I loved my babysitter, Eileen. She ran cross-country track and strutted around bare legged in a varsity warm-up jacket. Her name was emblazoned in gold letters on the back, and there was a sneaker with wings on the sleeve. When she came over to babysit for my brother and me, I waited at the front door for her. My eight-year-old body would practically vibrate with excitement as I anticipated the way she would lope up our steps and grin at me. Her blue eyes were so bright and mischievous. She’d cock her head and ask, “Okay, so what are we gettin’ up to tonight?”

There wasn’t much for a teenage babysitter and two young kids to get up to on a balmy Saturday evening in rural Ohio, but my younger brother, Brad, and I knew Eileen would be game to fool around outside. Our farmhouse was back a half mile lane and sat on a gentle sloping hill above a spring-fed lake. In my memory, the property centers around that lake framed like an Americana grandfather clock face. Top of the hour was the woods, directly across the lake from our house. At the quarter hours sat our big red barn on one side and an undulating field of thick, young, corn stalks on the other.

Eileen wasn’t afraid of anything. One evening, as we were dragging our dirt bikes, ball bats and red wagon back into the garage for the night, we heard a menacing hiss coming from behind the garbage cans. Eileen directed us to the door leading from the garage into the house while she crept around the cans to have a look. A nasty old possum had wandered in and now felt cornered. It was horrible to look at with its sharp bared teeth, beady black eyes and a long pink, rat-like tail. Eileen was not impressed. She made herself big with her arms flapping above her head while she kept calling out, “Go on, you, git!” We laughed as the poor creature waddled into the night while Eileen imitated its gait, throwing her hips out, side to side.

An early dinner served, dishes washed, and it was time to head down to the lake for the canoe ride Eileen promised. Grabbing our life preservers at the back door, Brad and I raced down the hill aiming for the dock where the canoe was tied. Eileen commandeered the stern, Brad sat low in the middle, wet butt seat while I took the bow. We sped across the lake, and I quickened my reflexes, wanting to impress Eileen with how well I could respond to her directions. If I could match the strength of Eileen’s stroke with my own, we could hit that perfect rhythm of lunge and glide, lunge and glide, skimming the surface of the water like the fierce Native Americans I liked to imagine we were.

“Hold up, Ali,” I heard Eileen warn. I felt confused since we were in sync, picking up speed as we aimed for the wooded shore. I hadn’t heard the pickup truck kicking up gravel as it approached the house behind us but turning to look at Eileen, I could see she registered it as a problem.

“Were your parents expecting anybody would stop by?”

I shook my head and felt the mismatch between my level of concern and Eileen’s. My father employed a local farming family to plant and harvest crops on our property. It was a big family with brothers and uncles who would bounce past our house in their trucks all the time. With white teeth smiles and weather-worn hands waving from the cab windows, they conjured up clouds of dust as they headed past our house and down the lane towards our barn where we kept the farming equipment.

But this truck brought two men I didn’t recognize. They had come around to the back of the house and were making their way down the hill towards the dock. Eileen made a hard, reverse turn from the stern and aimed us towards them. Her strokes were surface, tentative as she shouted across the water, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

I knew a few gentlemen and these men did not fit that mold. Another point of confusion. As we approached the dock, Eileen could see as easily as we could that these two were greasy from head to toe – hair unwashed and T-shirts blotched with oil smears, straining across their round bellies. Even their work boots were carelessly untied and beat up.

“We heard there was good fishin’ back here. Thought we’d have a look… and of course seek some permission.” The man who spoke up faltered for a beat as Eileen’s hard look came closer into focus for him. I tried my best to copy her glare but felt my lips begin to quiver and twitch as Brad reached towards me, his little kid eyes big with long lashes and growing fear.

“Say, I recognize you from the feed store,” the other man called to Eileen. He added a low, grim whistle of approval as his gaze moved up and down the length of her. She broke her fierce stare and brought her knees up towards her waist. It was then that I understood something new. These men looked at Eileen in a way that felt low and disrespectful. I didn’t know what it was that made my stomach feel sick, but I knew in an instant that these men made Eileen tense and unlike herself.

“Can’t say I recognize you,” Eileen said flatly though her chin was pulled into her chest and her words seemed weak and muffled.

“Mr. McGill coming home soon so we can ask about fishin’ here?” The man spit a long, wet spindle of tobacco juice from the side of his mouth and was slow to wipe the drool off his chin.

Brad and I looked at Eileen. She considered us for a moment and turned to the men, managing a pleasant smile.

“He’ll be back soon. Why don’t you have a look at the largemouth bass while you wait, they’re swarming under the pines over there.” She pointed her finger towards the far end of the lake.

The men looked at each other and seemed to agree it was worth the effort. Once they were halfway around the lake, Eileen made quick work of sliding the canoe up to the dock’s edge and tying it steady so Brad and I could scramble out.

“Let’s go, guys, quick. Up the hill, now.” We hustled, feeling Eileen’s hands on our backs, steadying, and urging us along. Once inside, she locked the doors and even shut the windows despite the hot still air of the summer evening.