by A W Hartoin
I knew exactly who it was. A leg extended from the driver’s seat of the truck out the open door and resting on the armrest. The leg was long and brown with each muscle defined and flexed under taut skin. A hot pink flip flop hung off the red polished toes. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t prepared. I should’ve had at least a week before she turned up, but Shasta was there. And I was wearing my geeky school uniform and no tan at all.
Aunt Calla parked the van and I considered making a run for it. Maybe with my cousins and sisters tumbling out of the van, nobody would notice me.
“Come on, Puppy. What are you waiting for?” Aunt Calla looked at me through the van window, her forehead creased in irritation. “We have work to do.”
I got out and opened the cat carriers. Slick and Sydney streaked out of the van, leaving only the impression of their colors, cream and black, behind. They scaled the nearest pine tree, and parked themselves on a wide branch. They hissed at anything and everybody. I watched them and held on to the van door, unable to let go. I wasn’t ready. I’d planned on having a good opening line, so she would see I was older and not a total dufus, but all I could do was stand and wait.
I looked back at the truck. “On a Night Like This” by Trick Pony blared from the stereo and a body emerged. Shasta Holloway. No song could’ve been a better backdrop. Shasta was just what I needed. She wore her usual summer uniform of jeans, cut off very short, and a tiny bikini top. She flipped her long dark hair back over her shoulders and her scent drifted over to me. She smelled of coconut oil and red licorice. My mouth watered, and then went completely dry.
Shasta was one of the mysteries of my life, the best mystery. She’d arrived five years earlier with no fanfare or explanation. Our neighbor Marion Klaas came to Camp for a visit and Shasta was in the truck. Marion said, “This is Shasta, my niece, and she’s going to be staying with us for awhile.” That was it and there was nothing else. Shasta became part of Klaas Farms, but I never knew where she’d come from or why.
Shasta walked straight toward me, her hair swinging behind her back. She twirled a lollipop between her thumb and finger and smiled at me with her wide red-stained lips. “Hey, Puppy.”
I stood still, stupid, unable to speak. My mouth was hanging open, but I couldn’t think what to do about it.
“Puppy! For crying out loud, say hello.” Aunt Calla had her hands on her hips, but her expression was one of amused pity.
“Hi,” I said, my voice a mere whisper.
“Come and help me unload,” said Shasta. “I have to take Coco to the vet.”
At the sound of her name, Shasta’s chocolate Labrador stumbled out of the truck cab and came over to me. I bent over to pat Coco’s head, hiding my face.
Aunt Calla shouted instructions at The Pack and everyone began dragging suitcases and boxes of food out of the van. I followed Shasta to the truck and helped her lower the tailgate. She climbed into the bed and I tried not to look at the places where her legs disappeared into her shorts.
“What’s wrong with Coco?” I asked her.
“We don’t know. She’s been vomiting and she’s really weak. Adrian thinks she might’ve been poisoned.”
“No way. No one around here would do that.”
“Seems that way.” Shasta put her lolly in her mouth, opened a crate with several chickens inside and paused. “Keep a lookout, will you? Call us if any of the animals get sick, okay?”
“Sure.” I dodged the chickens Shasta tossed from the crate. Unperturbed, they clucked and scratched in the dirt of the driveway.
Because Shasta was talking to me and it seemed to be going well, I decided to risk a personal question, something I rarely did.
“So, um, how’s the cheese thing going?”
Shasta threw out two more chickens and turned to smile at me. Our eyes met and a gooey warmth spread over me, like I’d just been dipped in hot fudge.
“Great. It’s going absolutely great. I’ve got forty goats now and Adrian said I can get some sheep this fall.”
“Why do you want sheep?”
“Different kinds of cheese. The Twisted Pickle said they’ll buy everything I make,” said Shasta.
“Wow, that’s good,” I said and I meant it. How many eighteen-year-olds have their own business? Three years before, Shasta had persuaded her aunt and uncle to let her have a few goats for cheese making. Klaas Family Farms was primarily a dairy, so Shasta knew what she was doing. She learned everything she could about making goat cheese from the Internet. At first she made it for family and friends, and then she decided there must be a restaurant market for organic goat cheese. She pestered the owners of The Twisted Pickle so much, they finally tried her cheese. Shasta had a contract to supply them the same day.
Since then, four other restaurants bought her cheese. She got an assistant and the Klaases were so proud they added her cheese business to their farms signs and Internet site.
“Thanks. Here, grab Mildred for me,” said Shasta.
I took a step back. Mildred was a goose with an attitude problem and I usually avoided her if I could.
Caleb ran over and knocked me out of the way. “Never mind, Pup. I’ll get her.” He reached for the goose. “Puppy’s terrified of Mildred.”
“I am not, asswipe.” As soon as the word was past my lips, I gasped and looked at Shasta.
She wasn’t horrified like I feared she’d be. She threw back her head and laughed. It was a beautiful sound and gave me the hot fudge feeling all over again.
“Are too,” Caleb said.
“Back off, asswipe. Puppy can handle it.” Shasta handed a truly pissed-off Mildred to me. “See, he’s fine.”
I left, dragging my feet and carrying a honking Mildred around the side of the house towards the pond. Before I got back, Shasta was gone, leaving twelve chickens, two billy goats, four more geese, half a dozen ducks and Beatrice, the llama, in her wake.
I watched the dust settling in the drive and wished I’d had a chance to say goodbye to Shasta. Before I could dwell on it, I took a wet thwack to the back of the head. I rubbed the spot and looked at my hand.
“Oh, gross!” My hand dripped with a stinky grass slime ball.
Luke came up beside me. “Beatrice get you already?”
“Yeah.”
We turned and looked at the side of the house. Beatrice the llama was standing in the flower garden chewing her cud and eyeing me. Green goo dripped off her lower lip and she made a malevolent humming sound.
“What’d you do to her?” Luke asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “She just hates me. Why do we have to have her every year?”
Aunt Calla came out of the house. “We have her because we like her. Animals make a house a home and your fathers won’t let us have animals in town.”
“We have cats,” I said.
“Cats don’t count. Everyone has cats,” said Aunt Calla. “Now get to work. Carry in the flour and sugar. Luke, help him.”
I went to the van with Luke and, when he wasn’t looking, I wiped Beatrice’s spit on the back of his shirt.
“Man, I am gonna kick your ass.” Luke grabbed for me, but I was too quick. I sprinted past him, only to be snagged by Aunt Calla.
“Boy, if you don’t get to work, you’re going to regret it,” she said.
I mumbled an apology, under duress, and unpacked the rest of the van with Luke and Caleb. Beatrice spit on me three more times.
Chapter Seven
I WOKE THE next morning with the cats, Slick and Sydney, purring on either side of my head. Cat hair covered my face and I sneezed, blowing a tuft of fur into the air.
I brushed the cats off my bed. “Get away, you freaks. What the hell?”
I stretched and yawned, feeling each muscle complain about carrying all that crap around yesterday. I walked stiffly to Luke and Caleb’s room. They were still asleep and filling their room with a chorus of snores. I thought about waking them, but my muscles weren’t ready for a pounding.
Inste
ad, I walked through the silent house running my hand over the faded wallpaper and touching each precious object I encountered. Nothing ever changed in Ernest’s house, except to get a bit older. It felt like the year with Miss Pritchett hadn’t really happened and I’d been at Camp all along. I wandered into the living room and found a box sitting forgotten on a chair. It was labeled with a giant E. I opened the box and pulled out Ernest’s elephant wrapped in thick cotton. It was supposed to be unpacked the night we arrived, but Aunt Calla forgot. Mom said it was good luck to do the unwrapping. She and Aunt Calla usually liked to keep Ernest’s luck to themselves. I didn’t think I needed any luck at the time, but somehow loop after loop of the ancient cotton batting fell to the floor and Ernest’s elephant emerged.
I carried it to the fireplace mantel and set it between two pictures of Ernest. The left one was of Ernest riding an elephant in India. On the right was my favorite, Ernest sitting in a bentwood rocker on the lawn. He wore a white linen suit, a large straw hat and held a foot-long ivory pipe. The elephant sat on a small table at Ernest’s elbow. Behind him were his five grandsons. They were tall, dark-haired, and a bit of my face could be found in each one of theirs. Ernest built Camp to protect them from the city’s epidemics of cholera and influenza. His plan worked. The sicknesses passed them by, but World War I didn’t. Four of the five died in France.
My eyes roamed over each of those familiar faces, but settled on Ernest’s. My ancestor’s eyes were kind and gentle, but there was something else there, too. When I looked at the picture, it seemed like Ernest was looking back and seeing everything, knowing everything. I had a funny feeling I wasn’t alone and never had been.
I glanced over my shoulder just in case and then took out a long stick of jasmine incense. I stuck it in the elephant’s trunk and lit it. A small pillar of smoke rose and then drifted in front of Ernest’s portrait coiling around each of the grandson’s faces.
“We’re back,” I whispered.
I stepped back and lost myself in Ernest’s picture for a moment. I didn’t actually see anything happen in the picture, but I could’ve sworn there was something there, something different just for a second.
I turned from the picture and walked to the kitchen. My step was lighter as if Ernest had lifted Miss Pritchett off my shoulders. Mom was in the kitchen peeling apples and talking to Aunt Calla.
“Puppy, there you are, sleepyhead.” She came over, kissed my forehead, and offered me a slice of apple.
I sat at the counter and munched on my apple, listening to them talk. As usual, they forgot I was there.
“So, are they coming at all?” Aunt Calla asked.
“Yes, but they can’t spend the night. It’s ridiculous.”
“What do they think is going to happen?”
“Sex, I presume,” said Mom.
“Like they couldn’t have sex at their own houses. They leave their girls alone every day after school for hours. Don’t these people think? We’re here to supervise.”
I snorted and Mom jumped, banging her hip on the counter.
“I forgot you were here,” she said, rubbing her hip.
No surprise there. It was surprising that Mom thought she supervised anything. We could breed skunks in the living room and she wouldn’t notice.
“Don’t worry about it, Violet. Pup’s no fool. He knows more about his cousins than I care to.” Aunt Calla smiled at me and handed Mom a container of flour.
I snagged another apple and chewed it slowly. Aunt Calla was right. I did know all about my cousins’ sex lives, not because they told me, but because they, like my mom, tended to forget I was in the room.
That was how I found out about most things, like my Christmas presents, Dad’s hemorrhoids, pap smears, and a host of other things I’d rather not have known about. My cousins’ girlfriends weren’t in that category and I’d been hearing the sleepover debate for at least a month.
Luke and Caleb were campaigning to have their girlfriends, Sophie and Jewel, stay at Camp for a couple of weeks like their other friends, but the girls’ mothers weren’t going for it. The girls could come for the day, but they had to go home every evening, preferably before dark. I tried to pay attention whenever the subject came up. I was sadly lacking in knowledge and experience with girls. Cole told me that every chance he got. He was already a legend, so he was probably right.
I must’ve looked too interested because Mom poked me in the shoulder. “Puppy, go feed the animals. Feed’s in the shed.”
“Okay, but I’m not feeding Beatrice.”
“Puppy, please. Do what you’re told for a change.”
“She spit on me four times yesterday. I took a shower, but I still stink.” I presented my neck. She sniffed it and made a choking sound.
“See, I told you. She’s nasty,” I said.
“Stop bothering her and she’ll stop spitting on you.”
“No, she won’t. I wasn’t bothering her yesterday. She hates me.”
“Beatrice is a highly intelligent llama,” Mom said. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“I don’t care what she is. I’m not feeding her.” I crossed my arms and glared at Mom, unaware that I looked just like her when she’d set her mind to something.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it, but feed the rest and leave Beatrice alone.”
“No problem,” I said, walking out the door onto the porch.
I took a deep breath of cool morning air and briefly considered going back in for a sweatshirt, but decided against it. One of the joys of the first two weeks of Camp was that no one else got to be there. It was only family and I wore whatever I wanted. If I wanted to feed the chickens in my boxer briefs, I could.
I stepped off the porch into calf-high grass and knew what my next chore was going to be. I walked through the grass, hoping there weren’t any snakes, and opened the shed. Five huge black ravens flew out, cackling and taking swipes at me with their beaks. I jumped back and recoiled at the sight of their long, spindly claws hanging down. They never tucked up those freaky claws like other birds and that alone was enough to make them nightmare material.
They swooped around my head cawing, each taking a bombing run at my head. I took a good look at each one as they snapped at my ears. I’d gotten to know our ravens pretty well and every year I checked them out expecting them to change, but they never did. Those five were the same ones that chased me across a field when I was three. There were always five and the five never changed. I asked Mom about it, but she acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.
I stepped inside the shed and glanced back at the ravens. They formed a semicircle around the door, their claws digging in the dirt. They watched me with their heads tipped sideways.
“Go on, you freaks. You ate enough already.”
They stared back with black, beady eyes, understanding every word I said. I waved one more time, but they didn’t budge. Probably waiting for me to leave so they could sneak back into the shed. Nothing on earth could keep them out. I knew because Mom had tried. They’d gotten through corrugated tin, chicken wire, and several layers of wood over the years. The ravens were such good thieves, Mom gave up trying to keep them out of the feed and just bought more to make up for the yearly loss.
I turned back inside. The dried corn and grain waited in big unwieldy bags on the dusty floor. I wrestled two of them open and made a mixture for the birds.
As soon as I stepped out of the shed, chickens swarmed around my feet, pecking my toes and yanking out leg hair with their beaks.
“Stop it, you idiots.” I danced away toward the ravens who had flown back a couple of feet and eyed the chickens with abhorrence.
To save myself, I threw out handfuls of grain. They shimmered in golden brown arcs seconds before hitting the grass. The chickens abandoned my feet in order to hunt for their breakfast.
Then I made a second mixture of grain for the ducks and geese and poured it into the buttocks shapes of the egg basket, covering the stain
s from blackberry picking and egg gathering. The smooth handle fit my hand like a coin in a slot. I hefted the weight, judged it to be the right amount of grain, and headed to the pond. Usually, the ravens would abandon me in favor of food, but that morning they stayed right with me, circling overhead like buzzards. Maybe I reminded them of roadkill.
My feet padded along the dirt path at a good clip. It was hard and cold, but it made me feel alive the way I only did at Camp. I was free for an entire summer. If the basket hadn’t been so heavy, I would’ve run to the pond, just to feel the wind rushing past me.
The pond was a quarter mile from the house, past the tree house Ernest built for his grandsons and the baseball diamond Uncle Manny built for Luke and Caleb. The path wound around, seemingly directionless, not a single tree cut down to make the way shorter.
I emerged from the woods into a small meadow with a large pond in the center. Wildflowers grew two feet high and drooped onto the path, tickling my ankles. Each step dislodged hundreds of bees hovering above delicate blossoms of Queen Anne’s lace. Some people considered the plant a pest, but my family thought it was beautiful. We weren’t alone in our assessment. The meadow was alive with butterflies and bees feasting on the nectar and pollen.
I wasn’t so sure about the beauty of the pollen. It made my legs itch. I walked down the dock, scraping my heels on the rough, wooden surface. The geese and ducks floated peacefully on the other side of the pond. All except Mildred. She flew onto the dock, hissing and extending her wings as she advanced toward me. The ravens flew down and squawked at her, giving me time to throw the grain as far away from me as I could. Mildred hissed at me one more time and joined the other geese and ducks now racing to their feed. They stuck out their necks, flapped their wings and churned the water with their feet, kicking up a spray that glistened in the sun.
I emptied the basket and watched the birds scrap for a moment, and then walked back to the path. The ravens flew past me, so close I could feel the tips of their wings brush my cheeks. I watched them disappear and then continued down the path for awhile, swinging the basket and thinking of nothing in particular, when I heard a noise. A clicking echoed from up ahead. I stopped and waited. It stopped, so I started again. Then the clicking returned and just as I rounded a corner, I saw the source.