Water Witches

  "We move the new trail system to a different mountain, and explain our reasoning. Weone of your attorneys and his daughtersaw three catamounts, and now Powder Peak wants to do the right thing. I know it wouldn't be easy, but it would be great public relations for the resort."

  "Miranda's probably telling all of her little friends right now that she saw the animals, isn't she?"

  The power lines just outside Ian's windows sway like jump ropes in the breeze. "No. I explained to her that she should keep this a secret. For now."

  "Oh, I see. A short-term muzzle."

  I shake my head. "I'm not proud of that."

  "You've got one weird and twisted set of ethics, Scottie. That's probably why Goddard likes you so."

  "I told Miranda that until the people at Powder Peak know what we saw, she shouldn't tell anyone."

  He tilts his head back and finishes his coffee, and then looks up at Moosehead. "My grandfather founded this mountain," he says. "I know you know that. But I find it amazing. He built the son-of-a-bitch. He cut down trees himself. Can you imagine? He carried axes and saws up the mountain, and he cut down trees himself. Probably thousands of them in his life. Some of them went into this building in 1932. When my own father was only five years old."

  He takes a long tube of blueprints that is resting against the wall, and begins to bounce it distractedly against the tabletop. "My grandfather designed the first thirteen trails this resort ever had," he continues, his voice low. "Heavenly Rest. Deer Canyon. Ten-Hook Brook. He was an honest-to-God pioneer."

  "He was. You're right."

  "I'm right," he says. "I'm right. So how dare you tell me I'm taking this all wrong?"

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  "Because you are."

  "How dare you suggest we move the new trail system to a different mountain? Is it your money?"

  "This isn't about"

  "It sure as fuck is. Move the trail system to a different mountain. Which one, Scottie boy, Killington? Stratton? Sugarbush? What about Aspen? Why don't we just move the whole son-of-a-bitch system to Aspen?"

  "There are three mountains at Powder Peak."

  "Gee. I must have forgotten."

  "The resort's goal was to add new trails. Not, specifically, new trails on Republic."

  He drops the tube back onto the floor, and rolls it with his foot against the wall. "For over eight months engineers studied this place, figuring out just where the new system should go. They looked at every hill. Every tree. Every fucking animal turd they came across. And you know what?"

  "I know what you're going to say"

  "There is no other spot for this system!"

  "You're wrong. I've seen that report. You could"

  "I could have a whole new system designed, you're right, a smaller network, a less interesting one. No, Scottie, the fact is this: The area we've chosen on Mount Republic is not only the most cost-efficient spot for expansion, it's also the best. It's the best in terms of terrain, it's the best in terms of aesthetics, it's the best in terms of the skiing experience. It's that simple."

  I take a deep breath. "We're friends, as well as business associates, right?"

  "Right now, I sure as hell hope so. Because you've got a goddamn gun in your hands, and I don't think you have the slightest fucking"

  "Ian, give me a minute here."

  "No, you give me a minute," he says, his voice made almost unrecognizable by anger. "Shit, I'll buy that minute. After all, I pay you by the hour, don't I? Hell, I'll buy another goddamn hour."

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  "Would you relax?"

  "Move the new trail system. Give me a fucking break. Do you have any idea how much that would cost? Any idea?"

  "Of course I do."

  "New engineering studies, new plans, new site work. Beginning the state's hellish permit process all over again. God, those hearings, the paperwork." He pauses and looks into my eyes. "The legal fees."

  "The legal fees would be the least"

  Disgusted, he ignores me, continuing, "Not to mention the loss of time. That loss would be incalculable. Moving the system would cost us a season, one whole season. That means the new trails wouldn't be up and running until two years from now. Two years! Frankly, I don't know if Powder Peak can afford that. I don't know if Schuss would stand for it. I don't think they could stand for it."

  "The legal fees would not have to be a factor. If you were to reconsider the plan to build trails on Republic, I could certainly minimize"

  "Minimize? Do you know what this resort has paid your firm this year alone? And it's only July." He swivels his chair to face the computer on the credenza behind his desk, and starts opening different files on the screen.

  "Ian, you don't need to check that. I know exactly what Powder Peak has paid, and what it owes."

  "I'll bet you do."

  As his fingers slam into the letters on the keyboard, I stand up to leave.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To my office. I'll call you later to see if you've gotten your sanity back."

  "I'll have the payables up in just a minute."

  I salute him sarcastically from his door, but he doesn't look back from his computer.

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  21

  You're an optimist," I tell Laura Tuesday afternoon, as she enters my office. She is holding an umbrella, a bright blue and orange golf umbrella that is wide enough to shelter Laura, Miranda, and me together when it is open.

  "No, it's going to rain today," she says, her voice light.

  "I didn't know you were coming into Montpelier this afternoon."

  She holds up a bank deposit slip for the Divine Lights of Vermont with at least a half-dozen checks paper-clipped behind it. "I wasn't. But these came in the mail, and I figured I'd go by the bank."

  "Good figuring."

  "How did things go this morning?" she asks.

  "Bad. They probably couldn't have gone worse."

  "What do you think they'll do?"

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  ''I don't know."

  "Well, they can't build the new trails on Mount Republic now. Do they understand that?"

  "I hope so. But I doubt it."

  "Do they understand you won't help them if they do?"

  I pause, thinking about her question. "I understand no such thing. Why should they?"

  "Scottie!"

  "Laura, please. Let's not discuss this now."

  "I didn't think there was anything we needed to discuss. I can't imagine there's anything more you need to say to Miranda," she then adds, a reference to the fact I have asked our daughter to keep the catamounts a secret. For now.

  "There isn't."

  She nods, and begins to chew one of her nails. She had had this habit when we were in college, but she had stopped before Miranda was born. I noticed the habit had returned on Saturday, the day Patience first asked if we would allow our daughter to dowse a grave site. We were getting into bed that evening, and I noticed Laura gnawing at one of her nails. At the time, I attributed it primarily to the stress from Elias's death, and the fact the funeral was the next day. Patience's request of our daughter, I assumed, was in actuality merely the catalyst.

  "Patience called this morning," she continues, removing her pinky from her mouth to speak. "She wanted Miranda. Again."

  It was late Sunday afternoon, when I finally had a chance to tell Laura in detail about my encounter with Patience in the cemetery, that I realized her sudden nail-biting had more to do with Miranda than with Elias.

  I try to smile. I hope we're through arguing. "What now?"

  "The Mitchells need a new well drilled. And they asked Patience to dowse the spot."

  "And?"

  "And Patience wanted Miranda to do it."

  I sit back against the window sill, and look out at the gold dome of the statehouse. The dome shines when it's sunny, it

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  glistens when it rains. On a day like today, the sky a flat sheet of gray, it looks dull, as if the
gold came from crayons.

  "You know, I really do think the world's losing its mind this summer," I tell Laura. "I really do. Saturday I only figured it was Patience. And this morning I only figured it was Ian. But you know something? It's probably everybody."

  She shrugs. "As you said yourself, maybe it's the heat."

  "Maybe." The Governor and two younger assistants start across the statehouse lawn. "What was Patience's reason this time?"

  "For wanting Miranda?"

  "Right. For wanting Miranda."

  "She doesn't feel well. She said she feels out of sorts from the funeral. She feels out of sync."

  "Can't dowse when you're out of sync, huh?"

  "Nope."

  "Can't you do it?"

  "I said I'd be happy to."

  "But Patience wants her niece."

  "She thinks it's time," Laura says, abruptly ripping a cuticle off her thumb with her teeth.

  "It's time?"

  "Time to start allowing Miranda to use her talents. Regularly. She thinks the Mitchells' well would be a real confidence-builder."

  "What did you say?"

  "I said fine." She laughs, one small, nervous chuckle. "I don't mind her dowsing for water, you know that."

  "Is she with Patience now?"

  "Yes. They left about an hour ago. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I do. I wish we had talked about it first."

  "I'm not letting Miranda accept any money," Laura explains. "As far as she's concerned, she should be honored that she's even allowed to do this."

  "I'm sure she is."

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  "You sound angry."

  "I know I do. And I know I shouldn't be. It isn't that big a deal."

  "Right. She's dowsing a well. That's all."

  There is a small smudge of blood along Laura's thumb.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "If none of this is a big deal, how come you're tearing apart your nails and fingers?"

  She wraps a piece of tissue around her thumb, and raises her eyebrows in mock innocence. "This?"

  "That."

  She looks up at the ceiling, and then down at the carpet. Reedy left a permanent stain there earlier this summer when he dragged his feet across it.

  "It's not the dowsing itself," she begins slowly. "On one level, it wasn't even the dowsing at Elias's grave that upset me."

  "That was pretty weird."

  "I agree. And I'm still very angry at Patience for what she did. But ... but it's not just the dowsing. It's what the dowsing means," she says, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

  "Patience will never come between you and Miranda. You know that," I reassure Laura.

  "Probably."

  "Is there more to it?"

  "I think so. I think it's the idea that our little girl's growing up," she says, finally meeting my eyes. "That's what this dowsing is all about. Miranda's growing up, and that's very sad for me. I didn't think it would be, but it is. Miranda's growing up."

  Outside a raindrop blows against the window pane, and then one falls onto the windshield of the car parked on the street below my office. Within seconds the rain begins in earnest.

  "See?" Laura says, forcing a grin onto a face thatlike mineis about to turn forty. "I told you it would rain."

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  If the summer is wet, a good rain in July can turn our dirt driveway into a river of mud that will suck tires down into it, and yank cars with rear wheel drive into the grass on either side.

  In this summer, one of the driest on record, today's rain must have bounced off the rock-hard ground and run off into the grass, because our driveway Tuesday night is as firm as ever. It looks and feels under the truck's wheels as if, in fact, it never rained.

  Reedy's beaten-up Volvo is parked between the barn and our house. As I coast to a stop beside it I can see Reedy, Patience, and Laura just inside the barn, leaning against the cartons Laura plans on shipping tomorrow. There is a transparent rainbow off to the west, a welcome sight any summer but this one. Today's rain may have kept some of the county's lower wells in business for another few days or even a week, but it will not have a significant impact on the drought. For that we would need days and days of steady rain.

  Patience is holding in her hands four candles from the Divine Lights of Vermont, blue with a white ribbon around them.

  "You made it home early," Laura says, glancing at her watch. "It's not even five o'clock."

  I squeeze her shoulders as she automatically offers me her cheek to kissa habit of marriage. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day," I tell her. "I figured I'd get out of there while I could." I turn to my sister-in-law and Reedy. "Evening, Reedy, evening Patience. What brings you two by?"

  Although Reedy and I have seen each other twice since I stormed out of the restaurant last Thursday, once at Patience's house Friday morning and again at Elias's funeral on Sunday, it is clear to us both that the wounds from that fight have not really healed. We may have said we were sorry as we stood together on Patience's porch, but my apology, at least, was insincere. The fact is I wasn't sorry, and I only feigned civility for the benefit of Laura and Patience and their mother.

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  If there was any doubt that my anger had not diminished, two days later I consciously and completely ignored Reedy at Elias's funeral. We saw each other, but I made sure that our eyes never met.

  Patience holds up the candles for me. "We're having dinner at the Atwoods. Hostess gift."

  "How's life up at the mountain?" Reedy asks me.

  "Couldn't be better."

  "Your daughter dowsed her first well today," Patience says, aware of the awkward tension between her fiance and me.

  "So I gather."

  Patience shakes her head. "I can tell, you are just bursting with pride," she says sarcastically.

  "I'm very proud of her."

  "Three hundred and nineteen feet, seven gallons per minute," Reedy adds, forcing a smile as he speaks. "Patience told me the details."

  "Where is she now?"

  "With Mindy Woolf," Laura says. "She should be home any minute."

  Reedy runs two fingers over the coarse grain of the wood on the barn door. "You got a minute?" he asks me.

  I shrug. "Sure." For a brief second it crosses my mind that he knows about the catamounts, that Miranda may have slipped and told her aunt about the animals while up at the Mitchells. But the thought almost instantly passes. If Miranda had slippedan absolutely understandable and forgivable transgressionReedy would be far less pleasant and agreeable.