Birchbark
The regatta was supposed to get underway right at sunset, but it got to be eight thirty and Forrest still hadn’t managed to get the boats in line and out on the lake. By nine o’clock quite a few of the families gave up and went home.
Hayward was off with a couple of boys he knew, setting off the smaller fireworks, the kind that just make a noise and freak out people’s dogs, two of whom had started howling loudly, one of whom had grabbed a large steak off the grill and run off with it.
This required another interruption to get the animals back under control.
Only where was Jilly? Minutes before, I’d seen her playing tag with her friends, all of them wearing their pink and green glow necklaces.
“She went up to the house to get her Teddy Ruxpin,” one of the other children told me.
Then I saw her. Jilly was back with her toy, but she was weeping and shivering on the grass, her face buried in the fur of her talking bear.
Whining was nothing new for Jilly but this seemed different—the kind of crying you’d expect of a person if they’d just lost their dearest and most beloved friend on earth. I had never seen Jilly like this before. As if this night marked the end of the world.
Catching sight of her, her father knelt down on the grass next to her, wrapping her in a blanket.
“You don’t have to go in the canoe if you don’t feel like it,” he said. But she got up and made her way to the dock, holding Forrest’s hand, her lipstick smeared and her feather askew. She looked like a zombie.
Overtired, no doubt. It was past nine o’clock.
“Come on, Hay-man,” Forrest said. “Let’s get this show on the road. One pass around the bay and we can call it a day. Then we’ll come in and let off the fireworks.”
Jilly had settled down now, though she wasn’t her usual self. “Look out for your sister, son,” Forrest told Hayward, as the two of them pushed off. He took one last look at the outriggers he’d attached to the birchbark canoe. “Looking good,” he called out. “Steady as you go.”
Everything looked magical then. The tiki lights were burned out by this point, but the strings of white Christmas lights remained illuminated, though the best part was the moon, reflecting silver on the water, and the fireflies.
From the speakers blasting on somebody’s boat—another Chris-Craft—Bob Marley was singing “One Love.”
“Avast, me hearties,” Forrest called out to those on shore as his boat took off. “Shiver me timbers.” No Pirates of the Caribbean theme music and no wench on the prow, but never mind. All by himself in the darkness, Forrest cut a dashing figure.
Out on the lake, the Chris-Craft made its way in slow circles around the cove.
Alongside it, the children, in their costumes, paddled the birchbark canoe, Forrest keeping a close eye at all times.
I watched them from the shore, my eyes on Jilly.
Once in the canoe, she had perked up a little, probably due to all the attention she was getting.
Forrest had just called out to them, “Time to head back, everyone!” when the trouble hit—the wake from the Bob Marley–blasting Chris-Craft the probable culprit.
The birchbark canoe started to lean sideways.
Someone said, “Oh shit.” A woman next to me, holding a pitcher of margaritas, let out a shriek.
“Dad!” Hayward called out. He tried righting the canoe, but it was too far sideways.
Suddenly the children were in the water. All around, darkness, but I could hear their voices. And Forrest’s: “Someone help me!”
Half a dozen guests raced into the water. Those who didn’t stood at the edge, shouting. It was hard to make out where the children were at this point; there was so much splashing and yelling.
Forrest had wasted no time diving in after them. Hayward had managed to swim to shore already, but Forrest scooped up Jilly, cradling her head as he carried her to dry land.
They were back on shore within a matter of minutes—Jilly crying in huge, gasping sobs, Hayward warming his hands by the bonfire, teeth chattering.
I stood, watching, the way I always did.
Partygoers gathered around the children, handing them sweaters.
Someone had run to the boathouse for towels.
Forrest sat on the grass with Jilly in his arms. She was alright.
So was Hayward. But I think he was crying.
The Chris-Craft sat abandoned a little way out in the lake at the spot where Forrest had jumped ship. The birchbark canoe floated upside down a little beyond it.
Only Billy remained out on the lake now. He’d taken the Emersons’ smaller boat, an old Boston Whaler, out in the direction of the island, far enough that he must not have seen what was going on closer to shore—the canoe capsizing, the wild scramble to rescue the children.
It was Billy’s job to set off the fireworks.
Never mind the somber mood that had overtaken the gathering, the stunned silence that followed the wild commotion.
Celebration of any kind was the last thing on anyone’s mind, but all Billy knew was that he’d been instructed to set off the fireworks at nine forty-five. It was nine forty-five now.
Suddenly there was a giant popping sound, and the sky lit up with a shower of red and blue and green sparkles. Then more popping. Another shower of light, even more spectacular than the first one.
I had always hated fireworks, but never so much as I did that night. I thought about the loons out on the lake, how it must be for them, hearing that awful barrage of what sounded like gunfire. So many fireworks filled the sky now, you couldn’t even see the moon anymore.
The show went on and on. Every time I thought it was over, another explosion of light bloomed over the water. Not that anybody seemed to be paying attention. The guests, some soaking wet, were gathering up their things—shoes, coolers, children—and heading to their cars.
Prudence approached me, looking troubled.
“I’m worried about Regina,” she said. “Loud noises always set her off. When people do target practice around here, one gunshot is enough to send her to bed.”
“I’ll go check on her,” I said.
I walked back up to the house. Behind me, I could still hear the explosions, one after another, as if a war were going on. Like the end of the world.