…“the deed. Not until it’s done.”
The man’s name was Walt Ferris. He had been my father’s fishing partner for thirty years, back when we still spent summers at the lake house in Michigan. I hadn’t seen him since I was a child, and I hadn’t been to the lake house in almost as long.
My brother Kevin had. Over the past two years, he had been the one driving Dad to doctor’s appointments, managing his bills, and, as it turned out, talking to a real estate developer about the lake house.
I drove up the next morning without telling anyone.
The house was smaller than I remembered, and it smelled like pine and damp wood. The brass key Walt had given me opened a metal tackle box under the bottom bunk in the room I used to share with Kevin. Inside were three things: a photograph of me at seven, holding a fish almost as big as my arm; a folded piece of notebook paper; and an envelope from a law office.
The notebook paper was in my handwriting, all crooked capital letters. It said: DAD PROMISES TO NEVER SELL THE LAKE HOUSE SO WE CAN ALWAYS COME BACK. Underneath was my father’s signature and mine, plus a smudged thumbprint in what I’m fairly sure was grape jelly.
I had completely forgotten it. That summer, my parents had been talking about divorce, and I’d been terrified that everything was about to disappear. I made Dad sign a contract. Apparently, he took it seriously.
The envelope held the deed. In 1998, my father had put the lake house into a trust, with me and Kevin as equal beneficiaries. It could not be sold unless we both agreed.
Walt had been afraid that Kevin would get here first and find a way around it. He had heard Kevin talking to the developer at the hospital.
I sat on the dock for a long time. Then I called my brother.
I told him everything: the key, the contract, the trust. I didn’t hide the deed. I was tired of our family keeping secrets from each other.
Kevin was quiet for so long I thought the call had dropped. Then he said, “I didn’t want to sell it because of the money. I wanted to sell it because every time I went up there, I couldn’t breathe. I was the one who sat with him while he got sicker. You got to remember the good summers. I just remembered the last ones.”
I hadn’t thought about it like that. I had been three states away while Kevin carried everything.
He drove up that weekend. We cleaned out the house together, laughing and arguing over who had carved what into the bunk bed. We found Dad’s old tackle and took his boat out at sunset and didn’t catch a single fish.
We’re keeping the lake house. Kevin is building a new dock this summer. I’m paying for half and doing the painting. Walt comes by on Sundays to supervise and tell us we’re doing it wrong.
I framed the contract and hung it by the front door. Grape jelly and all.
