Doom Lake Holiday. Tom Henighan
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shouted Lee from outside.
“Just a minute, folks. I’m going to open the door. Have your gas masks ready.”
Holding his breath to shut out the smell, Chip tiptoed out of the kitchen and looked around the rest of the house. There were four more rooms: on one side, two tiny bedrooms with plywood panelling and rough-looking cots, and a bathroom dominated by a smelly chemical toilet but with no shower or tub; on the other, a long sitting room full of what looked like cheap second-hand furniture, including a couch. The lamps had oversized shades; there were glass ashtrays on the tables and in one corner a big box in which he could see a broken teapot, a headless doll, some old fishing rods, and a tattered paper Halloween mask. This room was hung with bright orange curtains, and there was a television set that looked as if it belonged in a museum.
“Fun place,” Chip murmured in disgust, wiping his sweating forehead and moving off to unlatch the door for the rest of them.
Mr. Mallory stormed in, took one look around the place, gritted his teeth, and told them, “Nobody unpack! We’re heading for a motel.”
Mrs. Mallory toured the cabin more slowly, laughing frequently, but to their surprise insisted, “We’re not going anywhere until we have a cup of tea.”
“As long as we don’t have to drink it in here,” her husband growled. “Now I’m going to dial that swindling witch and tell her what I think of her advertisement. ‘Well-equipped cabin on scenic lake. Excellent for a family vacation.’ Give me a frigging break!”
“The stove seems to work, anyway,” Mrs. Mallory told them. “Let’s use the water we brought along. Can you fetch it, Chip?”
“Surprise!” Lee shouted from the sitting room as Chip moved to get the water. “The television is broken.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” their mother observed. “We’re a technological travelling circus as it is. And at least the chemical toilet works, although I wish there were more chemicals and less toilet. Anyway, let’s get the windows open and say damn to the mosquitoes. We can have our tea outside and make a decision then. It’s getting late. I suppose we could stay here one night at least. It’s cooler now, but still too sweaty to move.”
She spoke the last two sentences rather softly, as if she were afraid that her husband would hear. But Mr. Mallory was pacing up and down beside the SUV, his cell pressed to one ear. He was obviously exasperated, shouting and gesticulating like some ham actor trying to capture a bored audience’s attention.
“I can’t get through from this place!” he shouted to his family. “I keep losing my connection. We seem to be in some kind of dead zone. I didn’t think there were any left in southern Ontario. Good Lord!”
Pretty soon, though, Mrs. Mallory got the tea break organized. “Let’s sit on the spare tarpaulin,” she suggested. “Chip says the deer flies rule the dock.”
“That’s a dock?” Mr. Mallory put in. “It looks like some driftwood blown up on shore.”
“All right,” his wife countered. “But you know, John, I think we’re all pretty tired — and understandably rattled. I don’t want to stay in this place any more than you do, but I think we’ll be fresher in the morning if we don’t drive around anymore. Why don’t we just stay in the cabin for one night and then head to Westport or some other town we know and take a hotel or B & B. I think we all need to calm things down a bit.”
John Mallory shook his head. “You think staying here will calm us?”
“I won’t sleep in that dump,” declared Lee.
“Well, the couch is a pullout, so your dad and I can crash there,” Mrs. Mallory said. “And we’ve got sleeping bags for you two. How about it, Lee? Just for one night?”
Lee tossed the dregs of her tea in the grass, deposited her cup none too gently on the tarpaulin, and stormed away. “This is too much! It’s the last time I ever travel with any of you!”
“Well, this trip accomplished something, anyway,” Chip said, and then he called after her. “Weren’t you going to try out that new bathing suit? Or are you afraid of the lake monster?”
“The only monster I want to tackle is Mrs. Jackson,” his father said. “I’ll be sure to get in touch with her from Westport tomorrow. Then I’ll let her know what I think of her dream cottage.”
Despite his threat, the tea seemed to have calmed Mr. Mallory. A few minutes later a somewhat chastened Lee returned, still sullen but also calmer. The four of them unpacked some necessities from the car. By the time they had completed a cursory tidy-up of the cottage and set up their bedrooms, they were hungry. Given the filth of the cabin, though, they decided to stick with the sandwiches they had left over from lunch.
“We can find a breakfast place tomorrow,” Mrs. Mallory said. “Anyone for a walk?”
“I’m going to watch a movie,” her husband told her. “I just want to escape from this wonderful nature we’ve all been looking forward to.”
“Me too,” said Lee. “It’s humiliating that our cellphones don’t work. But the batteries on my player do, and for now I’m crashing in the car.”
“It’s too hot for a walk, Mum. Why not go for a swim?”
“Good idea. You coming down to the dock?”
“Why not? We’ve got plenty of bug spray, don’t we?”
4
Strange Visitors
The swimming, however, was not much fun. The water was dark and murky, and Chip found it far too soupy warm. Reeds grew everywhere around the rickety dock, and when his feet touched bottom he seemed to be standing in a kind of goo. He gave up when a sharp stone half-buried in the oozing mud cut his foot.
“We’ll have to put some disinfectant on that,” his mother said, examining the wound. “I guess we should call it a day — if you can call it a day. This place really is a turn-off. And to think I was going to bring along my old watercolour set. ‘Inspired by nature’ — that’s a joke!”
They walked back toward the cabin, Chip limping a little, but busily swatting at deer flies, which zoomed in without relenting. The sky was glooming over now, dark clouds drifting in from the west, a light wind ruffling the water. The lake seemed less inviting than ever, and the nearby treed islands looked dark and impenetrable. Chip caught sight of Lee in the car, engrossed in her movie. His father sat close by under some improvised netting; he too seemed wrapped up in his technology.
The roar of an engine sounded nearby. A battered old red Chevy bumped down the dusty road and approached the cottage. It rumbled up the track and pulled in behind the SUV. Lee glanced lazily over her shoulder; Mr. Mallory slipped off his earphones and stood up inside the netting.
Two men emerged from the car and stood there, sniffing and coughing. They glanced sourly at the SUV and its occupants, then fixed their hostile stares on Chip and Anne Mallory as they approached. One of the men was tall and muscular, with brawny bare arms, and a dark beard that hung down over his red-checked hunting shirt. The other was stocky and handsome, but smirking and shifty-eyed, with unruly sprouting hair, outdated jeans, and a yellow T-shirt. He looked like some sixties country singer who’d just stepped out of a time warp, and he kept shooting wary glances at Mr. Mallory and Chip, while casting intermittent sly ones at his partner.
The two men waited, their big boots planted in the driveway, while Mr. Mallory emerged from the mosquito netting, and Chip limped up and stood beside him. One look at the pair had convinced Mrs. Mallory to head for the cabin.
“Afternoon,” Mr. Mallory greeted them. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“G’day, sir,” said the big man, tugging at his red shirt. He seemed impervious to subtleties of address, Chip thought, but at least his dad’s “gentlemen” had forced a “sir”