
Are you down there?” I ask the water, waist
high.
“Robert? Robert where are you!”
I ask.
Nothing.
Then, suddenly, there's a great splash and his
grinning face appears just yards in front of me.
“I got
something for you, Laurie,” he says between great gasps as he sucks
in the air and shakes his wet hair. He turns and grins again and I
see a little doll girl in his hand. “This's what's clogged up the
lake this time, our quest is over!”
I clutch the doll. She's
beautiful, with a mane of long brown hair and a dress that looks like
it used to be blue.
“She's called a Barbie I think,” he tells
me. “Her hair's meant to be blonde but I guess the mud got to it.
Anyway, it makes her look a bit like you so I made sure I didn't come
up without her.”
“Thank you Robert, she’s lovely,” I
smile, hugging him.
The sky growls and suddenly it feels cold. Far
away I see headlights cutting through the darkness, like two
cigarettes burning holes in my arm, and I freeze.
“Father's
coming,” I say. “Father's coming, Robert. C'mon, let's go
inside.”
But he doesn't move. He just keeps staring at the
lights, transfixed. His t-shirt is soaked through and it sticks to
his thin frame like bubble gum round your mouth. The thunder rolls
again, louder this time. I go over and tug his sleeve but he doesn't
budge.
“Robert, you okay?” I ask. “C'mon, let's go inside.”
Still he stands there, just watching ahead in the rain. Finally he
turns to me and smiles.
“Sure Laurie, let's go in, I'm getting
chilly out here. I'll just grab our treasure and we'll go get dinner
started.”
He gathers Mother Theresa's beads and the locket and,
when he thinks I'm not looking, shoves Excalibur into his back
pocket.
* * *
“Don't
help her! I said don't help
her!”
For one horrible second I think Robert's about to say
something, but he looks down at the floor obediently and returns to
his seat.
“She's gotta learn one day,” says Father, sat at the
table in his checked shirt and muddy work boots, which leave stains
all round the shack. “Can't have a woman round the house that can't
cook, Robbie. God knows she's good for nothing else.”
I try to
crack the eggs for omelettes like Robert's showed me but I end up
shaking so much I just dent them all over without breaking the
shells. Eventually I crack them into the pan and burn my fingers
picking out the bits of shell, wiping them on my dress. Barbie's head
sticks out of a pocket sewn on its left side; I'm giving her the
grand tour. As I grab the plates she sees the drawings we used to do
for Mama still stuck on the pin board: colours mix and swirl into
distant memories. I turn round quick and tip the omelettes onto three
plates. She gets to see our white walls all covered in gristle and
grease, Father's pipe ash strewn across knotted wooden table tops and
that one small window I used to leap to look out of when I was
younger, hoping for a glimpse of town. I come over with the plates,
two in each hand and another in the crook of my left arm. Father's
reading the cartoons in the paper, smoking his pipe, Robert eyeing me
anxiously. I know he wants to help me but I look down at my
feet.
“Here y'are Robert,” I smile. “Father.”
My
brother’s knife and fork scrape slowly across his plate. I hand
Father his breakfast and go to sit down but can't move – he's
grabbed my arm. He gazes at me with bloodshot eyes and leans close to
my skin, inhaling deeply. His cheeks are rough with stubble, like a
road in winter, strewn with dead twigs and rotting branches.
“Your
flesh's soft like your mother's,” he whispers, breath stale and
warm on my wrist, his hand running slowly up and down my arm. It
prickles horribly and I fight the urge to pull away. Robert's cutlery
scrapes against his plate. I start to strain to pull away and Father
scowls.
“Yes, your skin's smooth, but you smell like shit,” he
spits violently, abruptly letting go.
“No!” Robert shouts –
I crash backwards against the wall and cry out in pain as the back of
my head meets the hard surface. Father begins to laugh and I feel
bile building in the back of my throat, but I clench my eyes so tight
that little gold stars explode across my vision and manage to hold it
in.
“Robert, don't!” I cry – he’s started walking towards
Father, who's sat back in his chair, surveying the scene with mild
amusement. Robert's jaw is trembling, he tries to talk but all that
comes out are strangled beginnings. Father gets up out of his chair,
the smile sliding off his face.
“Please don't hurt him, Father,
please don’t hurt Robert,” I beg. I shut my eyes again. I wish I
could shut my ears too. Oh God I do.