Desperate Times by Nicholas Antinozzi Page B

in sleeping bags on the floor next to their
slumbering parents. The boys were young, perhaps in the first and
third grades, and Jimmy smiled at them. He hooked a thumb at the
empty bedroom behind them and then held a finger to his lips. The
boys understood immediately; they rose together and quietly slipped
into the bedroom, their stealthy movements were exaggerated in a
way that only young boys are capable of. Jimmy smiled, watching as
they climbed into the warm bed.
     
    The creaky stairs squealed in protest as he
descended. If anyone behind him woke, Jimmy didn’t hear them.
Halfway downstairs, Jimmy could smell strong coffee and made out
muffled voices. The voices belonged to Ken and Patty. Jimmy slowly
opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the
freshly painted blue and white kitchen.
     
    “Good morning,” said Patty, who stood at the
sink looking out the window. She quickly turned and gave Jimmy a
motherly hug. “How’d you sleep?”
     
    “Like a rock,” admitted Jimmy. “That coffee
sure smells good.”
     
    “Help yourself,” said Patty. “You know where
everything is.”
     
    “Thanks,” said Jimmy. He set his boots down
by the back door and opened the old cupboard to the left of the
sink. The shelves were full of mismatched plates, bowls, cups and
saucers. He had a favorite cup and he found it behind a chipped
black mug. Jimmy removed the crystal coffee cup, gave it a quick
rinse and fixed himself a cup of steaming coffee, adding a teaspoon
of sugar. He took a seat across from Ken and smiled. This was his
favorite part of the day up here and it felt odd not to be heading
out on the lake. He and Ken rarely missed a chance to get out on
the water, it was a given. They’d fish, keeping a close eye on the
time. At just before nine they’d troll back to the dock, reel in
their lines and head inside to one of Patty’s breakfasts—another
given. Were those days over?
     
    “Where is everyone?” Jimmy asked.
     
    “All over the place,” said Ken. There are
tents out back and people are sacked out all over the house. Far as
I know, we’re the only ones up.”
     
    Jimmy nodded as he watched Patty dump an
entire box of pancake mix into a huge bowl. His stomach growled. He
hadn’t realized that he was so hungry.
     
    “I’ve seen a few cars head down toward the
Birkland place. I didn’t recognize them, but I’m sure Sally has
quite a few of her own staying there.”
     
    Jimmy nodded. Sally Birkland lived in what
had used to be a resort which bordered Ken’s property to the east.
After her husband had died Sally ran the resort for nearly another
decade, but as she’d approached her eighties she’d closed it down.
She lived here year-round and kept the Dahlgrens informed of any
goings on while they were away. She was a wiry, snoopy old woman
and as much of a fixture up here as the lake itself.
     
    The old resort had been mothballed and Sally
lived comfortably in the main lodge a quarter mile down the
dead-end road. She didn’t entertain as much as she used to,
thankfully, but when she did her crowd didn’t mix well with the
atmosphere. They were people of the night, armed with fireworks and
booze. They spent their weekends drinking around the fire pit until
the early hours of the morning, playing their music loud and
carrying on as drunken people tend to do. Sally would be right out
there with them. Jimmy had always found that odd, as if she were
breaking some sort of rule for a person of her advanced age. What
he’d thought was even more strange was the way Patty urged everyone
to keep quiet until Sally’s crew stumbled out of bed, which was
never before noon. Ken wasn’t too chipper on these mornings. His
usual reaction was to head down to the dock, untether the big boat
and tear across the lake. On most of these mornings he’d circle the
bay, the throaty Mercury outboard echoing across the water. He’d
tell them that the engine needed to have the carbon blown out