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Authors: Debra Doxer
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creek on old man
Matthew's farm."
"That was a close call,” Eddie
commented.
I’d effectively forgotten that
afternoon at the creek. Seth's words brought it back to me for the first time
in several years.
I have painted South Seaport as a
bleak place during winter completely devoid of any beauty. That's not exactly
true. There was one place that I often found myself drawn to, particularly on
those days when my parents were entrenched in battle. A fresh water creek
flowed along outskirts of Mr. Matthew's land. Mr. Matthews was a crotchety old
widower who never had a kind word for anyone. If you trespassed on any part of
his considerable property, he would not hesitate to call the police and press
charges. He'd walk his property throughout the day, poking the hard ground
with his wooden cane.
On one unusually warm winter
afternoon, Seth and Eddie followed me down to the creek after school. Seth had
been there with me before, but it was the first time Eddie had ever come with
us. I loved that spot with its rippling creek rushing over the green mildewed rocks.
White birch trees lined the area, their bare branches forming a canopy of
twisting tendrils. It was always peaceful and quiet there with nothing but the
smooth lapping water and the cool winter breeze.
We were walking on the rocks,
laughing, having a contest to see who could best navigate the slimy stones. Eddie
produced a flask and wanted to turn the innocent contest Seth and I had been
playing for years into a drinking game. After having taken two shots of vodka
from Eddie, I was jumping across the rocks, the water just tickling the white
bottoms of my sneakers, when my right foot slipped, twisting at an impossible
angle, landing me with a splash right in the middle of the creek. I winced with
pain when I tried to lift myself up. Seth and Eddie ceased their laughing and
came running toward me. I was soaked, and my ankle burned. I could feel it
swelling, pushing against the leather of my shoe. They gently picked me up and
helped me hop over to the side. I couldn't walk home. That was immediately
apparent. Seth lived the closest, about a mile away.
"I'll run home and get my
mom's car," he offered. He dashed off into the woods. He was barely gone
five minutes when we heard old man Matthew's scratchy voice. "Who's out
there? I heard you kids yelling. You'd better get off my land or I'm calling
the police!"
Eddie stood and looked out toward
the farm house. "Shit, he's headed straight for us."
I glanced up at him becoming more
miserable by the moment. I told him, "Just leave me here. There's no
reason for both of us to get caught."
He remained there for a moment,
crouched low, deciding what he should do. Then he shook his head slowly back
and forth as he began to wriggle out of his leather jacket. "Shit,"
he kept repeating, "shit, shit, shit.” He put his jacket around my wet
shoulders. I thanked him weakly, expecting him to run off now. But he didn't. He
placed an arm around my shoulder and lifted me to my one good foot. "Come
on, Hiller,” he commanded. “Move your ass."
I couldn't have been more surprised.
"Forget it. You'll get caught, too. Just go."
"Stop being such a lazy shit
and move. You can be such a wimp sometimes."
That got me angry, but it got me
moving. Eddie grunted under my weight. We trudged together through the woods,
swifter than I had thought possible, our labored breathing loud in our ears and
Mr. Matthew's voice echoing from behind us. When we finally burst through the
trees and onto the side of the road, Eddie set me down and tiredly dropped to
the ground beside me. As he tried to catch his breath, he started laughing
quietly. I looked at him, barely able to contain my shivers, my ankle pulsing
in pain, and then I felt it, too. I stifled the first few, but then I burst out
laughing, my relief nearly overpowering.
When Seth came by with his mother's
station wagon, he wore a completely perplexed expression. "What's so funny?
How did you
Matthew's farm."
"That was a close call,” Eddie
commented.
I’d effectively forgotten that
afternoon at the creek. Seth's words brought it back to me for the first time
in several years.
I have painted South Seaport as a
bleak place during winter completely devoid of any beauty. That's not exactly
true. There was one place that I often found myself drawn to, particularly on
those days when my parents were entrenched in battle. A fresh water creek
flowed along outskirts of Mr. Matthew's land. Mr. Matthews was a crotchety old
widower who never had a kind word for anyone. If you trespassed on any part of
his considerable property, he would not hesitate to call the police and press
charges. He'd walk his property throughout the day, poking the hard ground
with his wooden cane.
On one unusually warm winter
afternoon, Seth and Eddie followed me down to the creek after school. Seth had
been there with me before, but it was the first time Eddie had ever come with
us. I loved that spot with its rippling creek rushing over the green mildewed rocks.
White birch trees lined the area, their bare branches forming a canopy of
twisting tendrils. It was always peaceful and quiet there with nothing but the
smooth lapping water and the cool winter breeze.
We were walking on the rocks,
laughing, having a contest to see who could best navigate the slimy stones. Eddie
produced a flask and wanted to turn the innocent contest Seth and I had been
playing for years into a drinking game. After having taken two shots of vodka
from Eddie, I was jumping across the rocks, the water just tickling the white
bottoms of my sneakers, when my right foot slipped, twisting at an impossible
angle, landing me with a splash right in the middle of the creek. I winced with
pain when I tried to lift myself up. Seth and Eddie ceased their laughing and
came running toward me. I was soaked, and my ankle burned. I could feel it
swelling, pushing against the leather of my shoe. They gently picked me up and
helped me hop over to the side. I couldn't walk home. That was immediately
apparent. Seth lived the closest, about a mile away.
"I'll run home and get my
mom's car," he offered. He dashed off into the woods. He was barely gone
five minutes when we heard old man Matthew's scratchy voice. "Who's out
there? I heard you kids yelling. You'd better get off my land or I'm calling
the police!"
Eddie stood and looked out toward
the farm house. "Shit, he's headed straight for us."
I glanced up at him becoming more
miserable by the moment. I told him, "Just leave me here. There's no
reason for both of us to get caught."
He remained there for a moment,
crouched low, deciding what he should do. Then he shook his head slowly back
and forth as he began to wriggle out of his leather jacket. "Shit,"
he kept repeating, "shit, shit, shit.” He put his jacket around my wet
shoulders. I thanked him weakly, expecting him to run off now. But he didn't. He
placed an arm around my shoulder and lifted me to my one good foot. "Come
on, Hiller,” he commanded. “Move your ass."
I couldn't have been more surprised.
"Forget it. You'll get caught, too. Just go."
"Stop being such a lazy shit
and move. You can be such a wimp sometimes."
That got me angry, but it got me
moving. Eddie grunted under my weight. We trudged together through the woods,
swifter than I had thought possible, our labored breathing loud in our ears and
Mr. Matthew's voice echoing from behind us. When we finally burst through the
trees and onto the side of the road, Eddie set me down and tiredly dropped to
the ground beside me. As he tried to catch his breath, he started laughing
quietly. I looked at him, barely able to contain my shivers, my ankle pulsing
in pain, and then I felt it, too. I stifled the first few, but then I burst out
laughing, my relief nearly overpowering.
When Seth came by with his mother's
station wagon, he wore a completely perplexed expression. "What's so funny?
How did you
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