When Kennet was called on the carpet or bent over the sugar barrel to take his due, Emil always looked grim, sorrowful, as if the old adage were true and the punishment hurt him more than it hurt Kennet. A whipping on Kennet worked the way it was supposed to, as a deterrent. Minor negotiated such punishment ahead of time. He calculated risk against loss and settled on a fair price to pay for whatever deed he’d cooked up. If he pulled it off, he pocketed his prize or the thrill and went on to the next caper. If he got caught, he went over the barrel like a gentleman, took his deserved licks and hoped for better luck next time.

More than once, Kennet had seen Minor leave the pantry, hands rubbing the seat of his pants. And staring after him would be Emil, with a little smile at the corner of his mouth, his expression both exasperated and affectionate. As if he were well aware his second son was a fresh, incorrigible, irredeemable handful, and Emil would have it no other way.

Needly in the Water

The Marianne III chugged east, squeezing between Wellesley Island and Fishers Landing, slipping beneath the Thousand Islands Bridge. Professional habits died hard, and though he wasn’t working, Kennet’s mind quietly pattered his speech.

Folks, we’re in the main American channel, which is about a half mile wide. It’s three miles straight north to the Canadian mainland. Further along, the river is between eight and ten miles wide.

We’re approaching Alexandria Bay. On one end of the waterfront is the Thousand Island house and at the other, the Crossman House. In between you’ll see the Monticello, the Marsden Inn and the St. Lawrence Inn…

He thought the river especially beautiful tonight, sparkling under the last of the sun, starting to reflect back orange and pink. The houses looked trim and pretty, waving coquettishly. The hotels and resorts bowed, dignified and handsome. He knew them all by name. He felt strongly they knew him. Clayton was his home, but the river was his place. With the wheel of a boat in his hands and the roll of the water beneath his feet, Kennet felt at one with the world, strong and secure beneath the title of River Rat. It hadn’t been handed to him: he wasn’t entitled to the epithet because he was merely born here, and first put his hand on a tiller as a tyke of three. He had to prove himself. Show he was wise and proficient in swimming and sailing, that he knew his way around a boat, from stem to stern. That he could read the water and read the skies and pilot accordingly. Handle bad weather, broken engines and unhappy guests. Most of all, that he understood and obeyed the international rules of the waterway.

The rest was just rote memorization and geography.