He wrapped himself in my blue towel.
“Want to see the boathouse?” asked Ryan. He led Dylan inside where he showed him our old green waterlogged Chestnut canoe slung up in the rafters and the aluminum boat we used for fishing. Ryan was nine and didn’t care or know who this skinny visitor was.
“Sounds good,” Dylan said, using his hand to close one nostril as he blew out the other one to clear his sinuses. Then we all climbed the eighty-seven wooden trestle-ties up to the cottage, where Paul was waiting for us with the map spread out on the kitchen table.
“Okay, now, Bob, you’re here,” Paul said, pointing to Sturgeon Lake, a liver-shaped body of water northeast of Huntsville, “and Kashagawigamog is quite a ways over there.” Kash was closer to Bancroft. “Guess I kinda overshot it,” Dylan mumbled. “Nice ride up, though.”
I was staring into the fridge without being able to see anything. “Can I offer you something, Bob? Orange juice? A nice Stoli with some lemonade? We have cold beer, of course. Canadian beer.”
“Sure, that all sounds good. ‘Give it to me in a cup,’ he sang, ‘and let the queen dance with the jack.’” He was studying the map, circling some of the names that tickled him. “ArNPRior,” he murmured with a faint lift of the moustache. “Madoc. Irondale.”
After some dithering, I mixed him a Red Needle – tequila,slice of lemon, and cranberry juice with lots of ice – and opened a couple of Coronas for us. Dylan downed his drink and fingered peanuts from a dish. “Madawaska,” he said, then underlined the name with a felt pen. Meanwhile Paul was standing in front of our CD collection, sweating over what to play for Bob Dylan.
“Sally, where’s that klezmer collection...”
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