December 17, 2025

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1

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37 minutes

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1

Love, bastards, and what we leave behind.

Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the

Podcast at Connected.

The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake

Prologue

I have never been much for

following instructions or doing what I'm told.

In eighth grade, we were assigned

to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good

with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better

with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the

teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of

baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however,

was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my

mother.

In high school, we had to take an

art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble

endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that

surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit

that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things

that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater

gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit

and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I

was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so

I feel like I came out ahead on that one.

In my last year of school, the

final mathematics exam asked the following question:

Determine

the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines.

Illustrate fully.

While the other students slaved

away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a

drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of

sunflowers with Mrs. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept

secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each

other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could

use a little push.

I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson

showed my drawing to Mrs. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and

when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out.

They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the

end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the

future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade.

So, what was my problem, you might

ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for

mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated

than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts

on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern

shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just

outside a village called Good Hart.

Chapter 1.

It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season

snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple

of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or

burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their

heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though,

I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing.

At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber,

I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone

with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors,

leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort.

That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off

Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of

the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so

I wanted to get it done.

The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was

built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of

coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The

front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was

stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun

was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the

trees cast long shadows across the laneway.

The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had

called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working

and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I

told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the

day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without

heat for a night during a cold snap.

I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman

answered. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked older than

the hills, but her face was full of life, and her eyes had a twinkle that spoke

of humor and mischief.

"Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I'm Davis Crawford. You called

earlier about some issues with your boiler and heating system. How can I

help?"

Mrs. Anderson gave me an appraising look.

"I wasn't expecting you to be such a handsome young

man. If I were fifty years younger, I would tell you exactly how you could help

me, and then I'd teach you a trick or two I learned over the years. But I am

too old for that kind of foolishness these days, so I will just have to make

use of your plumbing expertise instead. And please, call me Wilma."

I couldn't help but laugh and blush at Wilma's surprisingly

raunchy sense of humor. I liked her immediately.

"Let's try that again. What seems to be the

problem?"

"Well, the biggest problem is that I am 91 years old

and dying of cancer. The doctors give me less than a year to live. But aside

from that, I really can't complain. I have had a good run of it."

I cocked my head to one side and gave her a bemused look.

"Oh, you were wondering what the problem is with my

heating system. Well, I turned it on this morning when I got up, and the boiler

sounded like there was someone trapped inside of it trying to hammer their way

out. There was a worrisome hissing from some of the radiators, as well, and

they weren't heating up worth a damn.

"My husband, Phillip, used to take care of those things

for us, but he has been gone for almost five years now, so I hate to think what

you will find when you look around."

"I'm sure I can help you, Mrs. Anderson,;"

"Wilma, please."

"Sorry, Wilma. Why don't you show me to the basement,

and I will try to figure out what's wrong. Then I can get started on fixing

it."

On the way to the basement stairs, Wilma led me through her

crowded but orderly living room. I couldn't help but notice the paintings on

just about every surface of its walls.

"You have a real eye for art, Wilma. Those paintings

are beautiful."

Wilma smiled wistfully at me and got a faraway look in her

eyes as she replied.

"Phillip and I were artists. I guess I still am, but I

haven't felt much like painting since he passed on. Phillip painted portraits.

He made a surprisingly good living at it; you would be amazed at what rich

people will pay to see their lives immortalized in oil on canvas. I never had

the knack. Phillip could make even the most corpulent and corrupt industrialist

appear regal and wise. I could only ever capture what I actually saw in them,

and I quickly discovered that they did not enjoy, or pay for, that kind of

introspection.

"So, I painted landscapes, and there is always a market

for those. But I kept some of my favorite pieces, over the years, as you can

see."

As Wilma spoke, I took a closer look at the paintings. One,

in particular, was striking; a portrait of a beautiful young woman, in her late

teens or early twenties, with a stethoscope around her neck and her blonde hair

pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing a loose hoodie and was

curled up in an Adirondack chair, reading a book. It was not what you would

expect from a formal portrait, but it seemed to capture her essence in a way

that no photograph could match. I must have stopped moving as I was drawn into

the image, so Wilma gave me a minute before she continued.

"That's the last painting that Phillip worked on before

he passed. He didn't get the chance to finish it, but I still think it's his

finest work."

I couldn't help but agree.

"Who's the model? She's beautiful."

"That's my granddaughter, Erin. You can't tell from the

portrait, but she's a real firecracker. As a grandparent, you're not supposed

to play favorites, but she was very special to Phillip, and it hit her hard

when he passed. There is more love in that one painting than in all the other

portraits that he painted over his lifetime. Except for his first, of course,

of me."

"Where are Phillips' other works? Surely, they weren't

all commissions that are now locked away in some dusty millionaire's

palace."

Wilma's expression turned bleak as she contemplated her

response.

"All of his other paintings were sold after he died.

The kids said they would fetch a better price while there was an upswing of

interest in his work after his death, so they insisted that they all go to

auction as quickly as possible. They were probably right, I guess, although I

loved his art more than I needed the money. But how do you argue with your kids

when they have just lost their father?"

"Do any of your children live nearby?"

"They all moved far away. Phillip and I chose a

wonderful spot to live and make our art, but a challenging place to raise a

family. It's not so bad now, what with the internet, highways, and the like,

but when we first moved here sixty-some years ago, it was very isolated. We

were young and selfish, and our selfishness cost us dearly.

"We thought that our children would grow to love this

area over time, like we did. But they never did, and they left as soon as they

could get away. My daughter, Samantha, is a retired lawyer and she and her

third husband split their time between their loft in Manhattan and their beach

house in the Bahamas. My son, Robert, is an oil executive down in Texas.

Neither of them has been here in more than a decade, except for Phillip's

funeral.

"My baby, Max, passed away more than twenty years ago

now of cancer. Erin is his granddaughter. She is a pediatrician, and she splits

her time between the hospital in Petoskey and the children's hospital down in

Grand Rapids. She comes to see me when she can, but she is very busy. My other

relatives all live busy lives far away from here. We chose to live here,

though, so I can't be too upset that the rest of the family chose to live far

away.

"But enough about me. What about you, Mr. Crawford? Do

you have any children?"

"It's just me and my siblings, I'm afraid, and it's

been that way for quite some time. My oldest sister, Alison, is 20, and she

goes to college at North Central Michigan, in Petoskey. She is planning to

become a nurse practitioner. The rest of the gang still lives at home with me.

Sharon is 17 now, so she kind of runs the show while I am working; Mary is 15

but going on 30, if you know what I mean; and Lane is the baby of the family at

12."

"Where are your parents?"

"I don't honestly know. We each have a different

father, or at least we think we do. Sharon, Lane, and I have no idea who our

fathers are, so there's a chance that we might be full siblings, but I doubt

it. My mother never kept the same man around for long. Alison's father has been

in and out of jail since before she was born and is currently serving a stint

in federal prison. But Mary has it the worst of all of us.

"My mother met Mary's dad on a weekend bender in Vegas,

and he is a pretty big deal. Rich, famous, the kind of guy you see on TV and

the cover of magazines. A real family man, except when it comes to Mary, whom

he refuses to even acknowledge. He bought my mom's silence with a lump sum

payment and a non-disclosure agreement. That money was supposed to be put in a

trust for Mary, but my mom snorted and injected it all in less than a year.

Mary has written to her father dozens of times and reached out to him on social

media countless more, but he wants nothing to do with his bastard daughter.

"As for my mom, she went away for the weekend almost

seven years ago now and left me in charge. And I am still in charge, I guess.

So, no time for dating or romance for me, and I think that I will be just about

done with raising kids by the time that Lane goes off to college."

Wilma gave me a look filled with more empathy than I had

felt in a long time, maybe ever.

"Anyway, I should take a look at your boiler and see

what I can do about getting you some heat."

I would have called the boiler in Wilma's basement old, but

that wouldn't have done it justice. Frankly, it wouldn't have seemed out of

place in a museum of heating and plumbing, and it was hanging on to life by the

barest of threads. With only a year to live, however, I wasn't going to

recommend to Wilma that she replace the whole system with something more modern

and efficient.

"I think I can fix your boiler so that it will hold on

for another year or two, and I can patch a couple of leaks in the lines to the

main radiators as well. One line to a radiator at the back of the house is

completely shot, so I will shut that one off and be back to replace it later

this week."

"What's all that going to cost?"

"It's free of charge, Ma'am. You've got enough to look

after with your health and all, without having to worry about your heating

system. I never had a grandma to spoil, at least not one that I know of, so it

would be my pleasure to do this for you."

"Please, it's Wilma. And it's a grandmother's

prerogative to spoil her grandchildren, and not the other way around. But your

kindness is mighty appreciated, Davis."

It took me a couple of hours to shore up the boiler and

repair the lines that were still in reasonable condition before I was finished

for the day. As I got ready to leave, I found Wilma sitting alone in the living

room reading an old paperback.

"I'll call you later this week, once the replacement

line for your radiator comes in."

Wilma got a mischievous smile on her face.

"Why, Davis, are you getting fresh with me?"

"If I were older and more experienced, I would in an

instant. But I hardly think I can compete with the memory of your

Phillip."

"Too true, too true. Alright young man, well thank you

for taking the time to look after a foolish old woman on a cold October

night."

"I hardly think you're foolish, Wilma, but it's been my

pleasure."

I didn't get home from Wilma's until well after nine that

night, and by the time I pulled into our gravel driveway, I was beat. The

dilapidated old yard light mounted on the roof of the garage shone weakly down

on the sloppy mix of gravel and mud that was our yard, and I could hear the

excited barks of Munchkin, our rescue puppy. He was a mix of German Shepherd

and Cane Corso, with some variety of northern dog thrown in, and he was mighty

pleased to see me.

I'm glad that someone was.

I came into our small three-bedroom rental to find Sharon

and Lane sitting at the dining room table working on his math homework. I wish

that they reacted like Munchkin when they saw me, but Lane just grunted a

hello, while Sharon looked up at me with a mixture of sadness and worry.

"Mary is out with the McDougal brothers again. They

showed up here a half hour ago, I told her not to go with them, but she

wouldn't listen."

"The McDougal brothers are assholes," was Lane's

addition to the conversation, without even looking up from the table. He wasn't

wrong. The oldest McDougall brother, Calum, was a couple of years ahead of me

at school and was a bully and a braggart. Two of his three brothers had

followed in his esteemed footsteps, while the jury was still out on the

youngest, James.

"I'm going to go get her. Next time that those boys

turn up in our yard, let Munchkin lose on them."

"Alright, dinner will be in the oven when you get back.

Given 'em hell, Bro."

The McDougal brothers lived just outside Pellston in the

closest thing to a mansion that you could find in our neck of the woods. Their

family owned the largest construction and maintenance company in the area and

had most of the Public Works contracts sown up, along with a not inconsiderable

portion of the private construction in our region as well. Their parents spent

most of their time in Sarasota, Florida, though, and the brothers had free rein

while they were gone.

As I drove up their long, paved driveway, automatic

floodlights came on, illuminating the ostentatious columns that flanked the

entrance to their house. I parked in front of the nearest bay of their four-car

attached garage while noting that there was another three-car garage further

off to the right. I idly wondered who got to park in which garage. Rich people

problems, I guess.

I walked to the front door and let myself in. From the

foyer, I could hear the loud thump of music coming from the back of the house,

so I headed that way. As I passed through the kitchen, I nearly bumped into

James, who was holding a couple of empty serving bowls. He stopped dead when he

saw me, looking nervous, clearly not expecting anyone else to be in their house.

Certainly not me, anyway.

"Hey James, I am here to get my sister. Where is

she?"

He hesitated a moment before pointing toward the back of the

house.

"She's in the game room playing pool with the guys. We

didn't force her to come here or anything, if that's what you're worried

about."

"Maybe that's true, James. But you know she is still a

minor, and I am her guardian, so I'm going to fetch her and bring her

home."

James didn't like the sound of that, but I turned my back on

him and followed the music to a large, sunken room at the back of the house,

which had an expensive-looking pool table in the middle. The remaining McDougal

brothers were either playing pool or smoking up on one of the couches that were

scattered around the outside of the room. Calum was presiding over the

festivities, while the Pistons game was playing on a wall-mounted TV that was

bigger than some movie screens. Despite his family's blue-collar roots, Calum

looked like an overgrown frat boy, with his preppy clothes and fifty-dollar haircut.

Mary was sitting in the middle of one of the couches, with a

McDougal brother on one side and one of their hangers-on on the other. She

looked somewhere between uncomfortable and scared, but she gave me a defiant

scowl. The music stopped, and everyone looked to Calum and then back at me.

There was a nervous tension in the air.

"Hi Calum, I'm here for my sister."

Calum was now in a bit of a spot; he couldn't just let me

come into his home and give him orders without losing face with his brothers and

their cronies. But he also knew, or at least suspected, that my sister was

underage. And then there was always the Pipe Wrench Incident. That always made

people nervous to be around me.

"That's not my problem. She told my brother that she

wanted to party, so she's here to party. No one forced her to come, and she

seems to be having a good time."

I wondered if all of Calum's dates looked as scared and

uncomfortable as Mary did at that moment when they were having a 'good time'.

"Well, since she is still a minor and I'm her guardian,

it's a bit of a problem. Or it could be. But I don't want to put a damper on

your evening, so I'll just bring Mary home with me and we'll call it a

night."

Calum looked toward James who had just come back into the

room with bowls now filled with potato chips.

"Is that true, Limp dick? Did you bring an underage

girl home to party with us?"

James began to sputter before Calum shook his head in

disgust. He pointed over at Mary.

"Get the fuck out of here, and don't come back until you're

sixteen," he said before turning back to me.

"And you. Just get the fuck out of our house."

It was a silent drive home. Mary refused to even look at me,

staring out the window instead. When we pulled into our yard, Munchkin came

running up to greet us, and Mary finally spoke.

"You didn't need to embarrass me like that. I'm old

enough to make my own choices, you know."

"The law says you're still a minor. And you'll always

be my sister. Those guys are no good, Mary. You know that."

"James is different. He isn't like the rest of

them."

"Maybe that's true, or maybe not. But you don't hang

out in a nest of rattlesnakes, just because there is a garter snake in there

with them that you think is cute."

After a pause and some continued barking from Munchkin, Mary

finally looked over at me.

"You're not my dad, you know. You can't tell me what to

do."

And there it was. It always came down to the same thing with

Mary; her father's rejection of her. Over the years, it had undermined her

self-esteem and destroyed her self-worth to the point where I wondered if they

would ever recover. Unfortunately, I was just smart enough to see the problem,

but I had no idea how to fix it. A brother's love can only go so far, I guess.

"I know, Mary. I know. But I love you, and I am so

proud of you, and I just wish that was enough."

We sat in silence for another minute before she replied.

"I wish it was too."

Chapter 2.

It took a couple of days for Mrs. Anderson's new radiator

line to arrive, and I gave her a call when I went to pick it up.

"Hi, Mrs. And; Wilma. I was just picking up the

replacement line for your radiator, and I was wondering if you needed anything

else from town, while I'm here. I was going to come by and install the line

later this afternoon if that works for you."

"That's very kind of you, Davis. Would you mind picking

up a few groceries for me? I can send the store a list, so they will be ready

for you when you get there."

A couple of my calls that day took longer than expected, so

it was late in the afternoon again by the time I made it to Wilma's place. The

early season snow had mostly melted away, and her yard was now a combination of

gravel and thick soupy mud that could swallow a tire as easily as it could

swallow a boot.

"Thank you for picking the groceries up for me, you're

too kind."

"It was no trouble at all, especially since I was

coming out this way anyway. If you don't mind me asking, how do you usually get

them?"

"I used to have a young man up the way who would help

me with groceries and yard work, and other small things, but now I am pretty

much on my own."

"What happened to him? Did he move away?"

"No, he still lives in the same place that he always

has, but I am pretty sure that my family paid him more not to help me than I was

paying for his assistance."

"What? That seems like a crappy thing for them to do to

you."

Wilma gave a resigned sigh and then offered me a coffee

while she told me her story.

"I think I told you the last time you were here, that

most of my family has moved on from this place, except my granddaughter Erin.

The rest of them already have an agreement in place with a developer, the

McDougals, to turn this property into a high-end resort for the Fudgies, so

they have someplace to spend their money after visiting Mackinac Island."

"Fudgies," was what the locals called the tourists

from down south who descended on the upper peninsula in the summer.

"If you don't mind me asking, just how much land do you

own?"

"Well, Phillip and I didn't have much to spend our money

on over the years, so we bought up many of the nearby properties when they went

up for sale. We ended up with at least a quarter mile of land that fronts onto

the lake, without even really trying."

I let out a low whistle.

"That must be worth a small fortune. I can understand

your family's interest."

"At first, they didn't care if I stayed in the house

after Phillip died. They figured that I would follow soon enough. After a few

years, however, they started to get impatient, and it's fair to say that they

are now actively encouraging me to leave, by foot, by car, or in a box. They

have generously offered to put me out to pasture in a warehouse for the old and

infirm, though, to await my impending doom.

"With my cancer, their wish is finally going to come

true. By this time next year, I will be sipping coffee with Phillip in whatever

afterlife we atheists get to enjoy. Actually, who am I kidding? If there is an

afterlife for Phillip and me, the first thing I'm going to do when I get there

is get on my knees, undo his belt buckle, and then show him just how much I've

missed him these past five years.

Wilma looked a bit startled as if she had just remembered

that I was still there.

"I'm sorry, Davis. You probably didn't need to hear

that last part. I just miss him so much. I still see him in the trees and along

the shore, and I sometimes hear his voice in the wind off the lake."

"It's all good, Wilma. I just hope that my brother and

sisters get to experience the kind of love that you and Phillip had

someday."

"What about you, Davis? Don't you deserve to experience

that kind of love as well?"

"Maybe I deserve it, Wilma, but I don't think I am

going to find it. It's been tough; real tough, looking after my family all

these years. I have done things that I am not proud of, but that needed to be

done. I don't regret them; I would do anything to protect the people I love.

But I doubt that anyone would be able to love me, once they found out what I've

done."

"I think you are selling yourself short, Davis. We are

all artists, and we are all worthy of love."

With that, Wilma offered to top up my coffee before I

started replacing the broken line. As the evening's shadows deepened, I saw her

watching me with compassion and concern in her eyes. Once I was finished, I

felt her hand on my shoulder, and she gave it an empathetic squeeze.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at her.

"It's my sister, Mary. I am losing her. She is so hurt

and angry that she is beginning to make bad choices, and I don't know how to

help her. I've tried to be her brother, parent, and friend, but I'm failing at

all three."

Wilma offered no judgment, good or bad. She just listened,

and when I finished, she spoke.

"Bring her over this Sunday around noon. Tell her to

wear some old clothes that she doesn't mind getting dirty. You can come too if

you would like and bring your little brother to do some fishing, but Mary will

be spending her time with me."

It wasn't easy convincing Mary to come to Wilma's. If you

have spent time dealing with teenage girls, you know that they can be as

stubborn as late-season ice on the lake. In the end, I resorted to threats and

bribery to get her onboard, but she assured me that she would hate every minute

she was there. Lane came with us as well, with the promise that we could spend

the afternoon fishing off the end of Wilma's dock.

By the time we arrived, Mary was sullenly glued to the

passenger seat and wouldn't look up from her phone. Wilma waited a few minutes

for Mary, but she stubbornly refused to leave the truck. Eventually, Wilma

pulled on her rubber boots and walked over to the truck. She looked up at Mary

and started speaking.

"There are three things that I know are true.

"The first, I've already shared with your brother. We

are all artists because we are all worthy of love. But many of us lose our way.

We are hurt and abandoned, and we are buried in shame. I was like that for many

years. But my husband, Phillip, found me and taught me what it is to be loved.

Not just the physical act; although he taught me about that as well; but the

certainty that I was seen, known, and cherished. He showed me that I am an

artist.

You are an artist too.

"Second, I am old, I have cancer, and I will die. Not

today, and hopefully not tomorrow, but soon. And that is okay; we all die. I

have lived a good life. And when I do, I hope that Phillip will be waiting for

me with a glass of chilled white wine and his beautiful smile. My art may

linger for a while once I am gone but, eventually, it too will be lost.

"Third, the world is full of bastards. Your brother

tells me that you and he are both bastards. I will tell you a secret that I

have shared with very few people; I am a bastard too.

"My mother was beautiful but poor. Her parents lost everything

during the Great Depression, and she worked as a housemaid for a rich and

powerful man to support her family. When she fell pregnant, he put her out on

the street and refused to recognize her child, his daughter; me. Because of his

rejection, I spent too many years steeped in shame and self-loathing. But

eventually, I learned a hard truth; my father was a bastard by choice, while I

was a bastard by birth. And those of us who are bastards by birth must never

let the bastards by choice win.

"Come inside when you're ready. I'm too old and it's

too cold for me to stand here waiting for you."

With that, Wilma turned and slowly made her way back to the

house. Surprisingly, after a minute, Mary followed. When they reached the door,

Wilma turned to look back at me.

"It's time for you boys to go fishing. There is a warm

breeze off the lake that will bring you good luck."

Lane and I made our way down the hill to the dock in

silence, our fishing rods, ice chest, and tackle box in hand. Unlike a seasonal

dock that would be taken out of the lake each fall, Wilma's dock could be used

year-round and was built with heavy timbers and steel bracing, so it could

withstand the crushing force of the winter's ice. When we reached the dock, we

felt the warm wind that Wilma had promised, and we chose our lures and began to

cast. After a half hour of fishing, Lane broke the silence.

"Do you think it's my fault?"

"Do I think what's your fault, Bud?"

"That mom left us. That she never came back. Do you

think it's my fault?"

I sighed as I thought about my answer.

"No. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault, really,

maybe not even hers. It's funny though, she brought some amazing people into

this world. I wish she could have seen how incredible you and your sisters have

turned out. But she made her choice, and that's on her, not you."

Lane thought about my answer before he continued.

"But you would be better off without me. Sharon would

have more time to study for the scholarship she will need to get away from

here. I try to be nice to Mary, to make her feel better, but I just seem to

make things worse for her as well. And I see how hard you work to keep our

family together. I feel like you would all be better off without me. If I

weren't here, maybe Mom would come back home."

I took a deep breath and tried to push down the anger that

threatened to overwhelm me; anger at my mother for abandoning us, anger at

myself for never being enough, and anger at a world that would leave my brother

feeling like it would be better off if he didn't exist. I felt the wind off the

lake as it blew across my face, drying my unshed tears before they were formed.

As I was wondering how to unbreak my brother's heart, a particularly strong

gust of wind blew through and Lane's fishing rod bent into a deep arc, the tip

dancing wildly as a fish fought against the line.

"Dad! Help;"

The drag clicked furiously as the fish pulled line, as Lane

fought to keep his rod tip up. I quickly set my rod aside and braced him, my

hands held loosely beside his as he fought to reel in his catch. We worked

together for what seemed like an eternity before he finally fought his fish to

the side of the dock. I grabbed the net and saw that he had hooked a steelhead

trout that was easily two feet long and must have weighed at least eight pounds

if not more. It was a wonder the drag held steady, and his line didn't break

during the fight.

As I scooped up his catch, the steelhead's silver sides

shimmered like polished chrome in the fading light, and it was so big that it

took up over half the ice chest I had brought along to store our catch. Lane

was flushed with excitement at landing such an impressive fish, and I was so

proud of him that my heart almost ached.

"Nice work, Son."

He just looked up at me for a moment before throwing his

arms around me in a hug. In the time since our mother left, he had never called

me by anything other than my name. I never tried to be his dad; I didn't think

I was qualified, but I guess that all of us need someone in our lives who will

love us without conditions or end.

"Never think that you're a burden on me or the family.

Maybe you need a bit more from us right now than you can give back, but that's

alright. Because sixty years from now, when I am old and can't wipe my ass

anymore, you are going to be paying me back in spades, alright?"

With that, we went back to fishing in companionable silence.

I pulled in a few smaller ones, but nothing to match Lane's steelhead.

A few hours later, the wind had picked up and it was getting

colder, so we packed up our equipment and made our way back toward the house.

Halfway down the dock, however, a huge gust of wind swept through, and I heard

a cry followed by a loud splash. Turning back, I saw that Lane's foot had

slipped through a broken slat, and he had fallen off the dock. Without

thinking, I dropped the ice box and rods and jumped into the water to help him.

When I got him to shore, he couldn't put any weight on his

ankle, and any efforts to do so were met with cries of pain. I quickly

collected our discarded fishing gear and set it to one side, before helping him

to slowly make his way back up the hill. The November chill quickly took hold

of us as we walked, plastering our damp clothing to our skin, and we were

shivering uncontrollably by the time we reached the house. I knocked but it

took a minute for Wilma and Mary to come out from the studio at the back of the

house.

"I am sorry to cut things short, but Lane had an

accident down at the dock and he sprained or maybe even broke his ankle. I am

going to have to take him to the hospital in Petoskey to get it looked at

before it swells up any further."

Wilma looked at me with concern.

"Maybe you should hold off at least for a little while.

My granddaughter, Erin, the pediatrician, is coming for dinner tonight and should

be here any minute. Why don't we let her take a look at it before you head into

town? And let's get you out of those clothes; you must be freezing. I still

have some of Phillip's things in the closet that might fit you."

A few minutes later, I had changed into a pair of

comfortable but slightly musty-smelling pants, with a warm sweater over a

well-worn collared shirt. I was both taller and wider than Phillip had been, at

least in the twilight of his years, so the pants were a bit short, while the sweater

was tight across my shoulders. While I changed, Mary and Wilma had set Lane up

on the couch with his ankle elevated on some pillows. I helped him change out

of his wet clothing and into an old sweatshirt and shorts that fit over his

swollen ankle. Once Lane was settled, Wilma and I talked quietly in the

kitchen.

"It's getting late, and you must be getting hungry, but

I don't think I have enough to feed everyone."

I thought for a moment.

"We may be in luck. Lane caught the biggest steelhead I

have ever seen earlier this afternoon, but I left it down by the dock after the

accident. If you have a few potatoes and maybe a veg or two, I am sure I can

whip something up that would feed us all."

Wilma looked at me with a sly smile.

"He cooks, he plumbs, and he cares for his family, all

while cutting a dashing figure in my late husband's favorite sweater. You, Mr.

Crawford, are a catch."

"I am not sure about that, Wilma," I replied with

a laugh, "But either way, this catch had better go and get our earlier

catch, so I can get started on dinner."

It took me almost half an hour to collect our fishing gear

and bring it back up to the truck. By the time I was done, an older SUV was

parked behind my truck, which meant that Erin had arrived. After I loaded the

gear, I used the fishing knife and stained plastic cutting board that I kept in

a bin under the back seat to clean and filet the steelhead before heading

inside.

From the doorway, I could see a head of sandy-blonde hair

pulled back into a loose ponytail sticking up from the far side of the couch,

and I heard a calm and melodic voice talking to Lane while Wilma and Mary

looked on. I was so lost in that voice that I almost jumped when the latch on

the door caught behind me. The head of sandy-blonde hair looked up at the

sound, revealing a pair of amber, almost golden eyes.

"You must be the father," said that same melodic

voice, as those eyes bore their way into my soul.

"It's Davis Crawford, and I'm the older brother."

"Erin Anderson, nice to meet you. Can you get hold of

your parents? We might need to take Lane to the hospital for some X-rays."

"No," I replied more harshly than I intended.

"No," I tried again, more gently but with an edge

to my voice. "Our parents aren't around; I am as close as you're going to

get. I am Lane's legal guardian if that helps."

There was a slight pause as her amber eyes shifted from

surprise to curiosity.

"That helps a lot. Why don't you give me 15 minutes or

so to take a look at this brave dude's ankle, then we can talk over some

options, once I have a better sense of what's going on."

"That okay with you, Bud?" I asked as I walked

over to the couch.

"Yeah, that should be fine," he replied, but his

eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed. For a moment, I was worried that

he might be running a fever, but then I got my first look at Erin, and I

understood.

Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful like a movie star or

swimsuit model, but she was lean and fit, and from what I could see, had more

than enough curves in all the right places. It was her face, however, that

captured me. She had delicate features accentuated by her high cheekbones, and

there was a softness to her expression that spoke of empathy and kindness. Her

eyes, though intense, had a warmth that put me instantly at ease.

I realized much too late that I had been staring at Erin for

an uncomfortably long time while holding the bag of steelhead filets out like

some kind of sacrificial offering. While I stood frozen, the look in Erin's

beautiful eyes had shifted from curiosity to amusement; I would assume at the

fish-carrying simpleton standing in front of her.

"Thanks, Dr. Anderson; err, Erin. I appreciate your

taking a look at him and; I am going to go cook us up some fish before I make

an even bigger ass of myself."

Wilma joined me in the kitchen, while Erin continued to

assess Lane's injured ankle. We spent the next few minutes dicing the potatoes

and veggies and tossing them with some olive oil, salt, and pepper before

sprinkling the filets of steelhead with a mixture of herbs. I topped the fish

with some slices of a less-than-fresh, but still edible, lemon I found in the

fridge, before putting the whole thing in the oven.

To be continued in part 2. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts, for Literotica.

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Steamy-Stories

By Steamy Stories

3.6

2525 ratings

December 17, 2025

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1

Listen Later

37 minutes

Michigan Weather and Women: Part 1

Love, bastards, and what we leave behind.

Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts. Listen to the

Podcast at Connected.

The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake

Prologue

I have never been much for

following instructions or doing what I'm told.

In eighth grade, we were assigned

to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good

with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better

with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the

teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of

baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however,

was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my

mother.

In high school, we had to take an

art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble

endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that

surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit

that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things

that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater

gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit

and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I

was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so

I feel like I came out ahead on that one.

In my last year of school, the

final mathematics exam asked the following question:

Determine

the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines.

Illustrate fully.

While the other students slaved

away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a

drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of

sunflowers with Mrs. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept

secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each

other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could

use a little push.

I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson

showed my drawing to Mrs. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and

when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out.

They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the

end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the

future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade.

So, what was my problem, you might

ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for

mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated

than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts

on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern

shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just

outside a village called Good Hart.

Chapter 1.

It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season

snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple

of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or

burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their

heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though,

I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing.

At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber,

I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone

with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors,

leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort.

That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off

Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of

the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so

I wanted to get it done.

The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was

built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of

coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The

front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was

stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun

was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the

trees cast long shadows across the laneway.

The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had

called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working

and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I

told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the

day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without

heat for a night during a cold snap.

I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman

answered. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked older than

the hills, but her face was full of life, and her eyes had a twinkle that spoke

of humor and mischief.

"Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I'm Davis Crawford. You called

earlier about some issues with your boiler and heating system. How can I

help?"

Mrs. Anderson gave me an appraising look.

"I wasn't expecting you to be such a handsome young

man. If I were fifty years younger, I would tell you exactly how you could help

me, and then I'd teach you a trick or two I learned over the years. But I am

too old for that kind of foolishness these days, so I will just have to make

use of your plumbing expertise instead. And please, call me Wilma."

I couldn't help but laugh and blush at Wilma's surprisingly

raunchy sense of humor. I liked her immediately.

"Let's try that again. What seems to be the

problem?"

"Well, the biggest problem is that I am 91 years old

and dying of cancer. The doctors give me less than a year to live. But aside

from that, I really can't complain. I have had a good run of it."

I cocked my head to one side and gave her a bemused look.

"Oh, you were wondering what the problem is with my

heating system. Well, I turned it on this morning when I got up, and the boiler

sounded like there was someone trapped inside of it trying to hammer their way

out. There was a worrisome hissing from some of the radiators, as well, and

they weren't heating up worth a damn.

"My husband, Phillip, used to take care of those things

for us, but he has been gone for almost five years now, so I hate to think what

you will find when you look around."

"I'm sure I can help you, Mrs. Anderson,;"

"Wilma, please."

"Sorry, Wilma. Why don't you show me to the basement,

and I will try to figure out what's wrong. Then I can get started on fixing

it."

On the way to the basement stairs, Wilma led me through her

crowded but orderly living room. I couldn't help but notice the paintings on

just about every surface of its walls.

"You have a real eye for art, Wilma. Those paintings

are beautiful."

Wilma smiled wistfully at me and got a faraway look in her

eyes as she replied.

"Phillip and I were artists. I guess I still am, but I

haven't felt much like painting since he passed on. Phillip painted portraits.

He made a surprisingly good living at it; you would be amazed at what rich

people will pay to see their lives immortalized in oil on canvas. I never had

the knack. Phillip could make even the most corpulent and corrupt industrialist

appear regal and wise. I could only ever capture what I actually saw in them,

and I quickly discovered that they did not enjoy, or pay for, that kind of

introspection.

"So, I painted landscapes, and there is always a market

for those. But I kept some of my favorite pieces, over the years, as you can

see."

As Wilma spoke, I took a closer look at the paintings. One,

in particular, was striking; a portrait of a beautiful young woman, in her late

teens or early twenties, with a stethoscope around her neck and her blonde hair

pulled back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing a loose hoodie and was

curled up in an Adirondack chair, reading a book. It was not what you would

expect from a formal portrait, but it seemed to capture her essence in a way

that no photograph could match. I must have stopped moving as I was drawn into

the image, so Wilma gave me a minute before she continued.

"That's the last painting that Phillip worked on before

he passed. He didn't get the chance to finish it, but I still think it's his

finest work."

I couldn't help but agree.

"Who's the model? She's beautiful."

"That's my granddaughter, Erin. You can't tell from the

portrait, but she's a real firecracker. As a grandparent, you're not supposed

to play favorites, but she was very special to Phillip, and it hit her hard

when he passed. There is more love in that one painting than in all the other

portraits that he painted over his lifetime. Except for his first, of course,

of me."

"Where are Phillips' other works? Surely, they weren't

all commissions that are now locked away in some dusty millionaire's

palace."

Wilma's expression turned bleak as she contemplated her

response.

"All of his other paintings were sold after he died.

The kids said they would fetch a better price while there was an upswing of

interest in his work after his death, so they insisted that they all go to

auction as quickly as possible. They were probably right, I guess, although I

loved his art more than I needed the money. But how do you argue with your kids

when they have just lost their father?"

"Do any of your children live nearby?"

"They all moved far away. Phillip and I chose a

wonderful spot to live and make our art, but a challenging place to raise a

family. It's not so bad now, what with the internet, highways, and the like,

but when we first moved here sixty-some years ago, it was very isolated. We

were young and selfish, and our selfishness cost us dearly.

"We thought that our children would grow to love this

area over time, like we did. But they never did, and they left as soon as they

could get away. My daughter, Samantha, is a retired lawyer and she and her

third husband split their time between their loft in Manhattan and their beach

house in the Bahamas. My son, Robert, is an oil executive down in Texas.

Neither of them has been here in more than a decade, except for Phillip's

funeral.

"My baby, Max, passed away more than twenty years ago

now of cancer. Erin is his granddaughter. She is a pediatrician, and she splits

her time between the hospital in Petoskey and the children's hospital down in

Grand Rapids. She comes to see me when she can, but she is very busy. My other

relatives all live busy lives far away from here. We chose to live here,

though, so I can't be too upset that the rest of the family chose to live far

away.

"But enough about me. What about you, Mr. Crawford? Do

you have any children?"

"It's just me and my siblings, I'm afraid, and it's

been that way for quite some time. My oldest sister, Alison, is 20, and she

goes to college at North Central Michigan, in Petoskey. She is planning to

become a nurse practitioner. The rest of the gang still lives at home with me.

Sharon is 17 now, so she kind of runs the show while I am working; Mary is 15

but going on 30, if you know what I mean; and Lane is the baby of the family at

12."

"Where are your parents?"

"I don't honestly know. We each have a different

father, or at least we think we do. Sharon, Lane, and I have no idea who our

fathers are, so there's a chance that we might be full siblings, but I doubt

it. My mother never kept the same man around for long. Alison's father has been

in and out of jail since before she was born and is currently serving a stint

in federal prison. But Mary has it the worst of all of us.

"My mother met Mary's dad on a weekend bender in Vegas,

and he is a pretty big deal. Rich, famous, the kind of guy you see on TV and

the cover of magazines. A real family man, except when it comes to Mary, whom

he refuses to even acknowledge. He bought my mom's silence with a lump sum

payment and a non-disclosure agreement. That money was supposed to be put in a

trust for Mary, but my mom snorted and injected it all in less than a year.

Mary has written to her father dozens of times and reached out to him on social

media countless more, but he wants nothing to do with his bastard daughter.

"As for my mom, she went away for the weekend almost

seven years ago now and left me in charge. And I am still in charge, I guess.

So, no time for dating or romance for me, and I think that I will be just about

done with raising kids by the time that Lane goes off to college."

Wilma gave me a look filled with more empathy than I had

felt in a long time, maybe ever.

"Anyway, I should take a look at your boiler and see

what I can do about getting you some heat."

I would have called the boiler in Wilma's basement old, but

that wouldn't have done it justice. Frankly, it wouldn't have seemed out of

place in a museum of heating and plumbing, and it was hanging on to life by the

barest of threads. With only a year to live, however, I wasn't going to

recommend to Wilma that she replace the whole system with something more modern

and efficient.

"I think I can fix your boiler so that it will hold on

for another year or two, and I can patch a couple of leaks in the lines to the

main radiators as well. One line to a radiator at the back of the house is

completely shot, so I will shut that one off and be back to replace it later

this week."

"What's all that going to cost?"

"It's free of charge, Ma'am. You've got enough to look

after with your health and all, without having to worry about your heating

system. I never had a grandma to spoil, at least not one that I know of, so it

would be my pleasure to do this for you."

"Please, it's Wilma. And it's a grandmother's

prerogative to spoil her grandchildren, and not the other way around. But your

kindness is mighty appreciated, Davis."

It took me a couple of hours to shore up the boiler and

repair the lines that were still in reasonable condition before I was finished

for the day. As I got ready to leave, I found Wilma sitting alone in the living

room reading an old paperback.

"I'll call you later this week, once the replacement

line for your radiator comes in."

Wilma got a mischievous smile on her face.

"Why, Davis, are you getting fresh with me?"

"If I were older and more experienced, I would in an

instant. But I hardly think I can compete with the memory of your

Phillip."

"Too true, too true. Alright young man, well thank you

for taking the time to look after a foolish old woman on a cold October

night."

"I hardly think you're foolish, Wilma, but it's been my

pleasure."

I didn't get home from Wilma's until well after nine that

night, and by the time I pulled into our gravel driveway, I was beat. The

dilapidated old yard light mounted on the roof of the garage shone weakly down

on the sloppy mix of gravel and mud that was our yard, and I could hear the

excited barks of Munchkin, our rescue puppy. He was a mix of German Shepherd

and Cane Corso, with some variety of northern dog thrown in, and he was mighty

pleased to see me.

I'm glad that someone was.

I came into our small three-bedroom rental to find Sharon

and Lane sitting at the dining room table working on his math homework. I wish

that they reacted like Munchkin when they saw me, but Lane just grunted a

hello, while Sharon looked up at me with a mixture of sadness and worry.

"Mary is out with the McDougal brothers again. They

showed up here a half hour ago, I told her not to go with them, but she

wouldn't listen."

"The McDougal brothers are assholes," was Lane's

addition to the conversation, without even looking up from the table. He wasn't

wrong. The oldest McDougall brother, Calum, was a couple of years ahead of me

at school and was a bully and a braggart. Two of his three brothers had

followed in his esteemed footsteps, while the jury was still out on the

youngest, James.

"I'm going to go get her. Next time that those boys

turn up in our yard, let Munchkin lose on them."

"Alright, dinner will be in the oven when you get back.

Given 'em hell, Bro."

The McDougal brothers lived just outside Pellston in the

closest thing to a mansion that you could find in our neck of the woods. Their

family owned the largest construction and maintenance company in the area and

had most of the Public Works contracts sown up, along with a not inconsiderable

portion of the private construction in our region as well. Their parents spent

most of their time in Sarasota, Florida, though, and the brothers had free rein

while they were gone.

As I drove up their long, paved driveway, automatic

floodlights came on, illuminating the ostentatious columns that flanked the

entrance to their house. I parked in front of the nearest bay of their four-car

attached garage while noting that there was another three-car garage further

off to the right. I idly wondered who got to park in which garage. Rich people

problems, I guess.

I walked to the front door and let myself in. From the

foyer, I could hear the loud thump of music coming from the back of the house,

so I headed that way. As I passed through the kitchen, I nearly bumped into

James, who was holding a couple of empty serving bowls. He stopped dead when he

saw me, looking nervous, clearly not expecting anyone else to be in their house.

Certainly not me, anyway.

"Hey James, I am here to get my sister. Where is

she?"

He hesitated a moment before pointing toward the back of the

house.

"She's in the game room playing pool with the guys. We

didn't force her to come here or anything, if that's what you're worried

about."

"Maybe that's true, James. But you know she is still a

minor, and I am her guardian, so I'm going to fetch her and bring her

home."

James didn't like the sound of that, but I turned my back on

him and followed the music to a large, sunken room at the back of the house,

which had an expensive-looking pool table in the middle. The remaining McDougal

brothers were either playing pool or smoking up on one of the couches that were

scattered around the outside of the room. Calum was presiding over the

festivities, while the Pistons game was playing on a wall-mounted TV that was

bigger than some movie screens. Despite his family's blue-collar roots, Calum

looked like an overgrown frat boy, with his preppy clothes and fifty-dollar haircut.

Mary was sitting in the middle of one of the couches, with a

McDougal brother on one side and one of their hangers-on on the other. She

looked somewhere between uncomfortable and scared, but she gave me a defiant

scowl. The music stopped, and everyone looked to Calum and then back at me.

There was a nervous tension in the air.

"Hi Calum, I'm here for my sister."

Calum was now in a bit of a spot; he couldn't just let me

come into his home and give him orders without losing face with his brothers and

their cronies. But he also knew, or at least suspected, that my sister was

underage. And then there was always the Pipe Wrench Incident. That always made

people nervous to be around me.

"That's not my problem. She told my brother that she

wanted to party, so she's here to party. No one forced her to come, and she

seems to be having a good time."

I wondered if all of Calum's dates looked as scared and

uncomfortable as Mary did at that moment when they were having a 'good time'.

"Well, since she is still a minor and I'm her guardian,

it's a bit of a problem. Or it could be. But I don't want to put a damper on

your evening, so I'll just bring Mary home with me and we'll call it a

night."

Calum looked toward James who had just come back into the

room with bowls now filled with potato chips.

"Is that true, Limp dick? Did you bring an underage

girl home to party with us?"

James began to sputter before Calum shook his head in

disgust. He pointed over at Mary.

"Get the fuck out of here, and don't come back until you're

sixteen," he said before turning back to me.

"And you. Just get the fuck out of our house."

It was a silent drive home. Mary refused to even look at me,

staring out the window instead. When we pulled into our yard, Munchkin came

running up to greet us, and Mary finally spoke.

"You didn't need to embarrass me like that. I'm old

enough to make my own choices, you know."

"The law says you're still a minor. And you'll always

be my sister. Those guys are no good, Mary. You know that."

"James is different. He isn't like the rest of

them."

"Maybe that's true, or maybe not. But you don't hang

out in a nest of rattlesnakes, just because there is a garter snake in there

with them that you think is cute."

After a pause and some continued barking from Munchkin, Mary

finally looked over at me.

"You're not my dad, you know. You can't tell me what to

do."

And there it was. It always came down to the same thing with

Mary; her father's rejection of her. Over the years, it had undermined her

self-esteem and destroyed her self-worth to the point where I wondered if they

would ever recover. Unfortunately, I was just smart enough to see the problem,

but I had no idea how to fix it. A brother's love can only go so far, I guess.

"I know, Mary. I know. But I love you, and I am so

proud of you, and I just wish that was enough."

We sat in silence for another minute before she replied.

"I wish it was too."

Chapter 2.

It took a couple of days for Mrs. Anderson's new radiator

line to arrive, and I gave her a call when I went to pick it up.

"Hi, Mrs. And; Wilma. I was just picking up the

replacement line for your radiator, and I was wondering if you needed anything

else from town, while I'm here. I was going to come by and install the line

later this afternoon if that works for you."

"That's very kind of you, Davis. Would you mind picking

up a few groceries for me? I can send the store a list, so they will be ready

for you when you get there."

A couple of my calls that day took longer than expected, so

it was late in the afternoon again by the time I made it to Wilma's place. The

early season snow had mostly melted away, and her yard was now a combination of

gravel and thick soupy mud that could swallow a tire as easily as it could

swallow a boot.

"Thank you for picking the groceries up for me, you're

too kind."

"It was no trouble at all, especially since I was

coming out this way anyway. If you don't mind me asking, how do you usually get

them?"

"I used to have a young man up the way who would help

me with groceries and yard work, and other small things, but now I am pretty

much on my own."

"What happened to him? Did he move away?"

"No, he still lives in the same place that he always

has, but I am pretty sure that my family paid him more not to help me than I was

paying for his assistance."

"What? That seems like a crappy thing for them to do to

you."

Wilma gave a resigned sigh and then offered me a coffee

while she told me her story.

"I think I told you the last time you were here, that

most of my family has moved on from this place, except my granddaughter Erin.

The rest of them already have an agreement in place with a developer, the

McDougals, to turn this property into a high-end resort for the Fudgies, so

they have someplace to spend their money after visiting Mackinac Island."

"Fudgies," was what the locals called the tourists

from down south who descended on the upper peninsula in the summer.

"If you don't mind me asking, just how much land do you

own?"

"Well, Phillip and I didn't have much to spend our money

on over the years, so we bought up many of the nearby properties when they went

up for sale. We ended up with at least a quarter mile of land that fronts onto

the lake, without even really trying."

I let out a low whistle.

"That must be worth a small fortune. I can understand

your family's interest."

"At first, they didn't care if I stayed in the house

after Phillip died. They figured that I would follow soon enough. After a few

years, however, they started to get impatient, and it's fair to say that they

are now actively encouraging me to leave, by foot, by car, or in a box. They

have generously offered to put me out to pasture in a warehouse for the old and

infirm, though, to await my impending doom.

"With my cancer, their wish is finally going to come

true. By this time next year, I will be sipping coffee with Phillip in whatever

afterlife we atheists get to enjoy. Actually, who am I kidding? If there is an

afterlife for Phillip and me, the first thing I'm going to do when I get there

is get on my knees, undo his belt buckle, and then show him just how much I've

missed him these past five years.

Wilma looked a bit startled as if she had just remembered

that I was still there.

"I'm sorry, Davis. You probably didn't need to hear

that last part. I just miss him so much. I still see him in the trees and along

the shore, and I sometimes hear his voice in the wind off the lake."

"It's all good, Wilma. I just hope that my brother and

sisters get to experience the kind of love that you and Phillip had

someday."

"What about you, Davis? Don't you deserve to experience

that kind of love as well?"

"Maybe I deserve it, Wilma, but I don't think I am

going to find it. It's been tough; real tough, looking after my family all

these years. I have done things that I am not proud of, but that needed to be

done. I don't regret them; I would do anything to protect the people I love.

But I doubt that anyone would be able to love me, once they found out what I've

done."

"I think you are selling yourself short, Davis. We are

all artists, and we are all worthy of love."

With that, Wilma offered to top up my coffee before I

started replacing the broken line. As the evening's shadows deepened, I saw her

watching me with compassion and concern in her eyes. Once I was finished, I

felt her hand on my shoulder, and she gave it an empathetic squeeze.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at her.

"It's my sister, Mary. I am losing her. She is so hurt

and angry that she is beginning to make bad choices, and I don't know how to

help her. I've tried to be her brother, parent, and friend, but I'm failing at

all three."

Wilma offered no judgment, good or bad. She just listened,

and when I finished, she spoke.

"Bring her over this Sunday around noon. Tell her to

wear some old clothes that she doesn't mind getting dirty. You can come too if

you would like and bring your little brother to do some fishing, but Mary will

be spending her time with me."

It wasn't easy convincing Mary to come to Wilma's. If you

have spent time dealing with teenage girls, you know that they can be as

stubborn as late-season ice on the lake. In the end, I resorted to threats and

bribery to get her onboard, but she assured me that she would hate every minute

she was there. Lane came with us as well, with the promise that we could spend

the afternoon fishing off the end of Wilma's dock.

By the time we arrived, Mary was sullenly glued to the

passenger seat and wouldn't look up from her phone. Wilma waited a few minutes

for Mary, but she stubbornly refused to leave the truck. Eventually, Wilma

pulled on her rubber boots and walked over to the truck. She looked up at Mary

and started speaking.

"There are three things that I know are true.

"The first, I've already shared with your brother. We

are all artists because we are all worthy of love. But many of us lose our way.

We are hurt and abandoned, and we are buried in shame. I was like that for many

years. But my husband, Phillip, found me and taught me what it is to be loved.

Not just the physical act; although he taught me about that as well; but the

certainty that I was seen, known, and cherished. He showed me that I am an

artist.

You are an artist too.

"Second, I am old, I have cancer, and I will die. Not

today, and hopefully not tomorrow, but soon. And that is okay; we all die. I

have lived a good life. And when I do, I hope that Phillip will be waiting for

me with a glass of chilled white wine and his beautiful smile. My art may

linger for a while once I am gone but, eventually, it too will be lost.

"Third, the world is full of bastards. Your brother

tells me that you and he are both bastards. I will tell you a secret that I

have shared with very few people; I am a bastard too.

"My mother was beautiful but poor. Her parents lost everything

during the Great Depression, and she worked as a housemaid for a rich and

powerful man to support her family. When she fell pregnant, he put her out on

the street and refused to recognize her child, his daughter; me. Because of his

rejection, I spent too many years steeped in shame and self-loathing. But

eventually, I learned a hard truth; my father was a bastard by choice, while I

was a bastard by birth. And those of us who are bastards by birth must never

let the bastards by choice win.

"Come inside when you're ready. I'm too old and it's

too cold for me to stand here waiting for you."

With that, Wilma turned and slowly made her way back to the

house. Surprisingly, after a minute, Mary followed. When they reached the door,

Wilma turned to look back at me.

"It's time for you boys to go fishing. There is a warm

breeze off the lake that will bring you good luck."

Lane and I made our way down the hill to the dock in

silence, our fishing rods, ice chest, and tackle box in hand. Unlike a seasonal

dock that would be taken out of the lake each fall, Wilma's dock could be used

year-round and was built with heavy timbers and steel bracing, so it could

withstand the crushing force of the winter's ice. When we reached the dock, we

felt the warm wind that Wilma had promised, and we chose our lures and began to

cast. After a half hour of fishing, Lane broke the silence.

"Do you think it's my fault?"

"Do I think what's your fault, Bud?"

"That mom left us. That she never came back. Do you

think it's my fault?"

I sighed as I thought about my answer.

"No. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault, really,

maybe not even hers. It's funny though, she brought some amazing people into

this world. I wish she could have seen how incredible you and your sisters have

turned out. But she made her choice, and that's on her, not you."

Lane thought about my answer before he continued.

"But you would be better off without me. Sharon would

have more time to study for the scholarship she will need to get away from

here. I try to be nice to Mary, to make her feel better, but I just seem to

make things worse for her as well. And I see how hard you work to keep our

family together. I feel like you would all be better off without me. If I

weren't here, maybe Mom would come back home."

I took a deep breath and tried to push down the anger that

threatened to overwhelm me; anger at my mother for abandoning us, anger at

myself for never being enough, and anger at a world that would leave my brother

feeling like it would be better off if he didn't exist. I felt the wind off the

lake as it blew across my face, drying my unshed tears before they were formed.

As I was wondering how to unbreak my brother's heart, a particularly strong

gust of wind blew through and Lane's fishing rod bent into a deep arc, the tip

dancing wildly as a fish fought against the line.

"Dad! Help;"

The drag clicked furiously as the fish pulled line, as Lane

fought to keep his rod tip up. I quickly set my rod aside and braced him, my

hands held loosely beside his as he fought to reel in his catch. We worked

together for what seemed like an eternity before he finally fought his fish to

the side of the dock. I grabbed the net and saw that he had hooked a steelhead

trout that was easily two feet long and must have weighed at least eight pounds

if not more. It was a wonder the drag held steady, and his line didn't break

during the fight.

As I scooped up his catch, the steelhead's silver sides

shimmered like polished chrome in the fading light, and it was so big that it

took up over half the ice chest I had brought along to store our catch. Lane

was flushed with excitement at landing such an impressive fish, and I was so

proud of him that my heart almost ached.

"Nice work, Son."

He just looked up at me for a moment before throwing his

arms around me in a hug. In the time since our mother left, he had never called

me by anything other than my name. I never tried to be his dad; I didn't think

I was qualified, but I guess that all of us need someone in our lives who will

love us without conditions or end.

"Never think that you're a burden on me or the family.

Maybe you need a bit more from us right now than you can give back, but that's

alright. Because sixty years from now, when I am old and can't wipe my ass

anymore, you are going to be paying me back in spades, alright?"

With that, we went back to fishing in companionable silence.

I pulled in a few smaller ones, but nothing to match Lane's steelhead.

A few hours later, the wind had picked up and it was getting

colder, so we packed up our equipment and made our way back toward the house.

Halfway down the dock, however, a huge gust of wind swept through, and I heard

a cry followed by a loud splash. Turning back, I saw that Lane's foot had

slipped through a broken slat, and he had fallen off the dock. Without

thinking, I dropped the ice box and rods and jumped into the water to help him.

When I got him to shore, he couldn't put any weight on his

ankle, and any efforts to do so were met with cries of pain. I quickly

collected our discarded fishing gear and set it to one side, before helping him

to slowly make his way back up the hill. The November chill quickly took hold

of us as we walked, plastering our damp clothing to our skin, and we were

shivering uncontrollably by the time we reached the house. I knocked but it

took a minute for Wilma and Mary to come out from the studio at the back of the

house.

"I am sorry to cut things short, but Lane had an

accident down at the dock and he sprained or maybe even broke his ankle. I am

going to have to take him to the hospital in Petoskey to get it looked at

before it swells up any further."

Wilma looked at me with concern.

"Maybe you should hold off at least for a little while.

My granddaughter, Erin, the pediatrician, is coming for dinner tonight and should

be here any minute. Why don't we let her take a look at it before you head into

town? And let's get you out of those clothes; you must be freezing. I still

have some of Phillip's things in the closet that might fit you."

A few minutes later, I had changed into a pair of

comfortable but slightly musty-smelling pants, with a warm sweater over a

well-worn collared shirt. I was both taller and wider than Phillip had been, at

least in the twilight of his years, so the pants were a bit short, while the sweater

was tight across my shoulders. While I changed, Mary and Wilma had set Lane up

on the couch with his ankle elevated on some pillows. I helped him change out

of his wet clothing and into an old sweatshirt and shorts that fit over his

swollen ankle. Once Lane was settled, Wilma and I talked quietly in the

kitchen.

"It's getting late, and you must be getting hungry, but

I don't think I have enough to feed everyone."

I thought for a moment.

"We may be in luck. Lane caught the biggest steelhead I

have ever seen earlier this afternoon, but I left it down by the dock after the

accident. If you have a few potatoes and maybe a veg or two, I am sure I can

whip something up that would feed us all."

Wilma looked at me with a sly smile.

"He cooks, he plumbs, and he cares for his family, all

while cutting a dashing figure in my late husband's favorite sweater. You, Mr.

Crawford, are a catch."

"I am not sure about that, Wilma," I replied with

a laugh, "But either way, this catch had better go and get our earlier

catch, so I can get started on dinner."

It took me almost half an hour to collect our fishing gear

and bring it back up to the truck. By the time I was done, an older SUV was

parked behind my truck, which meant that Erin had arrived. After I loaded the

gear, I used the fishing knife and stained plastic cutting board that I kept in

a bin under the back seat to clean and filet the steelhead before heading

inside.

From the doorway, I could see a head of sandy-blonde hair

pulled back into a loose ponytail sticking up from the far side of the couch,

and I heard a calm and melodic voice talking to Lane while Wilma and Mary

looked on. I was so lost in that voice that I almost jumped when the latch on

the door caught behind me. The head of sandy-blonde hair looked up at the

sound, revealing a pair of amber, almost golden eyes.

"You must be the father," said that same melodic

voice, as those eyes bore their way into my soul.

"It's Davis Crawford, and I'm the older brother."

"Erin Anderson, nice to meet you. Can you get hold of

your parents? We might need to take Lane to the hospital for some X-rays."

"No," I replied more harshly than I intended.

"No," I tried again, more gently but with an edge

to my voice. "Our parents aren't around; I am as close as you're going to

get. I am Lane's legal guardian if that helps."

There was a slight pause as her amber eyes shifted from

surprise to curiosity.

"That helps a lot. Why don't you give me 15 minutes or

so to take a look at this brave dude's ankle, then we can talk over some

options, once I have a better sense of what's going on."

"That okay with you, Bud?" I asked as I walked

over to the couch.

"Yeah, that should be fine," he replied, but his

eyes were wide, and his cheeks were flushed. For a moment, I was worried that

he might be running a fever, but then I got my first look at Erin, and I

understood.

Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful like a movie star or

swimsuit model, but she was lean and fit, and from what I could see, had more

than enough curves in all the right places. It was her face, however, that

captured me. She had delicate features accentuated by her high cheekbones, and

there was a softness to her expression that spoke of empathy and kindness. Her

eyes, though intense, had a warmth that put me instantly at ease.

I realized much too late that I had been staring at Erin for

an uncomfortably long time while holding the bag of steelhead filets out like

some kind of sacrificial offering. While I stood frozen, the look in Erin's

beautiful eyes had shifted from curiosity to amusement; I would assume at the

fish-carrying simpleton standing in front of her.

"Thanks, Dr. Anderson; err, Erin. I appreciate your

taking a look at him and; I am going to go cook us up some fish before I make

an even bigger ass of myself."

Wilma joined me in the kitchen, while Erin continued to

assess Lane's injured ankle. We spent the next few minutes dicing the potatoes

and veggies and tossing them with some olive oil, salt, and pepper before

sprinkling the filets of steelhead with a mixture of herbs. I topped the fish

with some slices of a less-than-fresh, but still edible, lemon I found in the

fridge, before putting the whole thing in the oven.

To be continued in part 2. Based on a post by CleverGenericName, in 4 parts, for Literotica.

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