Free Heart of Stone by James W. Ziskin

regularly.
    â€œDinner at Arcadia Lodge,” prompted Isaac. “Will you join us?”
    â€œI’d love to,” said the old devil. “But how do you propose we get there?”

    The sun was burning high in the sky when Isaac and I reached the village. We stopped at the bakery run by Mrs. Ingve Enquist, a transplant from Norway who used butter as if it was melting in the back room. Isaac offered me a couple of almond cookies for dessert after our lunch, and we enjoyed them in two chairs on the front porch facing Lake Road and the water on the other side.
    â€œWhat are you up to, Ellie?” he asked as I snapped a photo of him with the eastern mountains as a backdrop. “What’s your grand plan in life?”
    I shrugged and slipped the camera back into its case. “No grand plan. I work as a newspaper reporter. I find it very rewarding. That’s enough for now.”
    He nodded then asked why I wasn’t married. “You’re twenty-five. Why hasn’t anyone snatched you up?”
    â€œI’m quite good at avoiding capture,” I answered. “Why aren’t you married?”
    He smiled and said it was different for a man.
    The village of Prospector Lake straddled Lake Road, also known as Route 15, for about a half mile. Small, quaint businesses lined the thoroughfare, catering mostly to the summer tourist trade. Ice cream parlors, a couple of taverns, gift shops, and eateries on one side, the post office, library, and sporting goods on the other. At the center of the village was a square that served as the fulcrum of community activity. A green with a large bandstand, a gazebo, spreading chestnut trees, and rows of boxwood hedges, Palmer Square presented a postcard-perfect image of an Adirondack idyll. As Isaac and I strolled across the grass, we passed a pushcart selling popcorn and another with cotton candy. There was a man flying a kite, inviting curious children to take turns holding the string. And there were groups promoting various activities and causes.
    â€œLook over there,” said Isaac, pointing to four sorry-looking specimens, flanked by two American flags, manning a small booth piled high with pamphlets. A sign stenciled in black read, “John Birch Society of America.”
    â€œI’ve heard of them,” I said. “They’re the rabid anti-Communists.”
    Isaac nodded. “They march around like they’re saving the Free World, but Prospector Lake isn’t exactly the State Department.”
    â€œNo card-carrying Communists to root out?” I asked. He smiled and shook his head. “What about the Politburo of Jewish Bolsheviks at Arcadia Lodge?”
    â€œNo, we’re not Communists,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Not all of us, anyway.” He paused, watching the John Birchers across the square. Then he added, “Not anymore.”
    â€œYou should steer clear of those fellows. They look like a rough bunch.”
    â€œNo, they’re all bark and no bite,” said Isaac. “Do you see the skinny kid standing in the back?”
    I located the object of Isaac’s interest: a bleak, gaunt sluggard in a tattered Mickey Mouse Club T-shirt and brown corduroy slacks. (In this heat?) He stood rooted in place, like a timid dog who’d been ordered to sit. His head hung several degrees below the perpendicular as he peered dully from beneath a Neanderthal brow.
    â€œSee him?” Isaac asked again.
    â€œThe one who looks like a gargoyle fetus? What about him?”
    â€œThat’s Waldo Coons. He does odd jobs for us at Arcadia.”
    â€œShrinking heads?” I asked.
    Isaac chuckled but didn’t answer. “Last year, the other lodgers wanted to get rid of him, but my father said he was harmless. As a matter of fact, he’ll be helping out at the supper we’re hosting tonight. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
    We approached the John Birch table, causing a minor