Jack had heard there’d been some sort of trouble last fal when two guys from
Trenton sneaked into town, loaded the canoes into a pickup, and took off. One of the bad things about a town as smal as Johnson was that everybody
knew everybody else’s business. But the good thing was that people tended to watch out for each other.
Some insomniac on Quakerton Road had been sitting by a window that night and
saw an unfamiliar truck go by loaded with canoes. She cal ed
someone who cal ed Mark. Soon Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, and Paul Mul
iner—their mother was real y into the New Testament, apparently—piled into a truck of their own. The story went that they intercepted the thieves on
Carranza Road near Tabernacle. What happened after that nobody knew, or nobody was saying, but next morning the canoes were back at their usual spot.
Never a mention of the fate of the Trenton guys, and nobody asked. Piney justice tended to be swift, severe, and silent.
Weezy shielded her eyes as she stared at the canoers already on the lake.
“When you talked about swimming, I assumed you meant here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re going to go diving for whatever Steve’s father threw in.” “Uh-huh.”
“You’l never find it.”
“Don’t be so sure. I have a pretty good idea where it landed. The water’s clear
and not very deep. I think it’s worth a shot.”
“You’re not the type to go looking for trouble. Wouldn’t it be better to do this at
night?”
“But then I wouldn’t be able to see.”
“Oh, right.” She pointed to the blocklike Lodge squatting on the far corner of the
opposite bank. “Yeah, you’l be able to see, but so wil they. If they’re
watching, they’l cal the fuzz.”
The Lodge owned the pond. They let people boat on it, even fish in it—someone
had stocked it with smal -mouth bass—but absolutely no swimming.
Jack had never understood why. But then, the Lodge never explained what it
did. It didn’t have to.
“I think I have a way around that. But I need your help.”
“If it involves swimming, forget it. I’m not going in that lake.”
“Don’t worry. I’l be the only one getting wet. I’m going to paddle one of these
canoes to the other side of the bridge. You’re going to fol ow along the bank. When I get to the right spot, I’m going to become a show-off.” “That’s it?”
“You’l see.”
He pul ed three dol ars from his wal et and dropped it in the coffee can, then
handed Weezy his wal et.
“Here. Keep this dry for me.”
Then he kicked off his Vans. He was glad he was wearing cutoffs, so he didn’t
have to rol up his jeans. He dragged the canoe into the water, hopped in, and began to paddle.
Weezy pedaled along the bank, looking confused. “What am I supposed to do?” “Easy!” he shouted. “Just look beautiful!”
Even from here he could see her blush. Immediately he wondered if he should
have said it. She might take it the wrong way. A guy could say one thing and a girl would hear something else.
Weezy wasn’t beautiful by most standards. Unless she changed dramatical y over
the next couple of years, she probably wasn’t going to have a gaggle
of guys fol owing her down the street. But she wasn’t bad-looking. She easily
could be cute or even attractive if she gave it half a try. He didn’t mean she should become a bowhead or anything like that, not that she ever would. But
Weezy considered herself a plain Jane, maybe even something of a bowwow—she’d never told him so but he could sense it—and so she never made
that try. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Maybe she was going to wait until she came across a Cure fan looking
