Feels like Home (Lake Fisher Book 2) Page 22

  I find Mr. Jacobson standing on the porch. He glances down toward my morning wood and says, “Put your junk away. It’s time to get to work.” Then he walks down the steps and goes to do the same thing at Aaron’s house. He has Gabby with him, and she waits patiently as he knocks, waits for Aaron to open the door, sleep-addled and groggy-eyed, and then she goes inside. Aaron comes out a minute later wearing shorts and a t-shirt and his baseball cap.

  “You know I have cancer, right?” I hear him say to Mr. Jacobson.

  Mr. Jacobson glares at him. “You know I don’t care, right?”

  And that is why you have to love Mr. Jacobson. He always delivers the right words at the right time. Because there’s a little piece of me that believes that Aaron needs to hear that his cancer isn’t going to affect him today.

  I walk back inside to get dressed. “What’s going on?” Bess asks. She rolls over and the covers slip down, exposing her panties, which is all she has on aside from one of my t-shirts. I walk over to the bed, lean over her, and nuzzle the back of her neck.

  “Mr. Jacobson just told me to put my junk away,” I say with a laugh.

  “I know a place you can put it,” she replies. She rolls onto her back and her shirt lifts so I can see several inches of her stomach.

  “Don’t tempt me.” I reluctantly push away from the bed and watch her as I get a pair of shorts and put them on. She’s so beautiful, even with her hair mussed and some of last night’s mascara staining her cheeks.

  Bess sits up and kicks the covers down, exposing what seems like miles of kissable skin. “I kind of like tempting you,” she says quietly, her voice as soft as silk.

  Last night, when we went to bed, she’d let my hands wander around until we’d both gotten frustrated. But I’d put the brakes on it, and I was now regretting the fact that I did. I want nothing more than to make love to my wife and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  A knock sounds on the door again, and I can tell by the heavy-handed thunks that it’s Mr. Jacobson. “Got to go,” I whisper as I kiss her. She turns her head at the last minute and mutters something about morning breath. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” she says with a grin, and she reaches down, pulls the covers back up to her chin, and snuggles into the blankets. Her eyes fall closed before I’m even out of the bedroom.

  I glance at my watch as I close the front door behind me. “Why are we starting so early?” I ask of no one in particular.

  “Because Pop doesn’t like for anyone to have morning sex when there’s work to be done,” Jake says, and he sounds like he’s not in a very good mood.

  “You can fuck off, later,” Mr. Jacobson says. “Right now, there’s work needs doing.” He heads toward where I saw a pile of lumber stacked yesterday. But it’s not just lumber. It’s lumber and windows and shingles and plywood and tools. He makes an impatient motion toward the pile and says, “Y’all can get started as soon as the mood strikes you.” He looks toward my lap. “Glad to see you’re in good shape now.”

  “I wouldn’t call it good shape,” I mutter to myself. Jake instructs me to set up the sawhorses and a saw, so I go and do that as he looks at Mr. Jacobson’s plans.

  “You know this is more like a garage than a shed, right?” He glares at Mr. Jacobson.

  “One man’s garage is another man’s shed, Jake.” He hitches his pants up, opens a folding chair, and sits down in it.

  “Oh, no, old man. You are not going to sit there while we do all the work.”

  “I’m old, Jake.” He lifts a cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip. I would kill for a cup of coffee right now.

  I lean around Jake’s shoulder so Mr. Jacobson can see me and I repeat the words I’d heard him say to Aaron: “You know we don’t care, right?”

  Jake chuckles as Mr. Jacobson grumbles and gets out of the chair. “There’s coffee,” he says, and he points to a big insulated pot and some paper cups.

  “Thank God,” Aaron says as he pours a cup for each of us.

  We work together well into the afternoon, until my muscles are screaming and I feel like I could choke Mr. Jacobson with my bare hands if he even looks in my direction. Bess shows up with some sandwiches, and we all sit down and quietly eat.

  We get back to work, and we work hard until the sun starts to go down. And that is when Mr. Jacobson brings out the cooler. He drags it out of the back of the golf cart, opens it, and pulls a fresh, ice cold beer from the depths. He cracks the top on the can, and I watch as it spurts refreshment out the hole. He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, burps, and sets it down. “If any of you get shit-faced, I will do something to embarrass you tomorrow,” he warns.

  I immediately think of the titties he drew on my hand and wonder what he could do that’s worse than that. Then I remember that this is Mr. Jacobson we’re talking about and I am aware, deep inside, that it could get a lot worse.

  Jake is the first one to get drunk. I know he’s drunk when he lets out a fart that people can probably hear in the campground. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just does it and says nothing.

  “Jesus, Jake,” Mr. Jacobson says. “You could at least walk around the corner.”

  “Why?” Jake asks as he scratches his ass.

  “Because it’s polite,” Mr. Jacobson replies. But I can tell he’s a little tipsy, too, because he slurs his words. “Get off the ladder,” he commands, as Jake gets ready to go back up to the roof of the little building that’s almost finished.

  “I’m not done yet.” Jake scratches his ass again, looks from the ladder to Pop, and then plops down in a folding chair that Mr. Jacobson opens up just for him. He opens two more chairs and Aaron looks at me like it’s a trap. I shrug, grab a beer, and go sit down. Aaron does the same.

  Aaron guzzles his beer and Jake tosses him another. “Do you remember that time we drank until Aaron threw up all over Lynda?” Jake suddenly asks. “She was so mad at you, dude.”

  “I had to put up with her and Bess, because Bess was pissed off that I’d gotten so drunk.” He burps really loudly. “It was a shit night, if I remember correctly.” He looks at me. “How old were we? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-one,” Mr. Jacobson supplies. “Because I had to take all of you home with me when your parents wouldn’t let you back in your houses. You’d all gone home singing a dirty little song. No idea where you learned it. You sang it at the top of your lungs all the way back to the cabins and your parents locked you out because of it.”

  Jake’s mouth falls open. “You jackass,” he says, pointing a finger at his dad. “You taught us that song!”

  Mr. Jacobson scratches his belly. “A man needs a full repertoire of music to choose from in times of need.” He picks up a clod of grass and throws it in our general direction. “None of you could hold your liquor.” He looks at Jake. “Apparently, you still can’t.” He snorts out a laugh, finishes his beer, and crushes the can beneath his heel. Then he pops open another one. Suddenly he blurts out, “We’re going to bury Aaron here.” He nods in the general direction of the little cemetery. “I already made the arrangements.”

  “Pop. This isn’t the time,” Jake hisses at him. Jake looks at Aaron but Aaron just shrugs.

  “It’s fine,” Aaron says. “Better to talk about it than not.” He shrugs again.

  Aaron has never been a happy drunk. He’s a quiet drunk. And he’s an honest drunk. Shit comes out of his mouth when he’s drunk that he’d never say sober.

  “Do you remember that time we went down to Five Mile Bridge and jumped off?” Jake suddenly asks.

  “Yep,” Aaron and I say at the same time, which makes me laugh. I’m not entirely sure why.

  “One of you shoved me in!” Jake cries. He looks from Aaron to me and back. “Which of you was it?”

  Aaron holds up his hand like he wants to be called on by the teacher. “It was me. You were waffling, dude. Had to commit.”

  “If we’re spilling secrets,” I say, “wh
ich one of you told Bess I had once had a crush on Susie Millerson when I was twelve? Bess didn’t talk to me the rest of the day.”

  “Dude, everybody had a crush on Susie Millerson,” Jake offers. Susie Millerson was a lot older than the rest of us, which meant she was filling out in all the right places, and every boy wanted to spend time with her. And of course that made all the girls jealous.

  “So who told Bess?” I ask, sulking a little.

  Mr. Jacobson raises his hand. “It was me.”

  “You dirty fucker,” Jake replies. But he laughs and there’s no heat in the words.

  “Never did like that Millerson girl,” Mr. Jacobson says. “She had a mean streak a mile wide.”

  “Bess didn’t like her, either,” I say.

  “So,” Jake says slowly, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He stares at Aaron. “You have any last wishes?”

  Aaron freezes. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  Jake rubs his hands together like he’s warming them by the fire. Mr. Jacobson tosses him another beer. “We’re here. This is as good a time as any to figure it out.”

  He thinks for a moment. “If my daughters want to play football, you let them,” Aaron says and he points at me.

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “And if my son wants to do ballet, you let him, too.”

  “Okay.” I still don’t know what else to say.

  “Teach them to be kind, and you have to be sure they know how very much I love them.”

  I immediately think this is going to be a big, morose mistake, but then Aaron belches really loudly and motions for another beer. “And I want to go jump off Five Mile Bridge.”

  “Before you die?” Jake asks, but it doesn’t sound callous somehow.

  Aaron looks around. “Let’s do it tonight.”

  This sounds like a shitty idea. But Jake slaps his hand to his knee and says, “Hell yeah! Let’s do it.”

  I get up when the rest of them do, and Mr. Jacobson motions toward the golf cart, giving his permission. Which in itself is unusual. “Better not,” I say. “Let’s walk.”

  Jake fills his pockets with beers and Aaron does the same. We walk the mile and a half to the bridge, which gives everyone ample time to get shit-faced.

  Five Mile Bridge is a huge bridge that stretches across one of the larger sections of the lake. The bridge isn’t actually five miles long, but someone once joked that the half-mile bridge was costing the county just as much as a five-mile bridge, and the name stuck. When we get there, the moon shines on the water, casting an eerie glow.

  “This might not be a great idea,” I say. I think I’m the most sober out of all of them, and even for me the ground feels like it’s going to reach up and tackle me. And I’m the only one that has a problem with this, apparently.

  Jake grabs my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Last wishes and all that shit,” he says quietly. Then we see Mr. Jacobson drive up on his golf cart and I realize this adventure has everyone’s approval but mine.

  Jake empties his pockets, strips off his shirt, climbs over the railing, and then he jumps, giving out a joyous yell all the way down. He drops about fifteen feet to the water, where he goes under and almost instantly pops back up. “Who’s next?” he calls after he whoops it up some more.

  I watch as Aaron empties his pockets and pulls his shirt over his head. He goes to the edge, grins at me, and jumps. He doesn’t yell going down. I watch to be sure he’s going to pop back up. And after a nervous moment, he surfaces with whoops and hollers like he’s ten years old again.

  “Come on in, the water’s fine!” Aaron calls to us.

  I look over at Mr. Jacobson expectantly. “Who’s next?”

  “Young man, I’ll never be drunk enough to do that shit.” He guzzles another beer while I stand there.

  “Drink another,” I joke. “Maybe you’ll catch up with them.”

  And then I empty my pockets, kick my shoes off, and jump. It feels like freefalling until I hit the water. It’s cold, and something large and slimy moves near my leg. “Are there big fish in here?” I ask as I break the surface.

  “Hundred-pound catfish,” Mr. Jacobson calls from above.

  I look around, treading water, suddenly ready to get out.

  “Come on, Pop!” Jake calls. “You big chicken!”

  Mr. Jacobson walks over and looks over the rail. “Them’s fighting words,” he says.

  “Get your ass in here!” Jake yells.

  Jake splashes water in my face. It comes at me like a wall of water, making me sputter.

  I splash him back. “If you drown me, I’ll die not having had sex in a long time,” I say. “A really long time.”

  “How long?” Jake asks mischievously.

  “Years,” I say morosely. “Decades. Centuries.” Jake laughs. “For-fucking-ever,” I add.

  We look up and find Mr. Jacobson standing on the outside of the rail of the bridge, bare-ass naked. Jake slaps the water, laughing uproariously. Mr. Jacobson’s junk hangs limply between his legs, in plain sight, and suddenly he sails through the air, his arms and legs flailing. He hits the water with a splash that rocks all of us.

  He comes up grinning and says, “Beat that, boys.”

  “What the hell are you idiots doing?” calls a female voice from the bridge.

  “Oops. I think we might be in trouble,” Jake says, still treading water.

  We all look up at the place on the bridge from where we just jumped. I recognize that voice. After a moment Bess leans over the edge of the rail.

  “Hey, Bess,” Aaron calls, waving at her. “We jumped off the bridge.” He fills his mouth with water and spits it at me.

  “Have you been drinking?” she scolds, but she’s laughing.

  “Have we been drinking?” Mr. Jacobson mocks. “Why would you ask something like that?”

  “Mr. Jacobson? You too?” She sounds shocked. She looks down at the clothes around her feet. “Are you all naked?” she asks, clearly astounded.

  We all point to Mr. Jacobson and say in unison, “He is!”

  Then we all laugh so hard we can’t catch our breath and Bess laughs from up above. Suddenly, she freezes. “Um, guys?”

  And then I see them. The blue lights go around and around, illuminating the bridge. The short but loud peal of a siren signals the arrival of the cops.

  “Fuck,” Jake mutters.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” a man’s voice says from above, as a spotlight shines down on us, illuminating all our faces one by one. “Mr. Jacobson, is that you?” the cop asks, lingering on Mr. Jacobson, who is now floating on his back paddling in circles as he shoots water from his mouth like a whale

  “It’s him, Robbie!” Jake calls back.

  “Well, get him out of there, Jake!” the man calls back.

  “We’re on our way,” Jake says as he kicks toward the shore. He grabs Mr. Jacobson’s foot to drag him along, since he has no clothes on. Then we all climb out of the lake. Mr. Jacobson walks, still bare-ass naked, toward the golf cart.

  Bess gasps and spins to face the other direction. “You could have given a girl some warning!” she cries as she covers her face.

  “Where would be the fun in that?” Aaron says, laughing hysterically.

  “Do I need to take you guys in for being drunk and disorderly?” the cop asks. He shines his light on the sign that says no jumping. “Or will you disperse peacefully?”

  Mr. Jacobson raises one fist in the air. “I do nothing peacefully!” he cries. But Jake covers his mouth quickly.

  “We’ll take him home,” Jake says, shushing his dad.

  “You might want to get him in some clothes first, Jake,” the cop warns.

  “You might want to get a personality, Little Robbie Gentry,” Mr. Jacobson chides.

  “Sorry, Robbie,” Jake mutters. “He never drinks like this. Well, rarely.”

  “Wait,” Aaron says. “You’re Little Robbie? Man, I haven
’t seen you since we were kids. So you’re a state trooper now just like your dad, huh? Cool.”

  And suddenly it’s like rolling back the years as our memories are flooded with good times at the lake. Little Robbie’s looks have changed some, of course, but there’s still a spark of that mischievous boy inside that uniform of authority.

  Relieved that we aren’t all going to jail for indecent exposure, Jake starts to dress Mr. Jacobson piece by piece, amid playful protests. Thankfully, Mr. Jacobson is as funny of a drunk as Jake is. He lets out a fart that rivals Jake’s and says, “That’s how you do it, boys.”

  “Oh my God,” mutters Bess, still looking in the other direction.

  “You can look,” Aaron calls out to her. “He’s decent.”

  “I have never been decent a day in my life!” Mr. Jacobson loudly protests.

  “Well then, he’s just dressed,” Aaron corrects, but he’s laughing so hard he can barely stand up.

  “That’s better. Thank you, son. I always did like you.”

  “You’d better get him home soon, Jake,” Little Robbie says, but he’s laughing too.

  “I got him,” Jake says as he leads his ornery father toward the golf cart.

  “Might want to let the lady drive,” Little Robbie adds.

  “Because we’re all drunk!” I announce gleefully.

  Bess laughs and scolds Little Robbie for not recognizing her but she gets in the driver’s seat. Mr. Jacobson settles in next to her, and Aaron, Jake, and I all hang off the back. “I’ve never been decent a day in my life,” Mr. Jacobson insists, still protesting about the vile accusation.

  Bess tries to console him, her words gentle. “That’s true, Mr. Jacobson. You really haven’t.” But that just makes us laugh harder and louder.

  I lean around the corner of the cart. “Hey, Bess!”

  “Hey, Eli,” she replies with a grin.

  I kiss her cheek, almost flying off the cart as she hits a bump. She slows down a bit. “I love you,” I say loudly.