The Lake Near My Cabin Was Frozen Solid, But Something Just Knocked Under The Ice
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Thank you all so much for your continued support. "You hear that John Malfi fell through the ice last week?" Mark Kincaid asks me as we stand on my dock, staring out at the frozen expanse of White Pass Lake. "Tried to go ice fishing too early. Broke right through. Was he drunk?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Or was he on something? It's assumed he was on everything like usual, but it's unproven." Mark replies. "No autopsy?"

"No body." He aims his chin out at the ice. "They couldn't fish him out. He's still under there." "Will be until the spring thaw. Sucks to be the water skier who bumps into that corpse." I say and shake my head. "It's too bad. John was a pain in the ass, but he was always good for a laugh. Always." Mark agrees. "But he was definitely a pain in the ass. He was brutal to tourists." I say and shake my head. "Just brutal."

He was brutal to locals too. If he'd waited another week, the ice would have been just right. "Yes, because John Malfi was known for his patience," Mark says then rubs his gloved hands together. "Okay, I'm freezing my tits off. How about we head up to your cabin and have some of that fine bourbon you got for your retirement?" "The Pappy?" I reply and laugh. "That's a $1200 bottle of booze, Mark. You think I'm going to share it with your yokel ass?"

"If you want to get down off this mountain alive, then yeah, you are," he says and smirks. "Fair enough," I say and point at his four-wheeler. "You take that up the fire trail and I'll meet you on my porch. You want a ride?" he asks as he moves to his ATV. "Nah, the walk is good for me," I say and point at the trail that leads up to my cabin. Mark starts up the ATV and roars off, leaving me alone on my dock.

I look back out over the frozen lake and sigh at the peacefulness of it all. I can use a little peace after the year I've had. I jerk and look around. What the hell was that? An axe in a tree trunk? A huge fir bough falling from too much snow? Jesus Christ! I say and jump as the sound comes from right underneath the dock. I get down on my hands and knees and peer over the edge, but all I see is snow blowing across ice.

After a few seconds and no more thunking, I get up, give the lake one last look, then turn and walk up the trail to my warm cabin and some very fine bourbon. "This shit is really 1200 a bottle?" Mark asks as he sips. He shakes his head. "I don't know, man. The market dictates the price," I say, and smile over the rim of my glass. "But yeah, I've had just as good at a fraction of the price." I lift my glass high in the air.

but I didn't buy it, so who fucking cares how much it cost? I'll drink to that, Mark says, raising his glass as well. We toast the ceiling of my front porch, each take a sip, then relax into our rocking chairs. Can't believe you finally retired, he says after a moment. You've talked about it for years, but I never thought you'd pull the trigger. Well, circumstances sort of forced my hand. I know, I know, he replies in sips.

"I really am so sorry about Emily. That was some bad shit. Cancer is like that. Yeah, but hers was mean, man. Just cruel." I nod but don't reply. I can't trust my voice not to break at the moment. "How much did you get for the house?" Mark asks, sort of changing the subject. "Enough. Real estate over there in the city is crazy, so I'm guessing you pulled in close to a mill." I don't reply.

"Fuck, Leo. North of a mill?" I shrug. "Well, add that to your retirement payout from the law firm, and you won't even have to think about money until long after you're dead." I'm hoping I won't be thinking about anything after I'm dead. "Please. You may be retired, but you are a workaholic. How many times did you come up here for a vacation with Emily and bring like six briefcases of shit to do?" Emily loved that.

We sit and sip and rock.

I put some nice cushions on the rocking chairs at the end of summer, so our old Gen X asses wouldn't hurt too much. The cushions help, but just barely. "Are you sure you want to stay up here full time?" he asks after a few minutes. "It gets rough around here in winter. I've been here in the winter. Not all season. You stayed during the holidays, but a long weekend for Thanksgiving and a week of Christmas into New Year's is way different than living here."

I have the generator and enough propane for it to run for six months before it needs a refill. Jesus, seriously? Seriously. Damn, man. I may come stay with you then. Always welcome to. His phone chimes and he pulls it out to look at the text. Yeah, well, as nice as that sounds, I ain't retired yet. He holds up his phone to show me the message. Gracie is closing up the store early. Not a single customer for the past three hours.

Why keep the store open when the marina is closed? You get all your business when those tourist boats come speeding into the no-wake zone all summer long. You see, Leo, that right there tells me you don't know how things work here during the off-season. You do realize people live around here, right? No one on the lake, unlike your crazy ass. But we got all the folks up the highway and those over in Glacier Valley.

We laughed and Mark's phone chimes again.

"I better get going," he says and stands. "Gracie wants steaks tonight, and she hates using the grill, so dinner duty is all me." "Baked taters with those steaks?" "Yeah, why?" "You fishing for an invite?" "Oh, God, no. Just asking. I've got chili inside." I chuckle. "In fact, I made it with the venison John Malfi gave me last hunting season. I forgot it was in the freezer, so I figured chili was the way to fight any freezer burn."

"A real pain in the ass, but one hell of a shot," Mark says and raises his glass. "To John, to John," I say and raise my glass too. We both down our drinks and Mark pats my knee as he squeezes by, heading to the porch steps. "What you up to tomorrow?" he asks when he gets to his ATV. "Same as every day from now on, not a damn thing."

"Come on into the store. Gracie is going down the mountain for some supplies, and I'll be manning the counter by myself for eight hours. Maybe we can get a few games of gin in. Maybe. I'll text you when I'm heading your way, but it probably won't be until after lunch. I plan on sleeping late and moving slow." "I envy your ass, Leo," he says and starts up the four-wheeler. "See ya!" I wave as he whips the ATV around and heads down the main road.

When the sound of his engine is only a whisper in the wind, I reach down and grab the bottle of bourbon and pour myself one more drink. I pause with the rim of the glass to my lips and listen. It's that noise again, echoing up from the lake. I finish my drink, stand up on slightly drunk legs, then point the empty glass toward the lake. "Not today, Satan!" I say. Then head inside to heat up some venison chili and maybe watch an old movie. Or a new movie.

Or no movie. I'm a retired widower. I don't have to decide shit beforehand anymore. I get to be in the moment. I pause and stare down at the lake. Then I tuck the bottle of bourbon under my arm and move my old ass inside. The next morning, I do exactly as I said I would. I get up late and move slowly.

When the coffee is ready, I pour it into a to-go mug and walk down to the lake to marvel at the sunlight glittering off the ice. It's like nature is putting on a psychedelic strobe show. If there was some thumping bass and high trap noises, we could throw a rave out on the ice. Which gets me thinking about John Melfi.

Poor John. He was the lost misfit of the area. Always with some new scheme in mind on how he was going to strike it rich. Always with a nasty word to any tourist who dared show their face while he was in Mark and Gracie's store. Always ready to toss me a can of Milwaukee's Best or whatever 12-pack of cheap beer was on sale. Always with a story that was completely unbelievable, yet definitely entertaining.

The guy was a local, born and bred. He should have known better. You take your chances if you ice fish before Thanksgiving. But even a local can't fight the stupid that a 12-pack of shitty beer can produce. "Fucking hell!" I shout and drop my to-go mug. It hits the dock and then bounces and rolls toward the edge, leaving a slim trail of coffee in its wake. "No, no, no, no!" I shout as I dive for the mug.

but I'm too late. It rolls right off the dock and lands on the ice four feet below. It stays put at least, having fallen into a little drift of snow. I get on my belly and reach down for it, but the tips of my fingers are a few inches short. "You have got to be kidding me!" I say and push back up onto my hands and knees.

I look around, hoping to see a tree branch or something I can use to snag the mug, or at the very least, be able to knock it towards shore so I can reach it easier. "What the fuck!" I exclaim, and go back to the edge of the dock and look down. Then I see someone waving. A wave from John Malfi as he smiles up at me from under the ice. All I can do is stare at his blue and bloated face. He just smiles and then says something.

I can hear him clearly, but that's fucking crazy because he's under several inches of ice and dead. What the fuck am I thinking? I say and stand up quickly so I can retreat from the dock as fast as possible. No one is saying anything. I sure as fuck didn't just see John Malthy waving at me. Too much bourbon, I think as I hurry down the dock and then up the trail to my cabin. Not enough coffee in my system yet, which makes me think about the to-go mug sitting on the ice back by the dock.

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What happened to your old one? Mark asks as I grab a new to-go mug from the display by the Marina Store's front door.

"That was your favorite!" Dropped it off the dock and it rolled away, I say, and set the mug on the counter so I can pull my wallet out. "Fuck off," Mark says and pushes the mug at me. "On the house. This one is a piece of shit. I'm warning you now, so you don't complain later. If your mug was a Cadillac, then this one is a used Yugo with rats living in the engine."

"Do you really know how to move some merchandise?" I say and laugh as I take the mug. "How exactly do you stay in business?" "By charging tourists 30% more during the high season," he says. "God bless America and the horse she rode in on," I say, and take my new mug around the counter to the small sink by the bait cooler. I give it a good rinse, then head to the coffee machine. "Well, I guess just make yourself at home. Want me to call Gracie and tell her you're being a bad host?"

I ask as I add a little cream and sugar to my coffee. "Whoa, whoa, no need to launch nukes right off the bat, dude," he says. "You know I'm just giving you shit." "Same," I say and smirk. "Fucker. Asshole." I sip the coffee and smile. "You've gotten way better at making coffee than when I first started coming up here. 20 years of practice and I should be better. You got any fresh donuts back there? I don't want the day-old shit you keep in the case. None of that runny maple bar crap.

"You are such a snob," Mark says, and pulls a box of donuts out from under the counter. Glazed or plain. Chocolate. "I got chocolate glazed, but no chocolate cake donuts. I'll survive." He plucks out a chocolate glazed, sets it on a napkin, and slides it across the counter to me. "Two dollars. That's funny. I used to tip Gracie the same amount when she worked the pole at the Trout Club." "Motherfucker," he says. "That's my wife you're talking about."

He takes out a plain donut and nearly bites it in half. Then around the mouthful he says, "And she was too clumsy to work the pole. She was a waitress." We laugh and spit bits of donut out of our mouths, knowing that Gracie would murder us both if she heard our bullshit. She, of course, never would have been within a mile of the Trout Club. "Cards?" I ask as I swallow my donut and take a sip of coffee.

"Penny a point?" he replies, and leans down to search for the deck of cards he keeps under the counter. "Dammit, Gracie! Where'd you move the cards to?" He stands up and looks around. "Maybe she took them in back."

Just grab a fresh deck off the end cap, I say and point at the end of the aisle closest to me that has rows of quick games like Uno and Yahtzee and Farkle. Plus coloring books and boxes of markers, various cheap toys, and crap like that so the tourist kids don't get too bored while their parents escape the weight of the city life for a weekend. A fresh deck? Mark scoffs. No way. I want my lucky deck so I can kick your ass today.

"Good luck with that," I say as he walks off to the back room. "I'm in a winning mood, bitch!" The front door is flung open, and the metal bell that hangs from the ceiling nearly flies off its string. "There's someone trapped under the ice!" a young woman shouts as she runs inside. "I just saw someone trapped under the ice out there!"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down," I say, and set my mug down on the counter. "Are you sure?" "Yes!" she shrieks. "I was putting gas in the car, and while I waited for it to pump, I took a walk down to the marina, and then I saw something under the ice so I got closer, and it was a man, and he was waving at me, and he was saying…" "Waving at you?" I ask, and the image of John Malfi slams into my brain. I shake my head and close my eyes.

What'd the guy look like? "Who cares? Call 911!" "What the fuck is going on out here?" Mark asks as he races from the back room. "There's someone trapped under the ice! Oh fuck!" Mark says, then disappears into the back room before returning with the large axe in his hands. "Leo! Call 911!" He points the axe at the young woman. "Show me where they are! Now!" He and the woman are gone before I can say anything.

Pulling my phone out, I stare at the glass screen, ready to dial 911. But I hesitate, as again the image of John waving at me from under the ice fills my brain. Then I snap out of it and dial.

"He was right there!" the young woman shouts, pointing down from the dock at the ice and the first boat slip. "I saw him under there and he was waving at me! He was drowning!" "What did he look like?" the sheriff's deputy asks the woman while search and rescue and EMS stalk up and down the marina, all of them looking for signs of someone under the ice. "Could you describe him?"

"Um, I don't know," she says and shakes her head. "His skin was really blue, but that was probably the light going through the ice. He, uh, had a green parka on and a purple and green striped beanie on his head. His gloves were, uh, maybe black? I don't know. And he had a mustache." "What kind of mustache?" the deputy asks. "I don't know. A mustache."

A normal mustache, a Hitler mustache, a handlebar mustache, a pornstache. There's lots of mustaches. I don't know. It was a fucking mustache. I didn't pay attention to the mustache, but he did have red snow pants on. Like maroon, not bright red. That's the outfit that John Malfi was wearing. I say to Mark as we stand a few feet away, keeping out of the way of the chaos. The deputy looks up from his notes, then glances over at me and Mark.

He eyes me for a moment, then returns his attention back to the young woman. Mark turns to me. "How do you know that?" "What? How do I know what?" "What John was wearing when he fell through the ice. I just told you about him yesterday, and I sure as shit didn't mention what he was wearing." "I, uh… I mean, that's what John always wore, right?" "It is, yeah." He lets the response hang there, and I shrug. "Something you aren't telling me?" He asks off my shrug.

"That you're right," I say and hold up my mug. "This thing is a piece of shit and my coffee's ice cold. Gonna go freshen it up." I head back into the store and I'm not surprised that Mark is right on my ass. "How long have we known each other?" he asks me as I cross the store to the coffee machine. "Didn't we have this conversation last evening on my porch?" I reply, filling my mug enough to warm it up and still leave room for cream and sugar. "Yeah, so you should know that I can tell when you're holding back. So spill it."

"Spill the coffee?" "Fuck you!" I slowly stir in my cream and sugar, dragging it out so I can think of what I should say. I got a lot of leeway a year ago when Emily died. People let me fall apart a bit, but that was a year ago, and I don't know how much sympathy I'll elicit by saying I saw a corpse under the ice and it waved at me. "Leo!" Mark snaps. "I'm gonna make you pay for that coffee, and the donut from earlier if you don't spill the fucking beans."

"Do you trust me?" I ask, having made up my mind. "Of course! Don't ask stupid questions. Enough to shove aside everything that's happened to me this last year and just listen. Not sure how I can shove all that aside. Your wife died. You sold the house you raised your kids in. You retired from a job that had consumed most of your life. That's a lot for one year, dude." "Yeah, no shit. But all of that has happened. It's over.

Before he can answer, the door opens and the deputy walks in. "Hey, Mark!" he says, then looks at me. "Um, Leonard, right?" "Leo," I say.

"Shit, have you two not met?" Mark asks. "Not formally," the deputy says. "But I've seen you around. You're in the cabin off Fire Road 8, right? The 15 acres of the lake?" "That's me." "Leo Martin, this is Deputy Jamie Butler. Deputy Jamie Butler, this is Leo Martin. Now it's official. Good to meet you," Deputy Butler says. "Same." Mark looks past the deputy and frowns.

"Everyone packing up already?" he asks. "There's no sign of anyone under the ice," Deputy Butler replies. "And after the description, I'm thinking that if the woman actually did see someone, it may have been John Malfi's body floating by." "Makes sense," Mark says. "What do you mean if she actually saw someone?" I ask. "You don't believe her?" "I believed her up until she said the body was waving to her and was trying to ask her something."

Deputy Butler says with a laugh. "Now that weed is legal, half my calls are stoner seeing shit, so I've learned to take these things with a grain of salt." She said the person under the ice was trying to ask her something? I ask. "Probably can you get me the fuck out of this water?" Mark says and laughs. "More like get me a beer, will ya?" Deputy Butler says, reading from his notes. "She said it was hard to hear, but that was what the man was saying." He looks from me to Mark, then back.

Crazy, right? He asks, his eyes really studying both of us. Damn stoners. Damn stoners, Mark echoes. Mind if I grab a cup? Deputy Butler asks, pointing at the coffee machine. Help yourself, Mark says. The deputy does. Well, I've got to go make my report and get back out on the road so I can pull idiots without snow tires out of ditches and all that fun stuff, he says and lifts the coffee cup.

Thanks for this, Mark. And good meeting you officially, Leonard. Leo. I correct. Right. He says, then leaves. You boys have a good one. Sixteen years from today, Greg Gerstner will finally land the perfect cannonball.

Epic splash. Unsuspecting friends. A work of art only possible because Greg is already meeting all these same people at AARP volunteer and community events that keep him active and involved and help make sure his happiness lives as long as he does. That's why the younger you are, the more you need AARP. Learn more at aarp.org slash local. We watch him leave.

Then we watch as search and rescue and EMS drive away too, leaving only the young woman alone in her car as she sits by one of the gas pumps. "You know, I think I'll take a rain check on the cards," I say to Mark. "It's been a weird day, and a long nap followed by a way too big burger with way too many fries is just what I need." "You're taking off? But you had something to tell me." "It can wait."

He stares at me for a few seconds then shrugs and says, "Whatever dude, enjoy your nap and burger. You gonna throw some of that leftover chili on top? Maybe." I say and head out the door. "I'll swing by tomorrow and kick your ass at Jen. Not likely fucker." He says as I leave. On my way to my Jeep, I pass by the young woman's car. She's leaning her forehead on the steering wheel and crying. "Hey, you okay?" I ask, tapping on the glass.

She jumps, then looks at me, and turns her car on so she can roll down the window. "I'm fine, yeah," she says, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "This was just a lot is all." "I bet," I say. I start to ask her a question about what she saw, but I see Mark staring at me from inside the store. So I just tap the top of her car and say, "Drive safe, alright? The roads are slick as shit right now." "Okay, um, thanks."

I smile at her then go to my jeep, start it up and drive off back home. By the time I get home, my coffee and my new shitty mug is ice cold again. One warm up is fine. Two warm ups? Fuck this mug. So I decided that even if I did see John Malfi's body down by my dock, there is no way I saw it waving and talking to me. It was just his body finally showing up, floating under the ice as the lake currents moved it from shore to shore.

Not that it makes it any easier for what I'm about to do, but it does lessen the weird factor. I should call Deputy Butler and report what I saw this morning too. Although, there is no way the current is strong enough that John's body could float from my dock and all the way across the lake to the marina in less than two hours. But that's not my problem. My problem is my favorite to-go mug is somewhere under the ice under my dock.

I walk to my tool shed and grab out a rake, a bucket, and some rope. Then I head down to the dock, tie the rope to the bucket, go out to the end, and toss the bucket down onto the ice. I then get flat on my belly and lean over as far as I can with the rake and hunt for the mug, hoping I can knock it into the bucket and pull it up. The mug is easy to spot as the angle of the sun reflects off the ice and lights it right up despite being halfway under the dock.

I reach and reach, the rake just a little too short to snag it. "Hey man, while you're there can you toss me a beer?" I yelp, then lose my balance and fall off the dock. Air explodes from my lungs and I struggle to catch my breath after the four-foot fall onto the hard ice. "Hey man, you should get off the ice. You're gonna fall through and drown." "Fuck!" I shout and scramble and slip my way to the dock's ladder that hangs half-frozen in the ice and half-free in the air.

I grab onto the rungs for dear life, then I slowly look below me. "Hey, Leo," John Malfi says as he waves at me. "Toss me a beer, will ya? I'm so fucking thirsty, man." "No way," I say, and climb my ass up onto the dock. Fuck my favorite to-go mug. I'll get another the next time I'm at Costco.

"Dude, where you going?" John shouts after me as I race down the dock. "Fucking toss a guy a beer, will ya? Leo? Leo!" Then the thunking begins and gets louder and louder. I can only imagine that John is punching the ice. I don't know for sure because I'm sprinting up the trail to my cabin. Once I'm inside, I slam the door and hurry over to the fireplace.

"You're cold is all," I tell myself. "Too much bourbon last night, not enough coffee this morning, weird shit at the marina, and, um, too cold." The lawyer in me winces at the shitty excuses for what I just experienced. But it's either that, or I admit I have lost my goddamn mind, and I have been through way too much to just slip into insanity now. "More like get me a beer, will ya?" Deputy Butler's words echo in my mind.

"You just need to nap," I say, and stand in the middle of my cabin frozen with indecision. "Nap or build a fire? Nap or build a fire?" I build the fire, then plop myself onto the plush, leather couch under the huge picture window that fronts my cabin, grabbing what was Emily's favorite fleece throw. I tuck it up under my chin and close my eyes. Far, far off down at the lake, I can still hear, "Leo! Fuckin' A, man!"

Do a dead man a solid and get him a fucking beer!" It's faint, not like it's a voice shouting in my head. More like someone on my dock yelling up at the cabin, like Emily and the kids and I used to do every summer when we ran out of lemonade or sunscreen or… beer. "Fuck!" I shout and get up off the couch. I grab my parka, pull on my boots, then go and fetch the iron poker from the side of the fireplace.

I also toss on a fresh log, since I may be a while, and I don't want the fire to die down while I'm gone. Then I'm out the door and stomping down to the deck. "Leo! Where'd you go, man?" I get to the edge of the dock and look down at the ice. "I'm right here, asshole!" I say and point the poker at John Malfi's smiling face. "You came back! Cool!" He shouts up at me. Then he frowns.

"Where's my beer, man?" "You are not real!" I yell and jab the poker at him. "You died!" "No shit, Sherlock," he says. "What fucking gave it away?" "You are not there," I say and go to the ladder. "Well, maybe your body is because that's possible. Even probable. But what isn't possible or probable is that you're talking to me and asking for beer."

"What do you mean it's not possible?" he says. "Dude, I'd ask you for beer all the time when I'd troll by in my skiff. Shit, Leo, your kids knew to toss me a cold one when I swung by, even if you and your wife weren't around." "They did?" I ask, then shake my head. "No, fuck this. You're a body and that's all." I climb down the ladder and put a foot on the ice, testing it. It holds my weight, so I put the other foot down. All good.

I crouch and look under the dock, seeing my mug only a few feet away. "Hey, when you're done doing that, will you please get me a beer? I'm so thirsty." "You fucking drowned and you're submerged in a lake under the ice. How thirsty can you be?" "All the water went in my lungs, man." He says in that whiny tone John gets when he's not getting his way. Everyone around here knows that tone.

It's usually followed by him pulling something stupid, so while the attention is on him, the ice under me shakes. "What the fuck, man? Knock it off!" "Then get me a beer!" "Fuck off, you aren't there!" I look down at the thin, white line by my feet, and just below that is the scowling face of John Malfi as he punches up at the ice. "Get. Me. A. Fucking. Beer!"

The white line spreads, and I scramble backwards away from my mug and get to the ladder as fast as possible. Then I see that I've left my fire poker under the dock. "Dammit! What's wrong with you, man? Get a guy a beer for fuck's sake!" I'm up the ladder and running down the dock, then up the trail and into the cabin as John keeps punching the ice and yelling at me. I throw another log on the fire, then stare at the flames. Finally, I pull out my phone. "Hey, Mark.

We stand at the edge of my dock and stare down at the very angry John Malfi, who is busy screaming up at us from under the ice.

Well, that's definitely John, Mark says, holding his power auger in one hand and the 12-pack of cheap beer in the other. Yep, I say and hold out my hand. Mark looks at it and frowns. Give me the auger. Like I'm gonna let some fake local use my auger, he scoffs. He'll fuck it up and end up joining John down there. Am I getting beer or what, assholes? John shouts through the ice. Hold on, dickhead! Mark yells at him.

"You fucking hold on!" John yells back. "I'm going to drill a hole and then drop this down to you, you undead, impatient fuck!" Mark yells as he holds the 12-pack out over the ice for John to see. "The whole thing?" "The whole thing." "Well, that's all you had to say." John says and starts waving his arms like he's treading water. "Hold on! Let me get out of the way!" "You can stay right there, dumbass," Mark says. "I'm not going to drill directly over you."

He shakes his head and looks at me. "He's as much a pain in the ass in death as he was in life!" "No shit," I say, and take the auger so Mark can climb down to the ice. Then I hand it to him, and he scoots slowly to the side, sets the auger's tip onto the ice, and gets the drill going.

Ice chips fly this way and that as Mark drills. John just floats a few feet away, his eyes going from the hole Mark is making and to the dock where the edge of the 12-pack can be seen hanging a few inches off the last board. The auger punches through, and Mark stands still for a moment, assessing the ice. When no cracks appear, he pulls the auger out and slowly walks it over to the dock. I reach down and take it, then hand him the beer.

"Holy fuck!" Mark shouts when he turns around. John's head is sticking up out of the hole. His shoulders are sort of wedged into the space. It doesn't look natural or comfortable. But the guy is dead, so who fucking knows what is comfortable to a frozen corpse. "What brand is it?" John asks. "Um, Genesee," Mark says. "Seriously, man? You can't be nice enough to get a dead guy some good stuff. Do you want the beer or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, roll me one," John says, and manages to wriggle his right arm up out of the hole. It's a grotesque sight, John wedged in that hole with one arm sticking out. I ease down to the ice next to Mark and roll John a beer. He catches it like the drinking pro he is, or was. He even manages to put the tab in his mouth and crack the beer open one-handed. "Jesus, is this shit happening?" Mark asks.

"We can't both be crazy," I say as we watch John guzzle that beer down. Then, being John, he crushes the can on his forehead and tosses it off across the ice. The bottom of the can leaves a deep dent in his bloated, soft flesh. I turn and gag a little. "Another!" John yells. "Gimme, gimme, gimme!" "And to think we were sad when we thought he was dead," Mark says. "He is dead," I reply. "You know what I mean."

For the next 20 minutes, we roll beers to John, and he cracks them open, downs them, then crushes the cans on his forehead. By the time the 12-pack is gone, John's forehead looks like a split melon mixed with a kitchen sponge that should have been thrown out months ago. "That's it?" he shouts at us. But before we can respond, his eyes go wide, which splits his forehead even more, and he shouts, "Fuck! It's the cops!"

Then he's gone down through the hole and lost under the ice again. "I saw the store was closed and figured you'd be here," Deputy Butler calls out from behind us as he walks down the dock. "I knew something was up earlier. What do you mean?" I ask from down on the ice. "I saw John Malfi," Deputy Butler says and points at the hole. "Right there, just now. Care to tell me what the fuck is going on?" Then he squints into the setting sun.

"And why are there a bunch of crushed beer cans spread out over the ice?" Mark and I look at each other. Then Mark shrugs. So I tell Deputy Butler everything, and he listens. "Fuckin' cursed lake," Deputy Butler says. "Sheriff Knott's warned us this could happen if anyone drowned in the lake. We always thought he was just off his fuckin' rocker and drinkin' too much." "Wait, what?" I ask, looking at Mark. "Do you know about this?"

"Not a fucking clue," Mark replies. "But it explains a lot. Why don't you two come on up here and we'll go have a chat inside where it's not colder than a witch's tit?" Deputy Butler suggests. "Leo's got Pappy, asshole." I mutter as we shuffle to the dock's ladder. "You'll never take me alive!" John Malfi shouts as he pops up into the hole then disappears just as quickly. Deputy Butler sighs. "Summer is going to suck with this guy around."

We get up onto the dock and follow Deputy Butler up to my cabin, even though it's my property and I should lead. But he has the gun and apparently knows what the fuck is going on, so he can lead all he wants. Once inside, and Mark has graciously poured all three of us three fingers of my obscenely expensive bourbon, Deputy Butler gets to the meat of the matter. "There are three stories about why the lake is cursed," he says, nodding at the picture window.

He takes a sip and his eyes go wide. "Fuck me, that's good. Tell him how much a bottle costs," Mark says to me. "Shut up. What's the second story?" "The witch was drowned in the lake, and her spirit traps anyone else who drowns too," Deputy Butler continues and shrugs.

But that's a tough one to track down. So it could be true and it could not. Helpful, Mark says. The third story is most likely, Deputy Butler says, ignoring Mark's barb. There used to be a church over where the marina is now. And every spring, the preacher would gather his flock and perform baptisms, cleansing the parishioners of their winter sins. Winter sins, I ask. Old term, Mark says.

Folks can get a little stir-crazy during the winter months, and not everyone makes it through without a few scars, literally and figuratively. "Looking forward to that," I mutter and sip. "Well, the preacher was baptized in a pair of twins," Deputy Butler says, pushing on. "They were about three years old, and in the middle of the baptism, the preacher has a stroke and ends up falling over the twins, pushing them to the bottom of the lake.

It was only about four feet deep where they were all standing, but because so many people were there, the water was murky and mucky. It took them too long to find the preacher and the twins, let alone get them up out of the thick silt. All three were dead by the time they dragged them ashore. "Damn," I say. "So why the curse?" "The parents of the twins cursed the lake for taking their kids," Deputy Butler says and shrugs. "At least that's what Sheriff Knott's says.

"And you believe all of this?" Mark asks. Deputy Butler frowns at him. "You just gave a dead man a 12-pack and watched him drink it. Fair point." Mark replies. "But how come we've only seen John Malfi?" I ask. "There have to have been more deaths over the years. You know how you think you hear loons calling in the evening?" Deputy Butler says. We nod. "Have you ever seen any loons on the lake?" We shake our heads. "Yeah, it's the twins crying for their parents."

"Fucking hell," I say. "Some bodies we've gotten out right away," the deputy continues. "Some we're able to get out later, despite them coming back from the dead. How the hell does that work?" Mark asks. "It's too complicated to go into," Deputy Butler replies. "And not cheap. So we don't try it with every death. I'm pretty sure there's a whole VW bus of hippies at the bottom, trapped down there in that van forever.

Neither Mark nor I know what to say to that. "It really hasn't been a problem," Deputy Butler says. "Now it will be, because John Malfi is a pain in the ass," I say. "Because John Malfi is a pain in the ass," he echoes, nodding in agreement. Then he finishes his bourbon, sets the glass down, and stands up. "Well, I better get going. I'll talk to you gentlemen another time."

"Hold the fuck on," I say and stand up as well. "You're leaving?" "Um, yeah," he says and smiles. "I got a family to get home to." "What about Malfi?" I ask and point toward the lake. "What do we do about him?" "We?" Mark asks. "He was spotted at your marina," I say. "Shit, you're right," Mark says and looks at Deputy Butler. "So? What do we do about him?" "Well, for starters," the deputy replies. "Stop giving him beer."

I was trying to shut him up, I say. You'll have to deal with him being an asshole for a bit, but he'll get bored when he realizes you won't give him what he wants, Deputy Butler says. It won't be any fun, but I've known Malfi my whole life. He'll go find a different target. He always does.

He grabs his hat and coat and opens the front door. "Also, don't say anything to anyone about this. It'll kill the summer tourist business," he says and nods at Mark. "And we wouldn't want that. No, we wouldn't," Mark says and stands up. "I should go too. You're both gonna leave me with an undead John Malfi shouting through a hole in the ice by my dock?" I snap. In the silence before either answer, we hear a far-off voice yelling for more beer.

"Yep," Deputy Butler says and leaves. "Sorry, Leo," Mark says and shrugs as he grabs his coat. "I don't know what else to do." He leaves too and I'm left standing there. A glass of bourbon in one hand and a whole lot of nothing in the other. I go to the window and watch the two men leave. Then I finish my bourbon and have an idea. With the bottle in hand, I march down to the dock and climb down the ladder.

"Where's the beer, asshole?" John Malthy barks at me. "No more beer," I say, but hold up what's left of the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. "But if you promise to stop making noise and being a jerk, then I'll share this with you. Every day I'll come down and we can have a drink. I'll do that daily until it's gone. Once it's gone, then you move off from here. Go be a pain in the ass in a different part of the lake." "That real, Pappy?" he asks, squinting his squishy eyes.

"Oh, it's real," I say and shake the bottle, letting the amber liquid slosh and slide around. Malfi licks his lips. "And it's a sight I never want to see again." "Deal," he says. "Now gimme a sip." I pull a glass and straw out of my coat pocket, take the cork out of the bottle with my teeth, and pour him two fingers worth. "That's it! Bitch again and no pappy for you. Whatever."

I get as close as I feel I can to the hole in the ice, then lay down on my belly and stretch out, putting the straw within reach of his mouth. "Now, don't drink it all down it," I start to say but it's too late. Malfi sucks the bourbon down like it's root beer. "More!" Or none ever again, I counter. He pouts for a minute, then nods. "Okay," he says, sinking down into the hole. "See you tomorrow."

When spring finally rolls around and the ice melts at last, Deputy Butler is out on the lake in the county skiff, working a grid with a catch-all in order to try to dredge John Malfi's corpse up. But no luck. He gives up by June. By the time it's high tourist season in the summer, Malfi is making appearances every other day or so, popping up out of the water and yelling at couples in canoes to "Give me all your beer, you ugly fucks!" Some would just throw the beer in the lake and paddle away screaming.

Others would argue until Malfi grew angry and tried to tip their canoe over. Mark and I would just sit either on my deck or at his marina and watch the chaos. "He may be a pain in the ass, but he has a certain style," I say one summer evening. "No he doesn't," Mark replies. "You're confused in style with raging alcoholism that has followed him even in death."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I say and shrug. "Wanna go inside and play gin?" "Yeah, sure," Mark says. "But next time you make a deal with the dead guy, don't include the pappy, okay? Got it." I say and we stand up and walk into the General's door. As the door closes behind us, we hear, "Hey! Hey, kid! Go buy me some beer, will ya? Hey, I'm talking to you! Where the fuck do you think you're running off to, you little shit?"

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