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The Last Summer
- University of Wisconsin Press
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129 The Last Sum mer George tied his row boat to the dock and started up the path to the lodge, car ry ing a stringer of plump blue gills he had just caught in Coot Lake. It was early June, and the fish were start ing to put on weight. As he walked by Helen’s old Buick sta tion wagon, he heard a woman sing ing. He opened the driver’s side door and turned the knob, but the radio was shut off. “I guess it’s Helen,” he said. On the porch, he stopped to look and lis ten. In side, in the light of the south win dows, Helen was iron ing and sing ing quietly to her self, while Rus sell slept at her feet. “Well, she’s in a good mood,” George thought, and opened the screen door. “Hey, kiddo, take a look,”he said, hold ing up the stringer.“Nine of ’em, and they’re all bigger than my hand. That’s enough for sup per.” “Great,” said Helen. She beamed at George and shut off the iron. “But I’ve got some news that is bet ter than blue gills. George, guess what! Josie and Bill called while you were out fish ing, and we’re going to be grand par ents again, right around Thanks giv ing! They didn’t plan on it, but they’re used to the idea now. And it’s going to be a lit tle girl.” “How do they know that?” George asked. “Just take it on faith, George. They use a thing called ultra sound, and they can tell.” George took his blue gills into the kitchen, put them in the sink, and re turned with two mugs of cof fee. “Have they de cided on a name?” The Last Summer 130 “Amy,” Helen said. “Isn’t that nice? It’s got rhyme and rhythm—Amy O’Malley.” Helen chat tered on about baby clothes and fix ing up the nur sery at Bill and Josie’s house in Evans ton. But George wasn’t lis ten ing. He was look ing out at the lake,sip ping his cof fee,and think ing about his ten-year-old grand son, Wil lie. He felt a pang of guilt. “I haven’t spent enough time with that boy,” he thought,“and by Thanks giv ing he’ll have a lit tle sis ter, and I’ll have to di vide my time between them. This will be our last sum mer to gether, just Wil lie and me.” After sup per, they called Bill and Josie. When it was George’s turn, he asked to talk to Wil lie. “He isn’t here, Dad,” said Bill. “He’s at a na ture camp for a week.” “Na ture camp? Why does he need a na ture camp? He’s got Door County!” “Well, all his friends were going, and they teach the kids to swim and do crafts and things,” Bill said. “Then after na ture camp he’s got a week of soc cer camp, but he’ll be able to come up there on the eigh teenth.” “Fine,” George said. “I’ll bring him back around Labor Day.” When the phone call was over, George and Helen went out on the porch. George lit his pipe and looked at the west ern sky. But he wasn’t able to enjoy the pipe or the sun set. “Crafts!” he snorted. “The sum mer is gal lop ing by and Wil lie is doing crafts, of all things. I went to a sum mer camp once where we did crafts. I made my dad a coin purse out of leather that was like card board, and it lasted about a week. Wil lie needs to learn prac ti cal things like fish ing and bird watch ing and hit ting curve balls. “And ye Gods, a soc cer camp?” George groaned. “Soc cer is a game for scrawny lit tle Eu ro peans that kick each other in the shins and then roll around on the grass like they’re at death’s door. Bunch of play-actors. When a base ball player gets hit with a pitch, he just trots down to first like noth ing hap pened. I’ll bet those soc cer players all throw like girls, and their brains are scram bled from [3.138.69.45] Project MUSE (2024-04...