Lapping Lake Water




Greta searched her pockets while driving north on 371 towards Pequot Lakes. She pulled out a limp tissue and dabbed her eyes, hoping the tears hadn’t ruined her mascara.
They’d never hire her if she looked like a wreck.
She strained her neck, caught a glimpse of bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror. Brown hair frizzed in the humidity. She didn’t look old enough to be a teacher. And although she carried her diploma from Iowa University, she didn’t feel smart enough either. She was making a big mistake.
Greta rounded Gull Lake and saw teenagers playing basketball in front of a gray rambler overlooking the water. The boys ignored the panorama of white seagulls and sailboats on the royal blue water. Not a care in the world.
Iowa farm boys worked all summer making hay, chopping corn, and walking the beans. Whatever would she have in common with kids from the Lake Country whose only summer task was enjoyment?
Greta sighed. Tears dripped again.

She didn’t belong here. She belonged in Iowa with Robert. Before graduation, she had hoped for a teaching job in Iowa City—at least until Robert finished his MFA in Creative Writing. She reached for the wadded tissue.
Years ago, her grandparents owned a resort on East Twin Lake. They craved a life of leisure in the midst of lakes and pines after retiring from their Iowa hog farm. Greta had visited them during the hottest days of summer, when Iowa corn grew noisily in never ending fields.
She was only seven years old when they were killed in a car accident. Memories muddled together in her mind: mosquito bites, swinging beds in the porch, calling loons.
Memories were enough to make her answer an ad for a seventh grade English teacher in Pequot Lakes after Robert dumped her for that blonde poet from Des Moines.
The thought of Robert fawning over those terrible poems, all singsong and sentiment, spilled more tears.
She fought to get a grip on herself. She would go to the interview, do her best, accept rejection with grace, and return to Iowa City. Maybe Robert was tired of Mashonna’s poetry.
Greta stopped at Schaefer’s Market, washed her face in the restroom and dug through her purse for mascara and lipstick.
“Greta Jacobs.” She forced a smile. The girl in the mirror looked a little better. “You will make a good impression and try to get this job.”
At least she would make an effort.
Pequot Lakes was busier than she remembered. She stopped at the lone stoplight and glanced at the bobber water tower before examining the mural on the side of the post office. A green Cadillac boasted a BEAN HOLE DAYS sticker. Little shops lined the crowded streets.
She promised herself a cappuccino afterwards.
Surprisingly, the interview with the superintendent went well. Mr. Peterson, an Iowa alumnus, asked about the Hawkeye’s basketball record and Herky the Hawk. To her relief, Greta remembered their win over the Gophers.
“You’re our final interview.” Mr. Peterson shook her hand. “We’ll make our decision today and notify applicants tomorrow.” He walked her out to the parking lot. “Any school would be lucky to have you.”
Her throat swelled. It would have been a nice place to work.
Greta sipped a cappuccino at Lakes Latte. Somehow, returning home was too bleak to consider. She daydreamed about renting a lake cabin. She would swim every day and catch up on her reading.
Greta drove south on 371 and found the driveway to Green Gate Resort. Memories flooded her mind: her grandfather’s laugh, her grandmother’s sponge cake, and the way she smelled like roses.
A woman’s voice startled her. “May I help you?”
It took a moment for Greta to realize that she was sitting in her car just staring at the lake. The woman wore shorts and a blue chambray shirt. A lanky teenaged boy in shorts stood behind her.

“Excuse me.” Greta smoothed her hair and felt it even curlier than before. “My grandparents once owned this resort.”
“Elmer and Eileen Jacobs?” She reached for Greta’s hand through the open window, silver loons dangling from her ears. “I’m Deb Grottson. This is Link.”
“I’m Greta.” She pushed the car door open.
“Link, call your dad.” She motioned to a swing under a shady oak and Greta took a seat. “It must be fifteen years since we last saw you.”
“You remember me?”
“Of course. You went to Vacation Bible School with my little brother one summer.” Deb reached down and pulled a wayward dandelion out of the grass. “Remember? At the Methodist Church.”
Greta remembered. The boy, she thought his name was Danny, made fun of her new sandals. Said they were sissy shoes.
“Tom and I worked at the resort when we were teenagers and later as newlyweds. We bought the place after the accident.”
“You knew my grandparents?”
“Very well. And we knew all about their wonderful grandkids.”
A middle-aged man hurried to the yard and set a bucket of crappies in the shade of a pine tree. “Greta.” He wiped his hands and stuck his right one forward. “You look just like your baby pictures. I’m Tom. And these are our boys, Jordan and Tommy.”
Greta nodded as her mind swirled.
“What brings you to Pequot?” Deb said.
“Just visiting.” It was too embarrassing to mention the interview.
“Perfect timing,” Tom said. “We’ve had a cancellation. You can stay as our guest.”
“I couldn’t impose.” Greta felt close to tears. She had a sudden vision of Robert reading Mashonna’s poetry by moonlight.
“We insist.” Tom handed the pail of crappies to Link. “We’ll have a fish fry.”
The cabin felt familiar. Everything was plain, homey and squeaky clean. Greta changed into shorts and a T-shirt and breathed a prayer of thanks that she had thought to bring her overnight bag.
Over a meal of fried fish and canned beans, they reminisced about Elmer and Eileen.
“Elmer carried that red handkerchief around with him wherever he went,” Tom said with a chuckle. “Used it to bandage wounds, dust window sills, and anything else.”
“And Eileen made the best rhubarb pie,” Deb said.
“How did you happen to work here?” Greta said.
“All the local kids work at resorts. They start yard work even before school is out in the spring. During the summer everyone works as much as they can until the season is over.”
“But I saw kids playing basketball by Gull Lake….”
“Tourists.” Deb laughed. “Resort work is like farming, your grandpa always said. Daylight to sundown, seven days a week.”
“And your kids attend Pequot School?”
“Yeah, like we did.” Tom plopped another fillet on Greta’s plate. “Best around.”
“My brother teaches at the high school and works here during the summers,” Deb said.
“When he gets in with the pontoon, we’ll take a ride around the lake.” Tom said. “You can’t leave without getting out on the water.”
She vaguely recognized Dan when he brought the pontoon in off the lake and picked them up for an evening ride. He was as browned as any of the farmers back home and when he took off his baseball cap to swat a mosquito, he wore a tan line just like her father. He didn’t say anything about her shoes. And he didn’t wear a wedding band.
When they neared the end of their ride, Dan stopped the motor. They listened to croaking frogs, calling loons, and the lapping waves against the boat. The moon stretched its headlight across the water. Greta’s heart caught in her throat.
Dan’s baritone voice spoke quietly, accompanied by a symphony of crickets.
“I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
“Yeats,” Dan and Greta spoke together.
“The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” Dan said.
It was one of her favorites, reminding her of this place.
“You’re a poet,” Greta said.
“Not exactly,” Dan said with a laugh. “But I teach poetry.”
“You’re an English teacher?” Greta felt a small skip of her heart.
“Afraid so, but I have to admit I don’t like most poetry.”
“You don’t?”
“Can’t stand anything sappy or sentimental.”
That night Greta went to sleep with a fervent prayer that she not only get the teaching job in Pequot Lakes but also that she would find a rental place on a lake. Her life stretched before her like the moonbeam on the water. She wouldn’t go back to Iowa, not even if Robert begged her to come back.
If she didn’t get the Pequot job, she would keep searching. Maybe Pine River had a vacancy, or Crosby, or Pillager. Surely students deserved to learn the difference between good poetry and sentimental verse.
She would not waste her time on a man who liked bad poetry.