Cameo Lake Read Online Free PDF Page B

subliminal. You really aren't supposed to be aware of it. Sometimes it's pseudo-rock and sometimes it's pseudo-classical. Not like the old days, when ad jingles had words . . .”
    “Oh, you mean like the Toyota theme?” Unusually unabashed, I sang the little ditty I associated with Toyota commercials for years.
    “Something like that. I don't write lyrics, just music.”
    “It's funny but such things are so much a part of our culture. I mean, who can't sing the ‘I'll wonder where the yellow went when I brush my teeth with Pepsodent.’”
    “You'll.”
    “What?”
    “You'll wonder where the yellow went . . .”
    “Right. Well, generally speaking, people do remember those things, like cigarette slogans, long after the products disappear, or evolve.” I stood up. “You're part of the American subconscious, Ben.”
    “More like the American unconscious. Anyway. I promised myself a swim when I got that piece of Americana out of the way, and now I must go tackle a breakfast cereal. Something incredibly sweet and garishly colored. They sent me a carton of it for inspiration.” He named the cereal.
    “I have to admit, that one's my kids' favorite.”
    A stillness dropped between us, a slight wedge whose provenance I thought was the mention of kids, maybe a little surprise that I was there without family. He quickly broke through the pause, “By the way, I've read all your books.” It came out as if he had had to steel himself to make such a personal remark. “You're a good writer, Cleo.”
    “Thank you, Ben. I have a good editor. But, you know, it's funny, I don't usually introduce myself as Cleo Grayson. That was like introducing my alter ego. McCarthy is my married name. I don't know why I did that.”
    “Maybe because while you're here, you are Cleo Grayson.” Ben stood up, dry already in the baking sun.
    “Thanks for the company, Ben. I hope I didn't intrude on your privacy.”
    “No. Not at all. I've been pretty solitary lately and a little company is nice.”
    He poised himself at the edge of the raft facing north, which puzzled me for a minute as his cabin was due west. Then he stepped back and gestured to the west side of the square raft as if aware of my thought. “Cleo, you should know that it's really dangerous to jump off that side of the raft. There's a submerged boulder and it's hard to judge where it is as the raft tends to swing a little.”
    “Thanks for the heads up.”
    “I keep meaning to paint a warning on the edge, but I'm the only one out here. I mean, usually.”
    “I'll make sure my family knows that when they come.”
    Somehow he didn't seem convinced by my answer and repeated, “Remember, never jump off that side.”
    “I won't, Ben. I promise.”
    That seemed to satisfy him. Ben dived then, a graceful arc of lithe body, entering the water with only a slight splash. In twenty strokes he'd curved back toward his own shoreline.
    I dived off the east side of the raft a moment later, though with much less grace. I arrived, breathless, on my shore and bent to retrieve my shoes and Discman. When I stood up I could see Ben on his shore, one hand raised in friendly salute, as if acknowledging my successful return to shore. I waved and went back to work.

Four

    T he nocturnal music of bullfrogs and crickets, a rare owl, and myriad other night sounds surrounded me. Breaking through my random thoughts, another sound. The light music of a breezy piano piece, Mozart, I thought, not being musically confident enough to be sure. A sweet sound competing equally with the natural sounds of the lake. The only human sound until next week, when the other cottages would fill the air with televisions and radios, and two-cycle motors on fishing skiffs. But for now, Ben's music was the only human-derived sound, wafted to me on a breeze which riffled through the trees, carrying on it also the promise of a storm.
    I was awakened sometime after midnight by the first volley of thunder. The surrounding