“The rattlesnakes are protected-an endangered species, I think,” Danny told the river driver. Ketchum had already skinned the snake and cut off its rattles.
In the summer, Charlotte had her boat serviced at Desmasdon’s, the boat works where they dry-docked boats in the winter. Now, when Danny watched Ketchum skinning the snake, he was reminded of a poster on the ice cream freezer at Desmasdon’s-it displayed the various snakes of Ontario, the Eastern Massasauga rattler among them. Those rattlesnakes really were protected, Danny was trying to make Ketchum understand, but the woodsman cut him off.
“Hero’s smart enough not to get bitten by a fucking snake, Danny-I don’t need to protect him,” Ketchum started in. “But I’m not so sure about you and Charlotte. You walk all over this island-I’ve seen you!-just talking to each other and not looking where you’re stepping. People in love aren’t looking for rattlers; they’re not listening for them, either. And you and Charlotte are going to have a baby, isn’t that right? It’s not the rattlesnakes that need protection, Danny.” With that, Ketchum cut off the snake’s head with his Browning knife. He drained the venom from the fangs on a rock; then he hurled the head off the back dock, into the bay. “Fish food,” he said. “I’m a regular environmentalist, sometimes.” He tossed the snakeskin up on the roof of Granddaddy’s cabin, where the sun would dry it out, he said-adding, “If the seagulls and the crows don’t get it first.”
The birds would get it, and they made such a ruckus over the snakeskin early the next morning that Ketchum was tempted to fire off his 12-gauge again, this time to drive the seagulls and the crows off the roof of the log cabin. But he restrained himself, knowing Charlotte would hear the shot; Ketchum went outside and threw rocks at the birds instead. He watched a gull fly off with the remains of the snakeskin. (“Nothing wasted,” as the logger later described the event to Danny.)
That day, the Mounties came by in their boat to inquire about the gunshot the day before. Had anyone heard it? Someone on Barclay Island said that they thought they’d heard a shot on Turner Island. “I heard it, too,” Ketchum spoke up, getting the two young Mounties’ attention. Ketchum even recalled the time of day, with impressive accuracy, but he said that the shooting definitely came from the mainland. “Sounded like a twelve-gauge to me,” the veteran woodsman said, “but gunfire can be both magnified and distorted over water.” The two Mounties nodded at such a sage assessment; the beautiful but unsuspecting Charlotte nodded, too.
Then Joe had died, and Danny lost what little taste he had for killing things. And when Danny lost Charlotte, he and Ketchum gave up their dead-of-winter trips to Turner Island in Georgian Bay.
There was something about Pointe au Baril Station that stayed with Danny, though he didn’t go there anymore. In fact, his parting from Charlotte had been so civilized-she’d even offered to share her summer island with him, when they were no longer together. Maybe he could go there in July, and she would go in August, she said. After all, he’d put his money into those improvements, too. (Charlotte ’s offer was sincere; it wasn’t only about the money.)
Yet it wasn’t Georgian Bay in the summer that Danny had adored. He’d loved being there with her-he would have loved being anywhere with Charlotte -but when she was gone, whenever he thought about Lake Huron, he thought mostly about that wind-bent pine in the wintertime. How could he ask Charlotte for permission to let him have a winter view of that little tree from his writing shack-the weather-beaten pine he saw now only in his imagination?
And how could Danny have had another child, after losing Joe? He’d known the day Joe died that he would lose Charlotte, too, because he sensed almost immediately that his heart couldn’t bear losing another child; he couldn’t stand the anxiety, or that terrible ending, ever again.
Charlotte knew it, too-even before he found the courage to tell her. “I won’t hold you to your promise,” she told him, “even if it means that I might have to move on.”
“You should move on, Charlotte,” he told her. “I just can’t.”
She’d married someone else soon after. A nice guy-Danny had met him, and liked him. He was someone in the movie business, a French director living in L.A. He was much closer to Charlotte ’s age, too. She already had one baby, a little girl, and now Charlotte was expecting a second child-one more than Danny had promised her.
Charlotte had kept her island in Georgian Bay, but she’d moved away from Toronto and was living in Los Angeles now. She came back to Toronto every September for the film festival, and that time of year-early fall-always seemed to Danny like a good time to leave town. They still talked on the phone-Charlotte was always the one who called; Danny never called her-but it was probably easier for both of them not to run into each other.
Charlotte Turner had been very pregnant-she was about to have her first child-when she won the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay for East of Bangor, at the Academy Awards in March 2000. Danny and his dad had watched Charlotte accept the statuette. (Patrice was always closed on Sunday nights.) Somehow, seeing her on television-from Toronto, when Charlotte was in L.A. -well, that wasn’t the same as actually seeing her, was it? Both the cook and Danny wished her well.
It was just bad luck. “Bad timing, huh?” Ketchum had said. (If Joe had died three months later, it’s likely Danny would have already gotten Charlotte pregnant. It had been bad timing, indeed.)
JOE AND THE GIRL HAD TAKEN some of the same courses in Boulder-she was a senior at the university, too-and their trip to Winter Park together might have been a belated birthday present that Joe decided to give himself. According to their mutual friends, Joe and the girl had been sleeping together for only a short time. It was the girl’s first trip alone with Joe to the ski house in Winter Park, though both Danny and his dad remembered her staying at the house for a couple of nights over the last Christmas holiday, when a bunch of Joe’s college friends-girls and boys, with no discernible relationship with one another (at least that the cook and his son could see)-were also camping out at that Winter Park house.
It was a big house, after all, and-as Charlotte had said, because she was closer in age to Joe and his pals than Danny and Dominic were-it was impossible to tell who was sleeping with whom. There were so many of them, and they seemed to be lifelong friends. That last Colorado Christmas, the kids had taken the mattresses from all the guest bedrooms, and they’d piled them in the living room, where both the boys and the girls had cuddled together and slept in front of the fire.
Yet, even with such a mob of them, and amid all the taking turns in the showers-it had surprised Danny and his dad that some of the girls took showers together-it was the cook and his son who’d noticed something special about that girl. Charlotte hadn’t seen it. It was for just the briefest moment, and maybe it meant nothing, but after Joe died with the girl, the writer and the cook couldn’t forget it.
She was pretty and petite, almost elfin, and naturally Joe had made a point of telling his father and grandfather that he’d first met Meg in a life-drawing class, where she’d been the model.
“One look at the girl doesn’t suffice-it isn’t nearly enough,” the cook would tell Ketchum, shortly after that Christmas.
It wasn’t just because she was an exhibitionist, though Meg clearly was that; as had been the case with Katie, Danny had seen for himself the first time, you simply had to look at Meg, and it was almost painful not to keep looking. (Once you saw her, it was hard to look away.)