Layla and the Lake

By Marcia D. Ross

Layla, an aspiring poet and third string editor in Boston, brings her two children to visit her former in-laws at a lakeside cottage in rural Maine. There she is greeted with wariness, and there she discovers love and trouble across the water.
Set in the early 1980s, with interludes glimpsing the past, Layla and the Lake releases vivid emotional scenes from both the United States and Canada into an idyllic but tense setting.  Gradually, a labyrinth of faulty ethics, expectations, and boundaries is revealed as Layla struggles to mend her messy life and protect her children's future. The story exposes the harsh fallout from a failed marriage and a quest for writing with courage in the midst of a doomed affair that itself takes place amid a family crisis. 
Layla and the Lake is the story of a family that is no longer a family. Its narrative mines the riches of the written word, the awakening of conscience in even the very young, and the inexplicable beauty of natural existence. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pelekinesis
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781949790016

Book preview

Prologue

The lake at this time of year had acquired an experienced, almost tired look. At least the heavy trees and dense dark brush that surrounded it gave that impression. But the water, spread as it was like a cool meditation in the Maine forest, was never tired but ceaselessly changing and continually refreshed from the silent springs and trickling streams that fed it.

Year after year the lake agreed with the progress of spring to summer to fall. Even in winter when its surface froze deep and drifted with snow, metallic claps rang out as the lake’s inner life heaved beneath the ice, causing rifts, deep traveling cracks. At its edges came tinkling sounds from shattered ice sloshing in the black margin of water where the frozen plates had crushed against the shore and drifted out again.

But the season now was summer, late summer, and today the water was gleaming and still, both welcoming and indifferent to the arrival of a visitor who had been there before.

PART I

Arrival

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Chapter 1

The New Order

This was Layla’s third visit to the lake, in what she had come to think of as The New Order. At one time she had been a real part of the family, when trips to the lake were considered homecomings; now she was in the incongruous position of intruder, pilgrim, and deliverer of precious cargo.

Her desire to belong again was, if not fully conscious, deeper than ever.

Somehow, just as last time, she got her car hung up on one of the rocks bulging from the lane that wound down through the woods to the Hunt’s property. This time a hole was torn in the muffler, and the little Datsun, injured and listing, noisily announced their arrival. Out piled her two children and the dog. The kids hurried to greet their grandparents at the bottom of the drive, but the dog, ecstatic at being freed from the car, scrambled after them for a mere few yards before lunging off into the woods.

Layla cut the engine and sat behind the wheel, observing the exodus. Stunned at her misfortune, she calculated the immediate future: Bernard would have to get out his Land Rover and hook up the winch to hoist the car off the rock; there would be comments at dinner, jibes to defray criticism and lingering disappointments; there would be the loud trip into town tomorrow to plead help from the taciturn mechanic. And there would be the bill, oh yes.

Down below, already turning away from her toward the lake, toward their large and handsome cottage, Bernard and Linda were gesturing for her to come along. They set off after the children and disappeared through ferns and trees on a path down to the water. Layla knew the path well. She soon caught up.

* * *

Bernard had built a new dock at the water’s edge for the canoes. Long and narrow, nearly level with the lake and painted a glossy marine grey, it was much admired. The party rambled on to the boards, full of such garrulous banalities as often mark family reunions: Oh gosh, this weather—so hot! The children have certainly grown. Yes, excellent roads, that’s a good point. You look very well, too. Mimon’s hair! Typical redhead, no? Beautiful workmanship, Mr. Hunt. You may call me Bernie, dear, as you always used to. Mommy I see a frog! Well, you realize, it was John who drew up the plan. John knew exactly–Mom, can I go swimming? But, just look at that Frankie, just like his father! So handsome! Mind where you step, Mim....That old row boat’s gone, gone, gone.

As they assembled at the end of the dock, Layla’s dog came bounding out of the woods, a bungling embodiment of yellow rapture. The dog did not stop when she reached the shore, didn’t slacken her pace, but tore down the dock and off the end as if the lake were a shiny extension of land. For a half-second she peddled the air, then dropped into the lake, kersplash, and sank. There was a collective gasp and everyone crowded at the end of the dock to peer into the water. The bottom muck roiled into clouds of brownish, glittering particles, and the dog rose in slow motion, her golden ears languid and her frightened eyes showing their whites. She surfaced choking and swam frantically to the side of the dock where she struggled without success to climb up. Buff, said Layla softly, reaching out to help. But after twice falling back, the dog began to swim away, coughing and snorting. Now Mimon began to wail, and clutched at her brother who chucked her away. Frankie strode to shore, calling sternly, "Buffie. Buff! Come, girl. Come here! As the dog was again rounding the end of the dock Frankie began to wade out in great sloshing steps, still calling. Mother!" he shouted. There was panic in his voice.

Trapped behind the others, Layla was unable to act at once. Mim was clinging to her grandmother’s leg and thrashing around in confusion, but Linda in particular was blocking the way, gesturing insensibly and shrieking instructions to Bernard as he attempted to unfasten a rope from one of the canoes. Reach over and grab him! Linda cried. He’s coming your way!

He’s a she, dear.

Well, oh never mind. Grab it.

Frankie called out, MOTHER! He sounded enraged.

But the situation required neither special gear nor advice. Someone shifted, and Layla squeezed through an opening, kicked off her flats, and slipped down into the water. Here we go, baby, she said, and the dog began to swim toward her. In seconds she had a finger under the collar.

Once safely on shore, Buffie stood splay-legged with her head miserably down, streaming with water. When she shook, a shiver traveled the length of her body, and seemed almost to lift her off her feet. Great whirls of spray spun off her coat, soaking Layla and Frankie. Everyone laughed but Frankie. They laughed some more as the dog stood, bedraggled and puzzled, weakly wagging her tail. Layla laughed too, in relief that the Hunts found amusement in this mishap, and that the awkwardness of her arrival had been detoured into this little commotion. But she guessed a betrayal for Frankie. He had not saved his dog; the dog had not even listened to him, and now everyone was laughing.

Chapter 2

You just have to eat it

After the children had swum and Frankie’s spirits were restored and the Datsun prized off the rock and luggage hauled in and carried up to the loft, came dinner. Then it was less easy for Layla to participate in the general levity that persisted; the jolly atmosphere felt forced, and she was tired. Thankfully, there were only one or two wisecracks about the car, but canine jokes proliferated. One about a dog breaking the ice was repeated twice by Bernard as if it actually made sense. The children’s grandfather often spoke with an exaggerated expression of surprise, to which his fleshy, elastic face and round blue eyes lent themselves. Layla knew he was like that, had always been that way, a maker of strained puns with no gift for understatement but at least a boyish penchant for fun. And the children were up for it. Secure in the affection and attention of their grandparents, they were happy in the moment and expectant of tomorrow. Frankie was emboldened to make one or two attempts at clever comments himself, and when Bernard guffawed he shifted his shoulders to try to hide his pleasure. Mim chattered away in her own world, making her broccoli stand up like a tree that talked to the prostrate chicken on her plate.

Layla cut up some of her daughter’s food and urged her to try a bite.

But I don’t want it, Mommy. I’m not hungry.

Layla closed her eyes. This would be Linda’s cue.

Sure enough, Linda, who had been cheerfully passing dishes of food, offering second helpings and pshawing tolerantly at her husband’s wisecracks, set down the salad bowl with a certain emphasis and heaved herself up from the table. If your father were here, Mimon, you’d eat your dinner all right, she said. Do you know what your father would say? She fixed her bright eyes on her grandchild. (Mim looked down at her plate, defeated but stubborn.) He’d say, and here Linda paused for effect. ‘You don’t have to like it. You just have to eat it!’"

Bernard and Frankie hooted with glee, for Linda Hunt had quoted one of her son’s sayings with just the right emphasis. She then hurried into the kitchen and called out, as Layla knew she would, a quick amendment: We won’t make you eat your dinner tonight, Mim. You’re too excited. But, really, Layla, you ought to have more authority with these children. After all, they don’t have their father now. In a moment she appeared again. Now. Who’s having pie? Who’s ready for dessert?

This was how it was with Linda. Even back in the beginning, back in the Old Order, when she and John were first married and sometimes joined his parents at the aged rental across the lake, Linda had issued edicts and buried her opinions in a jovial barrage of questions, assertions, allurements. It had irked Layla, because it was a silencing; a topic was opened and immediately slammed shut. But now there was something comforting, or at least reassuring, in the predictability of Linda’s and Bernard’s most trenchant habits—especially Linda’s, for Layla was a little afraid of her.

I have a father, Mim said.

Of course you do! cried Linda. That’s not what I meant, darling. No, no, no, I meant your daddy lives so far away and you don’t get to see him very often. She placed the pie before her husband. You have a wonderful father, darling. Doesn’t she, dear?

Mm-mm! Blueberry. Bernard rubbed his palms together theatrically. His eyes had widened to take in the blue-black syrup that had bubbled over at the slits in the crust.

Mim brightened. I’ve been to British Golumbria, she said. I went all the way to the river on a path through the jungle and there was a great big gigantic plant with prickers and mushrooms that can kill you, and wild animals. We almost saw a bear. And my dad built me a treehouse.

Me a treehouse, Frankie corrected. He built it for me.

Well, it’s mine, too. Dad said.

Oh, sure.

Linda raised a finger. "’Built a treehouse for me,’ is how you say it, Frankie. Really, I’m surprised you let them fly all that way by themselves, Layla. It’s risky. Of course, Frankie is a big boy—"

Grandmom, I’m practically a teenager. I told you before.

Well, all right, never mind; you got there all right. Now! Ice cream with your pie?

In a lower tone, to Layla, she said, John says they are so sweet, really so sweet with the baby. His wife—use your napkin, Frankie—his wife is such a sensible girl. Janet was a nurse, you know.

Yes.

Well, it’s risky to put them on a plane, Linda added. Janet prefers to err on the side of safety.

But Linda, ventured Layla, the kids have been making the trip on their own for thretwoe years now. Well, Frankie has. You know the airlines have a chaperone service. It’s very good. Air Canada is very good, really. Honestly, they’re really very good about children. She knew it was a mistake to argue with Linda, that she was lamely repeating herself, scrambling for approval. For, as much she wanted to be perceived as a good mother, and despite her altered—degraded—status in the family, what she craved (and this registered not entirely consciously but as an unexamined and therefore dangerous desire) was absolution, forgetfulness: that despite her crime she could simply belong with them again, and with the lake, as they did and the children did. That was why she had returned this time, and last summer, and even on that first disastrous visit after the breakup. What she told herself, however (with the advantage of its being strictly true), was that the Hunts would have disapproved if she’d sent the children up to Maine on a bus from Boston, that her efforts to maintain cordial relations were for the sake of peace, and for the children.

Well, as I said, never mind, was Linda’s answer. If it suits John, it’s none of my concern. Oh, look, Bern. Through the window a dot of yellow light could be seen moving slowly along in the dark. There was the faintest reflection of it on the water. There goes that August fellow in his boat.

Mm.

I guess he’s back again. All alone like that.

Maybe he likes to be alone, dear.

I suppose. Linda said.

When her husband made no further comment, she turned to Layla. How’s the coffee? Is it strong enough for you? What’s this about a new job? Oh! You shouldn’t drink coffee, Frankie! It’ll stunt your growth. Do you let him drink coffee, Layla? Gracious, what next? We couldn’t believe you left your teaching position.

Well, um—

Always something new with you, I guess. Always something better! Linda put it brightly, but, although the suggestion of blame was unmistakable, Layla saw that there was a sadness in her face. And that was new—sadness. Something must be slipping. John’s mother didn’t approve of vulnerabilities.

Frankie gazed at his mother with besotted admiration. She makes books, he said.

Books! Bernard pounced on the new subject. That’s something, isn’t it, dear!

Surely Bernard was fearful of his wife saying something more, something about Layla’s behavior, about her conduct since the divorce. For, thanks to Mim, it was known that Layla had taken lovers. There had been but two, but Mim’s revelations, blurted out at an almost identical dinner scene in the former visit (My Mom’s new boyfriend is a perfesser. He took us ice-skating. He has whiskers!) indicated serial affairs, and were pointless to deny. Still, for Layla, anguishing as the exposure was, the liaisons with these men had been worse; they’d left her feeling tarnished, hungry, unreal and empty. While the Hunts no doubt assumed such carryings-on were a matter of course with her, and that she reveled in scandal, Layla had in fact turned away from the company of men two years ago, and entered a solitude that suited her now. But how could they know this? How could she have mentioned it? She felt thus grateful for Bernard’s little save.

They’re not really books. Layla waved at a gnat.

Well, what are they? asked Linda.

They’re pieces. In a book. About literature. You know, great writers.

Bernard wanted clarification. You write books? Or about books? Or in books, ha ha.

Layla smiled. I don’t write books. I only make study guides. And sometimes I write sort of background sections for British textbooks. British writers. It’s a small division in a corporation. We’re a small press.

Background sections. Bernard repeated, dubiously. Mim asked to be excused. Her face was blotchy, and she looked tired. Layla could see that Bernard and Linda were bored. Recklessly, she went on. I also write rejection letters.

Their eyes awakened.

People submit manuscripts for consideration and I have to reject them, she explained.

"You just reject the books?" Bernard sounded upset.

No, no! I have to look at them first, read them. Mostly articles, you know. I mean, we give them consideration. Then if I see something promising, in our specialty area, I hand it up the line. Otherwise, you’re right, though, Bernie: it’s usually just—’Sorry!’

So you write these letters.

Yes.

And what do you say?

Oh Lord, said Linda. What difference does it make, Bern? Really.

It’s not like they’re... what’s-his-name, that Russian, said Bernard.

Dostoyevsky?

No, the other one.

Layla burst out laughing. Exactly.

There was a lull. What is your specialty, Layla? Linda asked politely.

Mine? Or do you mean the pub—

Well, I don’t know what I mean. I mean specialty.

Sometimes I’m not sure, either. It’s all British. You know, the old decrepit English poets and some modern drama. A few novels.

Tut-tut! This from Bernard.

"But I misspoke. There’s also some European literature, in translation. We’ve done a small set of Chekhov stories, and a play by Lorca, and, oh, oh yes, some Goethe. I mean, they’ve done them. My boss. My own work is a bit offbeat because it’s—"

Like that Frenchman? Camus... Cocteau... Colette? Bernard fished for the name, as though to retrieve a long forgotten acquaintance. A dedicated chemist, handyman, and swimmer, he read mainly science journals and The New York Times. He was addicted to the pursuit of formulas and small solutions, and to swimming. He did the breaststroke across the lake and back everyday. His own book, a chemistry text, had been adopted by the state of New Jersey for their public high school curriculum. The best of all possible worlds? he suggested.

I’m afraid that would eliminate Camus, said Layla, sportingly. But no, our books are not so daring.

We had to read those Frogs at Swarthmore. Most boring part of my education. Nonsense. Like a bad dream.

Well, like I said, rejoined Linda. We were disappointed to hear you’d given up teaching. Finally a decent job and—poof!

But the pay, protested Layla. I had to consider that.

Linda nodded. Bernard was nodding too.

Plus, it’s very competitive.

Teaching? Don’t be silly. Linda stacked Bernard’s empty cup with her own, and began to gather the coffee spoons.

No, no. Publishing. Publishing is competitive. I’m sorry, I’m mixing things up. Flustered, she plunged ahead, "I—we have a new competitor. That is, I mean, we are the new competitor, now that we’re doing Milton and some modern plays. And we’re doing something new that might interest you, Bernie: illustrations for a small collection of Thomas Hardy poems. He was an architect, did you know?"

Didn’t know that. Bernie was on the verge of another yawn.

His own house was kind of squat and homely. The opposite of his poems.

They were silent. She went on. Not like this place. You have such fine lines and high spaces, and light. And the view.

Linda said, John did the design.

He is talented, for sure. I wonder, do you remember how we got going on Whitman that summer, Linda? At the old cottage?

No.

Oh, I—I thought you would.

Well, I remember you reciting that ghastly bit about ‘Death death death.’ At Christmas, of all times! Was that Walt Whitman? Or was it that other fellow you liked? ‘Do not go into that gentle night.’ Was that it?

No, the death stuff was Whitman.

You were like a poor player upon a stage, struggling to and fro, said Linda.

Oh, dear.

Now Linda was doing something peculiar with her lips, as if she were trying to get them into a new formation. Layla wished she’d not tried to explain the meaning of her work (always a mistake with the literal minded or the devout)and she especially regretted having said, we have a new competitor. She may as well have said, I’ve a new man in my life, and his name is Macbeth. Maybe she could just bang her forehead on this thick table a few times? Already she’d begun to boast, and about what? Producing cheap college study guides? As if study guides didn’t have cheating written all over them? Why not just say, I help students plagiarize. She regretted, too, having told them on her previous stay of a university post when in fact she’d managed only to sustain a sequence of part time adjunct lecturer appointments, three years running. How the slightest conceit unfailingly failed her! It did not seem possible to get away from this theme of deception. And now the deep self-consciousness which she felt—the scrutiny to which her smallest remark seemed to subject itself—threatened to wipe out the dubious success of the previous visit, set it back to nothing, put her on notice. At once, the throbbing of the crickets outside, beautiful as it was, began to make her feel light-headed. The humid night, the crowded table, the smell of sweet hot blueberries, the pulsing crickets, the tangled talk, combined to suffocate.

It felt familiar, though. It was like the rain that had trapped them all indoors for days on her first visit after the breakup with John. This was back in the old cottage—gone now, torn down or fallen down and overgrown with weeds and brambles. She counted back. It was six, yes, almost six years ago.

They had stayed one night and Layla had thought never to come again.

Chapter 3

It was herself

Yet she had come again.

Geography, happenstance, and the passage of time agreed to temper the failure of that initial return, and at last led to conditions where Layla was wanted, or at least useful. After the divorce, John had remained out west and soon remarried, while Layla settled on the east coast with the children. Meantime, the Hunts purchased a large parcel of land across the lake from the beloved old cottage. John came out to design and help build this larger place with its spacious, sunny rooms and pine floors—a house unpretentiously but expensively furnished, and suitable for the accommodation of guests. Invitations were extended, and accepted. Voila, the New Order.

To this altered state of affairs, Layla had returned three summers ago, an altered woman. Or so she’d conceived at the time. Her teaching assignments were active then, recompensing her offended pride at having been fired from Harvard University Press for too many typos (that is, one typo). Having given up smoking cigarettes, her self-satisfaction was such that, upon accepting the Hunt’s invitation, she’d arrived for the second visit in a somewhat smug state of mind. It was true that the person she represented as herself on that visit was what she verily believed herself to be: a fully independent woman, a modern mother, a professional, even a poet. She was, she couldn’t help but think, possibly rather wonderful.

Of course, Mim had demolished all that in a single blab.

And now, here she was at the lake again, much humbled but not strong.

She watched as Bernard dabbed his lips with his napkin. He was talking to Linda about blueberries and huckleberries. The small ones are by far best. Like these. Huckleberries are bigger but not so tasty. He didn’t appear to observe the flashes of feeling in Linda’s eyes, her glance in Layla’s direction. Layla was afraid she was about to speak. Something was wrong. Perhaps the invitation had not been genuine? she’d been meant to decline? or to grovel? But no, no, the Hunts were incapable of making a spurious invitation. That was not it. It was the dog! She shouldn’t have brought the dog (look at the trouble she’d caused already). Then again, Bernie had assured her over the telephone that they liked dogs: Great! Bring the dog! So, it was not the dog. It was herself. Linda sensed something in her, a neediness, an uncertainty, a wild streak? That description of her job just moments ago implied a propensity for deceit and replacement; she’d merely substantiated Linda’s accusation: Always something new with you, always something better.

Bernard was calling to the children and groping in his pockets for a quarter to perform a magic trick when Layla felt a cool hand on her hand. Linda had reached across the table to touch her. How awful for you, dear, to lose them both, one after the other like that, she said.

Her parents.

Linda had called her dear. So, oh! her shining eyes had not been heralding another slight, only strong emotion, and of all emotions, compassion. Layla pressed Linda’s hand in return, and mumbled thanks. Oh, they had loved her, these two, with caution, it was true—for she had been always in some way unaccountable, a perceived liability that with hindsight had proved true. But loved her nonetheless. And despite their caution, their resentment, there was yet this kindness, this tenderness, in both of them. Really, she was fortunate to have been included here at all, she thought.

They rose from the table. Bernard had a captive audience in his grandchildren, and Linda would not hear of help with the dishes; Layla excused herself and went out on the deck. She slid the screen closed behind her and crossed to the railing to face the darkened woods. The night had become foggy and although the lake was not visible its moisture softened the air. And it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see the water, because she could recall it vividly: there was the shining surface, and the dog going under, her charged movements severely slowed, the feathering of her yellow coat as she sank, the sparkling particles spreading in the disturbed water, and the tiny bubbles rising all around her.

Layla stiffened in the dark as she realized something. No one had been able to coax her dog back into the water today, not even she. And she knew, she knew what it was to be unable to overcome a foolish fear, even that same fear of sudden water. She had lost her nerve for diving several years ago. The onset of her own timidity had been brought on by a plunge into a fast river in British Columbia. Not skilled at diving, she had landed badly, and the impact had knocked the wind out of her and stung her skin. John had rescued her as she drifted downstream. But she did not believe that the failure of that dive was why she’d not been able to throw herself headlong into any body of water since. Nor did she accept the notion that the ensuing phobia was caused by the trauma of the marriage break up. That was not it, at all. The real cause, she understood, was a kind of knowledge, more like something that had ignited and promoted the breakup: some nameless thing, something you might meet in the dark, or beneath the water, or in the babble of tense, trivial conversation. It might jump you at any time. It might swallow you. Knock you out.

Well, the past was the past. It wasn’t as if she wanted it back.

Mom?

Mim had her forehead against the screen and was calling softly and urgently, as though she didn’t want to be overheard. Mom. Mom! Frankie wants the same bed as me. And I want to sleep next to you!

Layla went back inside.

January 1973

Forget it. That blindness.

That’s what it was: an inability to see. It had persisted and endured, blotting its way into their thoughts, even their surroundings, like the hooded twilight of winter.

Every afternoon she read by the tall windows. Upstairs, little Frankie napped in his bed, and when he rose the fast night stole the day away. By three o’clock in the afternoon she lit a kerosene lamp to read the print in her book, or, if they’d been to town recently, there might be a magazine. A magazine was a great treat; any printed diversion was welcome.

But usually she read Shakespeare. The Tragedies were driving her a little batty. For, it was true: to read Macbeth was (as Dr. Johnson had declared) to look around alarmed, and start, to find oneself alone.

Chapter 4

An old story

In the morning the cottage was full of domestic clatter and bustle. The children were starting a card game near the front windows, and from the kitchen came the cheerful clinking and crashing of flatware being put away. Bernard was whistling, rummaging around for his work gloves so he could further test the powers of his winch on a fallen tree. Linda allowed Layla to help finish the dishes.

Linda began telling a story. Although there was but one listener, she spoke in a voice that presumed a larger audience, including a trend toward mildly humorous hindsight that masked, not very well, a rather serious theme. The story today belonged to the category of the Old Order and featured John’s natural superiority to Layla. John was represented as upstanding and reliable in these vignettes, whereas Layla turned out to be the type of person who had gone barefoot to the dentist’s office, or left eggshells on the counters, and had off-beat ideas. John always wore shoes, threw his eggshells into the trashcan right away, and even in his hippie phase had never been incomprehensible. Not that Linda used such a word; she had a way of leaving out the judgments at the ends of her sentences and slowly shaking her head as though baffled, allowing her interlocutor to fill in words like messy or rash, or incomprehensible. Like the story from the previous visit, where the ostensible topic had been laundry, today’s tale hinted at where the fault lay in the marriage breakdown. (Layla wasn’t entirely sure there had been a breakdown, she’d left so abruptly.) The stories hadn’t bothered her last time; she’d been in the first flush of her teaching job, but since then her parents’ deaths had shaken her, her new job was at once tenuous and tedious, and yesterday’s slapstick arrival had unnerved her. Already on this beautiful morning, she felt disadvantaged, uneasy. She nodded in weak agreement with Linda.

Not that there’s anything wrong with breastfeeding! Linda had lowered her voice because of the children nearby. "But poor Bern didn’t know which way to look! I mean, Frankie was a year old. You’ve got to admit,