The Week in March Nobody Wanted

He did some figuring out loud. He had a group from Iowa booked for that exact week, four retired men and a father and his grown son, who had been with him for six winters. They had lost their usual lodging when the resort they stayed at closed for good in the fall.

“I can do $1,400 for the week,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been paying at the resort. I’ll cover the driveway plowing while we’re there, and they’ll leave it clean. They’re good people. They mostly want to fish perch and play cards.”

I looked at Scott across the table. He was holding his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Let me check a couple of things,” I said, “and I’ll call you back by Friday.”

I checked. I called our insurance agent in Grand Rapids, a woman named Kim who had insured Dad’s cabin for thirty years, and she said a one-time rental for a week was fine as long as we let her know and nobody was running a business out of it. She wrote a note on the file.

I looked at the regulations, because I read the fine print on everything. Up north of Highway 2, permanent fish houses have to come off the inland lakes by the third Monday in March, so the second week was still inside the season. Bobby would be using his own portable shelters anyway, licensed, and pulling them each night with his tracked machine.

Then I did the arithmetic on the back of an envelope.

My share of the taxes was $1,367. Bobby was offering $1,400.

My one week, the week nobody wanted, would pay my whole share of the cabin for the year, with thirty-three dollars left over.

I called Bobby back on Thursday and told him yes.

Telling them

I did tell my brothers. I want to be clear about that, because later Steve said I had snuck around, and I had not.

In February I put a message in the group text.

“I’ve got a group coming up for my week in March. Six people. They’ll take good care of it.”

Mark sent back, “Sure, Nic.”

Steve sent back a picture of a snowman.

Nobody asked who the six people were. I think they assumed it was Scott and me and some friends from Duluth.

I could have explained more, and maybe I should have. But they had not asked me one question when they made that calendar.

Scott said, “You’re going to have to tell them eventually.”

“I know.”

“You want me to be there when you do?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I want to be the one who talks.”

He nodded. “That’s how it should be.”