Everyone seems to know what they’re doing. I try to follow along, but I’m always a few steps behind. When Sal (who is next to me in his short-shorts) swiftly changes direction during a sultry hip roll, I almost run into him. He gives me a forgiving wink, and I feel myself relax. There’s no question that I am by far the worst dancer here—my wild flailing in the mirror confirms this fact—but it’s equally clear that no one is keeping score. A moment later, we’re crawling acrossthe floor like pulsating leopards, then popping up and spinning to the far wall. I had wanted a new life, and here it is: I’m 350 miles north of New York City, deep in the woods, shimmying around a barn with four people who are taking this just seriously enough. Suddenly it hits me: this is the most fun I’ve had in years.
By the time we finish our cooldown, I’m glossy with sweat and giddy from adrenaline. My fellow dancers come up to introduce themselves, and suddenly I feel like I’m part of a gang of unruly misfits. As they trickle out of the barn into the night, Paula approaches. “You’ve still got it.”
This is beyond generous, but I accept the compliment and say, “That was so fun. Were your classes always this saucy?”
Paula shakes her head. “I’ve gotten much saucier with age.”
“Well, I really needed that. It’s been an adjustment, moving here. But maybe I just needed to dance.”
Paula nods proudly, like a guru whose student has finally begun to see the light. “You know, I’m a Manhattan transplant, too. Years back. Way before I taught you the first time around.”
“Really? I don’t think I knew that. You don’t miss the city?”
“Of course I miss the city. I’d give my eyeteeth for one more run on Broadway, but you’ve got to dance where you are, baby.” She begins walking around the barn, tidying up and turning off lights. “So, let’s talk admin. I need all the help I can get to bring in new students. Word of mouth used to be sufficient, but I know I should be doing more. I’ve just never been a computer person. I mean, I do email—I love email—but that’s about it.”
“I get it,” I say. “I can definitely help. It won’t take much to set up a website, start building your digital mailing list, and maybe get you on Instagram, if you’re up for it.”
We settle on an hourly rate that feels modest but fair, plus Paula says I can come to any of her classes free of charge.
It’s not a career, but it’s a move in the right direction. I gather my things, and as I approach the door, Paula adds: “I’m glad you’ve come back, Cricket. You can have a nice life here if you’re willing to get a little creative.”
Chapter 15
As July unfurls, my father and I maximize our time on the water. One evening, feeling ambitious, we decide to go for an after-dinner canoe ride. Taking the motorboat out would be easier, but this late in the day, we prefer to paddle so we don’t disturb the peace. Getting into the canoe is no small feat for my father, but I’ve devised a system that works well enough. I haul the boat as far up the wooden slip as it will go. He sits down on the dry part of the slip, inches over, and crawls into the boat one body part at a time: arm, leg, hips, other leg, other arm. It takes a while, but once he is settled, I push the canoe out into the water, and I leap in from the dock.
“Whoooaaa-ooohhh!” my father whoops as we rock left and right. If we were working with a newfangled lightweight canoe, we would tip in an instant. But ours is an antique wooden model, as heavy as they come. We’re not going to win any races in it, but it’s nearly capsize-proof, as long as we’re sitting and centered.
We begin paddling eastward, planning to skim the full perimeter of the pond. After a few minutes, we see the loons are out, diving and popping up in a small inlet, finding and losing each other over and over again. Their loonlet bobs on the surface, patiently observing her parents’ activities. Just as we pass, her mother surfaces with a fish in her beak. She brings it to her baby, who receives it with an open gullet.
We round a small peninsula and proceed along the length of the pond, passing a boathouse every so often. Although the town of Locust is alive with seasonal bustle, Catwood is sleepy this summer. With sofew camps on the pond, the activity ebbs and flows as generations come and go. When I was growing up, there was a critical mass of youngsters who were always darting from shore to shore. But this summer, I have barely seen another boat. As we pass the beaver dam, we cease our paddling and search for signs of activity. Suddenly, up ahead, I notice something that looks like a branch, although it’s moving too quickly along its course to be inanimate. As we near, I realize it’s not just a stick, but a beaver carrying a stick. It scoots faster, and as we pass, it slaps its tail, creating a walloping kerplunk before it disappears.
“Same to you!” says my father.
We start paddling again, instinctively following the line of the shore as we begin to turn westward. From the back of the canoe, I provide both steering and the majority of our propulsion. My father sits up front, dipping his paddle intermittently. But what he lacks in strength, he makes up for in wonder, in his enduring ability to be awed.
“Spectacular,” he says as we coast past another inlet, where a lanky blue heron stands at attention. “How lucky we are to live here.”
We skirt the shoreline, and before long, we come to the Seavey property. The once-flashy camp now seems to droop, having been unoccupied for years.
“Who is it that lives here?” my father asks.
“The Seaveys,” I say, curious to see if the name will mean anything to him.
“Strange. I don’t think I know them.”
He certainly used to, and he never liked them, given their propensity for flouting rules aimed at preserving the pond’s delicate ecosystem. I’m relieved that this property doesn’t bring anything up in his recollection.
“Just as well. They never come anymore. I’ve heard they’re trying to sell,” I say as the main house comes into view.
“Good luck to them. Who would want to buy that monstrosity?” His feelings on ostentation have not changed with time.
We glide on, past the expansive boathouse, the docks, the crumbling firepit, the forested shoreline. For me, this landscape is loaded with nostalgia and regret, longing and guilt. Up ahead, a formidable boulder juts out into the pond. How many times did Seth and I leap from this rock together that summer? Twenty? Thirty? How many times did we plunge, synchronized, into the blue water? How many times did we pop up, breathless and wild-eyed, calling out for each other like loons?
Chapter 16
July 2015
By the time summer was in full swing, Seth and I were officially in love. Most of my friends were thrilled that I finally had a real boyfriend. The only person who seemed skeptical was Greg, and his increasing huffiness about my relationship with his cousin only made it sweeter for me.
