behind the boathouse

8/15/2019 Behind the Boathouse

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Behind the Boathouse

By Matt Butcher

[email protected]

The homeowners association boarded up the boathouse at the other end of the lake two years ago, yet

somehow kids still went down there and wore down the crabgrass lawn around it to a dirt path. August

had been more hot and humid than usual, but now, with only a week to go until the rush of going back

to school, the air felt much cooler on skin that had felt nothing but moist heat for a month. The

meadowlarks chirped greedily, and a cicada toiled incessantly at his own noise. Thistle and sunflowers

dotted the landscape with bright color compared to the slightly-browning foliage around them. Even the

blue-purple downy gentian flowers were blooming early, seemingly self-willing themselves to hurry

through their cycle while there was still time.

Two older teenagers strolled hand-in-hand down the path, stopping to admire the heath aster and wild

bergamot in bloom. The young woman bent to inspect and sniff, while the young man stood back from

the weeds. Yet he did not let go of her hand. She pulled them both to a stop at the side of a rather

verdant patch of garden.

“What do you think of this one?” The girl asked as she cupped the fragrant blossom closer to her nose.

“It’s Culver’s root.”

“Yeah, Jill, it’s nice,” he said indifferently. He tugged a bit at her hand, like a dog on a leash. “I wanna

show you the boathouse back here.”

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Reluctantly, she allowed hersel f to be pulled away from the opening flowers. She’d been looking at the

boathouse before, but not with anyone else. And definitely not with a boy . But she didn’t want to

appear as if she came here all the time or something. This was the boathouse . Most of the kids at the

high school had some kind of story about encounters they had here--encounters with the opposite sex.

The derelict boathouse was an old, boarded-up wooden shack, basically. Behind it, amid the weeds that

had proliferated in back from want of a caretaker, was the famous bench. Stained dark brown decades

ago, it now had names carved in the wood all over it. Most of these were probably fake exploits by the

local burnouts, but some were probably real. If this bench could talk, it probably could tell of battles lost

and won.

Tommy sat Jill on the bench and tried to sit close to her. He still held that one hand, and with his other

hand, he seized her cute little chin.

“You know, we may never even see each other again,” Tommy explained. “I’m going o ff to Western, and

you are going off to Eastern.” He paused and reached out for her other hand. “I want our goodbye to be

special.” A squeeze of the hand.

Immediately, she pursued talking about school rather than letting the conversation slip. “I don’t re ally

care which school I go to--as long as I go away somewhere. Eastern is where my mom went, and she

knows a lady who has an apartment I can live at dirt cheap.”

Sighing, Tommy knew he had to converse with her to get her closer. “I’m excited to get outta here. Li ve

in the dorms. Western is going to rock. Lots of new people to meet and things to do.”


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“I’m awfully good at writing letters,” she said.

“Yeah, there’s all that social media stuff,” he answered. “We can even email.”

“No, I mean real physical letters,” she said excitedly. “With pen and paper. I have this new stationery set

with a bright pink pen with pink ink. Hmm, that’s fun to say, ‘pink ink!’” She giggled a bit and put her

hand over her mouth.

He seemed to shy away ever so slightly at this. “Well, I don’t know about writing real letters. I had to

write notes to this girl in sixth grade once and if I forgot to do it by lunchtime she got all mad at me.

What if I forgot to do it one week?”

Her eyes grew bigger. “One we ek? I think it would be just about every other day. Sort of like a journal,

you know, telling all about your day.”

There was a definite eye roll from Tommy as he managed to get that arm around her shoulder. “We can

talk about letter writing when stuff comes up. How do I know I even want to write all the time if there is

nothing to come back to.” His face and mouth closed in on her neck, ever so slightly.

“Oh, look! Sunflowers!” Jill shot up and pointed at the yellow flowers. Tommy’s arm went limp on the

bench and he sighed heavily, with no intention of her missing that sigh. She still sauntered over to the

wild patch of color.


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“Those don’t look like any sunflowers,” he said as he got up to go with her. He kind of grabbed her

elbows and subtly pulled her back. But she would have none of it. She escaped him and went to the

flowers.

“They’re prairie sunflowers,” she informed. “They don’t have that huge middle section where you’re

thinking about the seeds. Just a smaller center. D on’t you know flowers at all?”

He grabbed hold of a couple of stems and roughly yanked at them, pulling the roots out a bit, but he

managed to snag two large blossoms. “No, I’ve never learned much about flowers or their names. I just

know they’re flowers. They ’re everywhere and they all look exactly the same to me. ” He handed her one

of the blooms.

“These are perfect,” she sniffed.

“Perfect for what?” he said under his breath. Then he began to pluck the petals. One by one.

“Oh, are you playing that old kid’s game? You know, ‘She -loves-me-she-loves-me- not’?”

“Well, I was just pulling petals. They’re there, aren’t they? But I can play a little game.” He clearly

paused, as if counting in his head and saying how it would work out with the number of petals that he

had left.

“No, you can’t do that now, not after you started. You’ll know how it’s going to end.”


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“Nah, I guess there’s too many rules for that game now.” He tossed the flower haphazardly back at the

patch, several petals still clinging to the stamen. He eyed a couple more blooms, checking out if he could

pull one where it would work out, but he couldn’t count them fast enough to make it look good. He

didn’t know if it would work.

She held hers, almost stroking the soft petals. Her head turned as if she were hiding the flower.

“Listen,” he said. “I got a ride tomorrow to Western. I’ll write ya when I get there. See ya later.” He

turned to go up the path, discarding the spent flower he’d been plucking onto the path. Jill went back to

sit on the bench.

She sat there for at least an hour, just staring at the sunflower in her hands. The bottom of the stem

started to get bright green from wear and her body heat as she spun it in her hands. She did not remove

a single petal, even though the little green leaf that still clung to the stem finally fell to the ground.

When she finally rose from the bench, she walked slowly home, still staring at the daisy. However, there

was a smile on her face. This daisy has lasted in her care. Even though she almost discarded it with

uncaring and rough use, she held onto it and it held onto its petals. It wasn’t an in different flower

anymore as it gave her strength to know that even a simple daisy could maintain its wholeness.

She strolled to her empty house and bounded down the hall towards the family room with renewed

purpose. School was going to start soon. A whole new life. New adventures. New people. Stuff she had

not even dreamed of yet.

Above the fireplace was a marble mantel. Among the little knick knacks that her mother kept up there

was a small library of about five books. Mother always said that every house needs to have certain


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books. Bible, Shakespeare. One of the books was Jill’s diary. Somehow the diary held more power now --

the things she was going to write in it in the near future!

She took the flower and about ten pages into the book, pressed the sunflower. She sighed contentedly

and replaced the book, the flower concealed inside, above the mantel.

behind the boathouse

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