Shelter Read Free Page B

fuselages sink.
    Our remains might never be found. I looked to Mel, who would share my fate as fish food or spruce mulch, but he only grinned. I reminded myself he was very much in control of his plane, a man who, while a risk taker of his own boasting, would never, ever endanger a passenger, though he might set out to scare the crap out of one.
    I tried to cross my arms over the bulk of my vest, suspecting I wasn’t the first passenger to be hazed in such a manner. Alertwith adrenaline, everything was sharp-edged and clear. Not all that far below, I thought I could make out a loon’s floating nest.
    Gavia Immer,
the common loon, Minnesota’s mascot plastered on everything from mugs to garage door murals, embroidered on oven mitts, stuffed as plush toys, and printed on millions of lottery tickets like the one in my pocket, sure to be a winner once I’d splatted to my death. No one ever points out that the loon is possibly the most vicious state bird in the nation. It cannibalizes other waterfowl by spearing upward from the depths, its favored prey being a kabob of baby mallard. In spite of its maniacal laugh and
Redrum
-eyed, razor-beaked, devil-duck appearance, the loon is loved.
    The plane lost altitude as if greased, falling toward a copse of spruce poised to perforate small aircraft. Just when I was able to make out cones among the boughs, the plane suddenly scooped up like a fishhook, like an amusement park ride, and once again we faced seamless blue sky.
    The aerial map I’d been holding was a sweaty bouquet. I counted my breaths. Mel seemed a little disappointed I hadn’t screamed or fainted, but it did take a moment before I could gather the spit to say, “Let’s do it again!”
    He sighed and soberly reminded me we’d been airborne for more than our allotted time and were now low on fuel.
    “Low?”
I asked.
    Mel grinned. “Not
low
-low, just low.”
    With a wing-tip salute to all below, the plane veered south and away.
    The finale of our flight was a swing over the land. The Lake looked like a miniature version of all the other lakes: anothershiny claw mark, this one barely a scratch. From above, our acreage was a bumpy collection of poplar and pine. The small clearing near the shore could have been a rag dropped next to a puddle.
    From the air it was nothing special. When Mel asked if I wanted to circle it again, I shook my head. We flew west over the big populated lakes, shorelines densely dotted with cabins, some modest, but an alarming number were log mansions with chemically treated lawns spilling down to water’s edge. Over Vermilion we dipped to circle the island that belonged to my grandfather. The house was just visible through the trees. The island belongs to others now, though it still carries our family name.
    Things here are slow to change.
    We approached landing. Reflected sun under the wings made it seem we were held aloft by light. Nearing the dock where Mel won his famous bet, we disturbed a swimming beaver, hesitant to abandon the length of birch it was towing.
    “Damn rodents.” Mel leaned on a control that made the plane roar, scaring the beaver into diving under. He grinned and growled, “Take
that,
ya little bastard!”
    Our flight was over.

Three
    S am was born in 1987, just as the Internet was launching, a digital-age baby who has never dialed a rotary telephone or tuned a radio with a knob. Arching a brow in my teenage son’s direction, I realized that he likely could not climb a tree. He’s tech-savvy and result driven, with good hand-eye coordination thanks to the Nintendo I was never, ever going to allow him to have. He squints when outdoors and sneezes through hay-fever season. My own childhood was spent seemingly doing nothing yet doing quite a lot, usually involving a mud puddle or a captive insect, inventing a hundred ways to beat boredom. At Sam’s age, I was outside peeling birch bark to separate it into tissue-thin sheaves, or examining our dog’s scalp to