The Mysterious Bob Larch: Life at the Lodge, #6

By Jim Carver

In Jim Carver’s most recent volume, The Mysterious Bob Larch, Book 6 of the series, Life at the Lodge,  we experience more adventures with Pauline, Henry, and Moon. The protagonists deal with loss and are inspired by healing. Tomato-harvesting canines and berry-bombing birds add light relief. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Carver
• Release date: Mar 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988284057

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Copyright © 2017 Jim Carver

www.authorjimcarver.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-988284-05-7

Cover design by Iryna Spica

The Mysterious Bob Larch

I was helping Pauline with the dishes just after supper time in the lodge, when the phone rang. After picking up, I immediately recognised Bob Larch’s threatening whisper as he asked, Is this Henry Carpenter? We have frequent contact, so he knew full well it was me, but I desisted from telling him that I was actually an imposter trying to be exactly like Hank.

Since Bob’s sense of humour is so elusive, plus he’s so big, I tamped down my usual jocularity and answered formally: Yes, this is he. Hello Bob, how’s it going? Not one to exchange niceties, he didn’t ask about my well-being, but instead reserved a table for his wife Francine and him at Thursday night’s supper.

After the arrangements had been made, he said, Friends just told us they’d spent time at a lake near yours and raved about the area. So I thought it was time to see the place for myself.

This outpouring was positively chatty for the normally taciturn Bob, so I joined in on the gab-fest by saying cheerfully, Thursday we’re having steaks on the patio; you’ll enjoy yourselves.

Almost as though he’d decided that enough had been said, he muttered, We’ll be there at six, and hung up.

When I speak to him on the phone, I always end up hearing the rude ‘click’ with no ‘goodbye’, but I’ve learned to live with it. I don’t really have a choice; I’m afraid he’ll hurt me otherwise. As I stood irritably listening to the dial tone, Pauline called over from the sink, What did Bob want? Was he his normal happy-go-lucky kiss of sunshine? She was snickering as she rinsed off a dish and beheld my annoyed face, but she got all business-like when I told her of his supper reservation. I have an extra-large steak I can barbecue for him, she said, he’s a big boy. I’ll double up on everything else and give him his meal on a serving platter: no problem! Having worked out her plan of action so easily, Pauline turned to me as I joined her again at the sink and added, Relax! I know the guy always gives you the heebie-jeebies, but he’ll be with his wife on a social occasion and he’ll be on your turf for the first time. Looking appraisingly at my unsettled demeanour, she concluded by saying, They’ll love the patio and garden; the food’s pretty good too. It’ll be smooth sailing, so don’t worry about it.

It’s not because Bob’s a nasty guy who makes me a bit bothered: he’s just intimidating. At six foot five and four hundred pounds, he’s a presence that’s impossible to ignore. I always picture him wearing his heavy canvas apron in the small foundry he’d built in his back yard. With bare-arms like hairy tree-trunks, I can see him holding the design for a gold charm in a massive paw with a scowl of concentration on his face, while absently twirling the long curly hair of his muttonchops. I’ve never seen him smile, even in supposedly glad situations. He tends to make me feel like a nonentity; he looks right through me, like I’m blocking his sight-line to something far more interesting. Seeing that my doubtful expression was lingering, Pauline said, There must be more to him than his foundry, or just making charms, or his glass frogs. Try not being so judgemental; you never know, you could see something in him that surprises you.

Yeah sure, I said, still unconvinced. She’d put me in mind of his freakish compulsion to make frogs; some were basketball-sized unpainted glass, with different facial expressions for each. He coloured others so realistically that, along with their accurate proportions, they were impossible to tell from a living animal. Entering his small foundry always creeps me out to a degree. Shelves on the wall are filled with various-sized amphibians staring sightlessly at me, like the place is some sort of froggy mausoleum, with likenesses of bulging-eyed ancestors all around.

Interrupting my macabre musings, Pauline said, It’s beautiful out there this evening, so let’s go for a row around the lake with the dogs. After consulting my pocket-notebook and seeing I didn’t have a more pressing engagement, that’s what we did.

Suppertime at the lodge is supposed to last from 5:30 to 7 p.m., but no one ever shows up at 6:30. Everyone’s usually eaten and gone by then. I have supper around 6, after the initial rush, but Thursday at that hour I was in the parking lot with the dogs.

Greeting guests arriving for a glass of wine and a meal is not normally part of my routine, but I felt Bob would be offended if I didn’t. I lowered the tailgate of my truck in preparation to sweep out the bed, but the dogs thought we were going for a ride and jumped in. Irritated, I shooed them out, so after giving me a peeved ‘make up your mind’ look, Pooch leapt to the ground and was followed shortly by the other two. Just then they pricked up their ears and went running down the dirt road leading to the lot. Disappearing into the trees momentarily, they returned accompanying a motorbike pulling a small cart. Even though it was a big bike, the driver looked like an ox on a moped, without a helmet of course. At first I thought he was alone, but I saw legs behind his, so I cleverly deduced that he had a passenger. As he parked beside the truck and turned off his ignition, the dogs sniffed inquisitively at his feet, but he paid them no heed. Francine, who was wearing a helmet, got off the bike while she took off her head protection, then shyly smiled hello to me. Turning her attention to the trio of boisterous canines, she played with them until they were all a few paces away.

Bob hadn’t even acknowledged my presence yet as he sat on the bike holding the handgrips, like he was sifting down the highway at 70 m.p.h. The only thing I know about motorcycles is that most have two wheels that’ll speedily take you to the scene of the accident. Nonetheless, I said, Nice bike! I’d been hoping to get a peep out of him, but he only nodded slightly and kept gazing off into the distance. At least, I think that’s what he was doing, but since his shades were dark as welder’s goggles, he could’ve been having a brief snooze for all I knew. I usually leave moody people to their own devices; I walk away annoyed, but I can’t do that with Bob. Looking down at the bike in a nervous silence, with a jolt I noticed that for a rear-view mirror he was using a tiny dentist’s device with its glass only an inch in diameter. Apparently having seen my startled reaction, he took off his shades and regarded the small mirror attached to the handlebars. Squinting slightly and directing his eyes at me defensively, as though I’d been criticising him, he said, There’s no point in looking at things you’ve already gone past, right? The law says I need a rear-view mirror to be street-legal, so ….., he shrugged and commenced gazing into the distance again. Instead of getting into a discussion about the usefulness of certain motorcycle accessories, I invited them up to the patio to have a glass of wine while our steaks were being cooked.

By this time my gut started to insist on being fed by doing its impression of a drunken all-tuba band, so my elegant and formal invitation had been somewhat spoiled. Making this social faux pas seem worse, neither of them commented on my intestinal concert as Bob handed the keys to Francine and told her to get his pack out of the cart. She did so with alacrity, and grabbed it after opening the lid, then swinging the pack heavily over to him.

He was still sitting on the bike, but now he’d swivelled sideways on the seat. Extending an arm thick as a fire hydrant, he took the pack from his wife as though it was the weight of a ping-pong ball and carefully set it on the ground between his feet. I noticed there were no ‘pleases’ or ‘thank you’s’ involved in this exchange. I also caught a glimpse of a guitar case, as Francine put her helmet beside a larger one, slammed the lid shut and locked it. She held the keys out for him, but Bob was brooding while rolling the hair of a sideburn between his massive thumb and forefinger, so she dropped the keys into her jacket pocket. She was wearing a bright yellow windbreaker and blue jeans; her long brown hair was mussed from the helmet and she was so slender that she was almost skinny. Smiling apologetically at me, she mock-scoldingly said to Bob, Don’t be such a gloomy guts: we’re here to enjoy ourselves!

He’d been contemplating the pack between his feet with an unhappy and mostly unreadable expression on his face. I wanted to tell her to let him be and to stop poking at the bear, but he sighed and got up from his seat. Meeting my eye for the first time as he towered over me, he looked at me momentarily in an unfriendly way, then he bent to retrieve his pack from the ground. Like he was about to engage in an unpleasant mission he’d prefer avoiding, he said, Let’s go, and without further ado, he started walking up the path leading to the lodge.

Bob moved well for such a big man, and since his paces were twice the length of mine, Francine and I had to scramble just to stay in his wake. Feeling like a toddler trying to keep up with an adult, I asked if they’d had a pleasant trip out here. She was about to answer, but stopped abruptly and put a restraining hand on my shoulder. I narrowly missed bumping into Bob, since he’d stopped to regard the lake as it’d come into view. As I backed off to give him elbow room, he scanned left and right, then he said, Nice place, and resumed walking. Francine wanted to get cleaned up before eating, so I ushered them into the lodge for a while, then we headed to the patio at Moon’s place.

The Patio, Plus an Indignant Frog

We followed Bob as he made his way along the narrow path that wends through the bush. Even though the dirt on the trail had gotten packed down hard over the years, Bob was still leaving widely spaced and pontoon-sized tracks. I knew better than to comment on these huge depressions, because I’d learned he was rather touchy about his dimensions. Upon our first meeting, I’d innocently inquired if he’d played on the basketball team at school, and snapping an aggressive wounded look at me, he’d said, You ask only because I’m tall. Then glancing at me with supreme indifference, he’d finished the conversation by saying sulkily, Not everyone thinks that sports are so important, you know. Therefore, I try to act as if I’m totally unaware of the fact that he often has his own weather systems.

As Francine and I scurried along behind, I got glimpses of Bob