You’ll Be Sorry
And now, time for a happy memory.
Did you think I didn’t have any? My life has been all misery and madness?
Sometimes, it feels that way. Let’s face it, it’s easier to dwell on the negative, from minor disappointments to major traumas.
It’s a form of self-protection. If we remember all the bad stuff, then we won’t be surprised when it happens again.
We use the past to lower the future’s bar.
I have one favorite memory. A bright, sunny day. An outing of adventure and revelation. A moment when everything felt good.
I like to bring it forward during the short days of winter.
I rewatch it over and over, a mental movie reel.
This is Isla as a young girl. This is Isla out and about in the world.
This is Isla with her father on the kind of family-friendly summer outing known by so many families across so many summers.
I picture us waving merrily at some unknown camera. Always the opening shot, though I doubt that part actually happened. Who’d we be waving to? Memories, even good ones, can be notoriously fickle.
Doesn’t matter. This is my happy home movie and I can dress it up any way I’d like.
Now we’re on our way. Skipping—fine, meandering—down the extensive boardwalk zigzagging through the Lost River Gorge and Boulder Caves in Woodstock.
Oh, the soaring granite boulders! Oh, the cascading waterfalls.
And of course, my favorite part, the caves!
My father, also a bookworm, is reading me notes from the pamphlet. How the caves were formed during the Ice Age as glaciers forged mountains and deposited massive boulders, while the ensuing melt carved gorges into those mountains and piled up those massive boulders.
Until voilà, two boys went fishing in 1852, and one of them fell into a hidden cavern.
Clearly being the intrepid type, they decided to risk further life and limb by seeking out even more cavernous unknowns.
Turned out, there were a lot. And now, others can do the same.
Though, of course, with greater safety regulations.
The mile-long boardwalk leads from cave to cave, each accompanied by a description and appropriate warnings. Some my father and I can walk through together. Some require a strictly single-file, shoulders-hunched approach.
Then, there’s the Lemon Squeeze.
With a passage that’s only sixteen inches wide, it’s infamous for breaking the bravest adventurer, so much so that to even access the fissure a person must first shimmy through a sixteen-inch wooden frame.
In theory, if you can squish your way through that, you can wiggle your way through the narrowest cave in the United States.
Of course, the wooden frame is an open structure. You can’t make it, no harm, no foul.
Whereas the moment you crawl your way into the tight, tubelike tunnel with thousands of pounds of granite crushing down upon you…
People panic.
Kids—no, not really—adults cry. Many have to be slowly and patiently coaxed out, inch by wriggling inch, because there’s no turning around and no chance of rescue.
You must embrace the rough press of solid rock against your skin.
You have to relish the awkward belly crawl, painfully scraping your shoulders as you make the sharp turn to emerge on the other side.
You need to welcome all your demons, give them a gleeful fuck-you, and keep on trucking.
I loved it. Did it again and again.
I didn’t feel intimidated by the viselike grip of boulders pressing against me from all sides. I felt comforted. These incredibly ancient stones, massive in size, regal in appearance. I would’ve happily taken a nap, cradled in their cold embrace.
Eventually, of course, my father had had enough, luring me away with the promise of ice cream. Strawberry, I think. Tart and sticky. Though, to be honest, I have no idea if they even offer ice cream in a nature preserve. It might just be that my mind’s eye likes the color pink.
Again, all memory is fickle.
In the last frames of my nostalgic mental movie, I fall asleep in the back seat, covered in rock dust, melted ice cream, and summer sweat.
In a matter of months my father will be gone, skidding over a ravine on a sheet of ice. My mom, barely managing as it is, will farm me out to my father’s father. And then, well, the countdown begins from bad thing to worse thing to complete and total loss.
Until I take the hint and hole up in my drafty cabin with my precious novels. They are my true bright shiny objects, movie reels, epic adventures. And I have hundreds of them.
But still some nights, I set down whatever I’m reading and bring up that memory instead. I study my father’s face, the smile I’m so sure he wore. I admire his patience as I crawled through the caverns again and again. I recall in a distant, abstract sort of way, ah yes, happiness. I felt that once.
But now we’re back to the inherent rules involving life lessons. We hold on to the negative so we can learn from our mistakes. Whereas a glorious, golden afternoon that entertains and delights…
It didn’t prepare me at all for what was to happen next.
“You can come play. The others said it was okay. Well, Henry says no turning anyone into toads, and Josie wants you to bring Lovey. Me too.”
I stare at the small child who keeps turning up in unexpected places. He’d knocked politely on my front door, then, when I didn’t answer, peered directly through the window.
Upon spying me in my favorite chair: “Helloooo! It’s William.” Then he’d waved so vigorously I felt I had no choice but to greet him.
Now, the young boy and his dog are staring at me with clear expectation. Lovey shoves forward to inspect the other canine. Couple of tail wags later, they’re on mutually acceptable terms. If only it were so simple for humans.
“We have a secret hideout,” William continues, because apparently my participation in this conversation is not required. “We don’t want everyone to know. Especially other kids. They might try to steal it for themselves.”
He sounds so serious, I nod in agreement.
“But what’s the point of having a secret hideout if others don’t know you have a secret hideout?”
I can nearly follow that logic.
“So I said we should invite you. You won’t tell anyone.”
On that we both agree.
“Plus, most people are afraid of you, right? Cuz they think you’re a witch and all—but I don’t, remember?
You and me, we know better. Henry…he’s still scared but pretending he isn’t.
” William stage-whispered, “That’s the other reason you should come.
Henry’s always playing the big, brave older brother.
But I know the night-light in our room isn’t for me. ”
I’m slightly taken aback by this admission, but then, having never had any siblings, I’m not sure if ratting out each other is just the way it is.
William seems to realize this a second later. “Don’t tell Henry I said that. Ready?”
“You mean…to visit? Right now?”
“Yeah. Summer’s almost over. Next week we gotta go to our other home. Back to school,” he finishes glumly.
“I’m busy.”
“No you’re not. I saw you. You’re just sitting there.”
“I’m reading!”
William peers at me intently. “My mom likes to say that, too. And you know what my dad tells her? That book isn’t going anywhere.”
The boy rocks back on his heels, confident he’s won the argument.
“I’m not sure I like your father,” I grumble, but sometime during William’s soliloquy, the two dogs had started running about in an exuberant game of tag. I like my cabin and my solitude. I don’t need to go anywhere or deal with four precocious bordering on bratty children.
Lovey, on the other hand, who’s still mostly puppy at heart…
“How far away is this secret club?” I hear myself huff.
“Hideout,” William corrects. “I think it’s a pirate’s lair, but Henry tells me I’m being stupid. Pirates don’t hang out in the mountains.”
“It’s a cave?” I can feel my interest pick up despite myself. I’ve roamed these mountains all my life. I know of plenty of small indents and alcoves, but nothing that I would consider worthy to serve as a rogue’s hangout.
I surrender to the inevitable and drag on my boots.
Soon enough Lovey and I are crashing down a well-worn deer path with a bounding kid and his highly enthusiastic dog.
Traitor, I want to tell the canine, who continues to avoid my gaze.
But it’s not really his fault. I’ve met this dog before, as well as other scattered members of Lovey’s bloodline.
From what I could tell, he passed most days tied up on a small concrete pad, nowhere to go, nothing to do.
Whether the notoriously cranky farmer turned him out—highly probable—or the dog finally had a chance to run for it, I can’t blame him for seeking a better lot.
English Labs are known to be excellent family pets.
Well played on his part to wiggle his way into a household with four high-energy kids.
Soon enough, William draws up short, bouncing up and down on his toes.
“Can you see it? Can you see it?” he asks excitedly.
I look around in bewilderment. We’ve descended to just below an impressive pile of massive stone slabs, typical for the Granite State. But I don’t see any openings, large, small, or otherwise.
William is practically vibrating. “It’s good, right? Like you can’t see it at all!”
“I don’t see it at all.”
“We wouldn’t of either. Dog found it. Didn’t you, boy?” He pats the dog on the head, who preens. “Henry!” he calls out suddenly. “She can’t see it! She really has no idea!”
And just like that, a head peeks out from what appears to be a solid wall. Followed shortly by two more as the remaining Dixon children join in.
Now I’m genuinely mesmerized. I approach slowly, eyeing the ledge more closely. But even up close and personal, I could’ve easily missed it.
The opening is actually a tall, thin fissure, tucked behind a narrow outcropping, creating an optical illusion of one solid slab, when in fact, it’s two.