by Ted Staunton
In some of them you see me too, because I’m the guy at the beginning with the clapperboard. I think I look pretty professional doing it, except for my stick legs and monster shorts. I’m pretty sure I spot Bunny a couple of times also, and then there he is for sure, in his BREAD shirt, throwing the hatchet. Beside him is a Native-looking kid who’s definitely a reenactor. He’s got no shirt, a Mohawk haircut and stripes of paint or something under his eyes. This must be one of his new friends. The kid’s fist shoots up in the air as Bun’s throw cuts the rope. Bun smiles his big happy smile. Then the camera pans, and I don’t look so happy. I look like a drowned mound of baggy clothes with glasses. Everybody in the tent laughs, except me. “Great shot,” someone says.
“Keeper!”
“Cut the pan, jump-cut to his face.”
“Yeah, yeah, jump-cut. Love the reaction shot.”
I don’t. Luckily, we move on to where I filmed Irene Steele. That turned out great, except for the part where I blurt my magic words into the microphone. That gets another big laugh. Someone calls, “Ed-iiiiiiiiiit.”
Tracey nudges me. “Don’t worry. Easy fix. The really good stuff is when people forget to take their mics off and you hear them talking in a port-a-potty or someplace on the set.”
Basil shuts down the playback. “So, we’ve got the battle tomorrow, and the transition shots.”
They all talk boring stuff I don’t understand about their project. I look out the open tent flap. The Native kid with the Mohawk haircut runs by. “Hey!” I jump up. Maybe Bunny is with him. As I start after him, I hear my name.
“So would that be okay, Spencer?”
“Huh?”
“You could help with that tomorrow? It wouldn’t take long, but it would be huge for us. And only if we have to.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” I say. Tracey is looking at me funny, but I don’t have time for this right now. I dash out of the tent.
The kid is gone. There’s no Bunny either. In fact, there’s not much of anyone. The fiddle music has finally stopped. The tourists have thinned down to a last few. Some redcoats and bluecoats are strolling along together. A few others I’ve seen in costumes have changed into normal clothes and are walking with lawn chairs and coolers. Everyone is drifting to the far end of the encampment. I follow them to a big space with picnic tables. There’s a line of modern tents like ours and a parking lot farther down. At one side some musicians are setting up on a low stage. Smoke wafts from fire pits at the other side. Over one, a giant lump is being turned on a spit. Over another, something is being stirred in a monster pot hanging from a chain. Other people are laying out food on the picnic tables. All at once I’m starving. It feels as if we had that ice cream a million years ago. I also spot Luther, sideburns flaming, standing to one side and frowning at it all. He’s still in uniform. Bun will be here somewhere, as hungry as I am. Behind me I hear a funniest-thing-in-the-world laugh, and here come Grandpa and Irene Steele. This is the place to be, and for once I’m in it.
ELEVEN
Grandpa and Irene Steele are carting a blanket and camp chairs with them, and Grandpa has his tote bag. A few steps behind them is Tracey, with a food cooler. Excellent.
“Lend a hand, Spence.” I take a couple of the folded-up chairs from Grandpa. We go to a spot near the stage, spread out the blanket and set up the chairs.
“We’re dining alfresco,” announces Irene Steele.
Whatever. “What’s in the cooler?” I ask Tracey.
“Good stuff.”
I don’t think so. Tracey takes out fancy crackers, caviar, which is black fish eggs, stinky blue cheese, those disgusting little weenies Deb calls cocktail sausages, olives, pickles and crusty rolls. How gross can you get? There aren’t even any chips. And Grandpa, it turns out, has only brought a bottle of wine in his tote bag.
“Don’t worry,” Tracey says with a grin, passing me a fork and a paper plate. “Grab some real chow at the fire pits. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Are there hot dogs?”
“They’re not exactly an 1812 thing, but yeah.” She points at a group of picnic tables. “And that’s potluck stuff to share.”
I go over to join a line and find myself behind Ken the fiddler. “Hard to choose between the hog roast and the squirrel stew, isn’t it?” He chuckles. “I’m having both.”
I drop out of line and find a barbecue where the guy who coaxed me onto the water platform is cooking hot dogs. He gives me two, saying, “Here’s an extra for being a good sport. Got dried off?”
I think about my foot, but say yeah anyway.
“Good. Mustard and stuff thataway.”
I load up my hot dogs with relish and ketchup for veggies, then round out my plate with chips and Cheezies. With a tin of ginger ale, it’s a balanced meal. This is the best part of camping so far. I look around for Bunny, but he’s still invisible. I’m too hungry to care. I go back to Grandpa and Irene. They’re sipping wine and nibbling the alfresco stuff. “What about souvenir belt buckles?” Grandpa is asking.
“No one wears a belt, my darling. Everyone’s pants are falling down these days.”
“Then how about these?” Grandpa pulls something from his pocket. At first it looks like a chunk of rock. Then I see rounded points sticking out at odd angles, like a rusted star. “It’s a caltrop. They also called it a crow’s foot. Soldiers would scatter these on the ground to lame troops or horses that were moving toward them, injure their feet. No matter how it lands, see how there are always points sticking out or up? This one’s all corroded, but the points were sharp and nasty when it was new. Got a guy in Taiwan who could run these up to look old or new. Manufacturing specs included. Have to decide on distribution. We call ’em Star Wars 1812. Could have them ready for the 2012 anniversary of the war. What do you think?”
Irene Steele holds the caltrop in her fingertips and cocks an eyebrow. Grandpa says slowly, “This is the real deal, just for you. They’re quite rare. Call it a reminder of shared adventures.”
She weighs the caltrop in her fingertips and gives Grandpa a look. ”Poochy, how sweet. I knew I could count on you. It’s a pointed reminder.”
“Maybe you’ll find investors.”
She arches that eyebrow again. “Who could there be but you?” They lean forward and tap their paper cups together in a toast. Then they lean even closer. I take off with my food before there’s smooching. Ancient-people romance is even worse than fish eggs.
Where can I go? Bunny is still Mr. Invisible. I spot Tracey and her movie friends. They’re in a huddle, and there’s a new girl with them. She’s small and really pretty, with long brown hair, and she’s waggling car keys in one hand. She doesn’t look happy. As I get close I hear her say, “Well, I don’t care if it’s just a costume. How did you think I’d feel about it? It’s still total exploitation of animals. I’m an ethical vegan, Basil. You already know that!”
I guess she’s found out the dinner choices are roast hog or squirrel stew. Basil is saying to her, “I know, I know, Stef—just asking. We’ve planned around that anyway.” He looks up and spots me. “Still good for tomorrow, Spencer?”
I nod.
“Good. Seven thirty, at the tent.”
No one is inviting me to stay. I keep moving. A second later I barely keep my plate from flipping over. Sitting on a log a few meters away is Luther Sideburns.
I know Tracey says he’s all talk and to leave him alone, but I still have this feeling he’s really up to something. Grandpa said independence is a good thing, right? Maybe I can find out on my own.
I make my feet take me over to the log. I probably look as if I’m walking on caltrops. I sit down. Luther looks at me and nods. Up close, he’s thin faced and pointy nosed, and his sideburns are truly gigantic, like huge orange squirrel tails on his cheeks. His tall hat sits at his feet. His shapeless clodhopper boots and white pants are dirty.
How do adults talk? I take a bite of hot dog and go for it. “Good day?” I hope Luther doesn�
��t notice my little spray of relish. He nods and keeps eating, his sideburns wiggling as he chews. He’s got a tin cup to drink from, a hunk of cheese, some kind of biscuit that looks like cement and, stuck on a knife, a dead something I think is beef jerky. I try again. “Aren’t you having any squirrel stew?”
Luther shakes his squirrel tails. “It’s not really squirrel. It’s beef.” He sounds disgusted.
“I guess that’s pretty farb, huh?”
He nods, then waves the dead thing on a knife at me. “Go hardcore or go home.” The knife looks definitely hardcore.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say and look at my hot dogs.
“Nah, it’s fine for you,” Luther says. “You’re not one of us. I like a tube steak myself when I’m not doing this.”
“Reenacting?”
“Not that word—I hate it. I’m an interpreter. I bring history back to life.”
“Like Frankenstein?” I know that’s a dumb one as soon as I say it.
Luther frowns. “No. That’s what farbs do. They make something like history, but distorted. I do the real thing. Look at these buttons.” He tugs at his uniform coat. “These boots. Exact replicas. Custom made.”
Actually, I think the boots look like Frankenstein’s, but I don’t say that. “Back then,” Luther goes on, “they didn’t make right- and left-foot patterns, just straight boots. They hurt like hell until you get used to them. But you get farbs showing up in their Blundstones, for crying out loud. You’ve got girls in the ranks pretending to be soldiers. You’ve got guys”—he grips a squirrel-tail sideburn—“who glue on side whiskers like Elvis impersonators or something. Some of us don’t take our duty to history seriously enough.” Luther is getting seriously worked up. “And some of us”—he leans forward, pointing at me with the knife and dead thing—“even mislead people. On purpose.” He tears a hunk of dead thing off with his teeth and starts chewing. The sideburns go crazy.
I myself stop chewing. This could be my chance. I lean forward too, trying to ignore the knife. “Who? How?”
Luther’s eyes narrow. Everything about him seems to be pointing now. He growls, “There’s this—” He stops. “Skip it. No offense, but you’re not one of us. There are ways of dealing with it in-house.”
“How?” I whisper.
“Let’s just say Yankee ingenuity.” Luther sits back, nodding to himself. He takes a last swig from his cup, then begins stuffing things into his pack. “Hey, weekdays I’m a dentist in Rochester, a precision kind of guy. I owe that to my patients. I owe it to history too.”
I try again. “So, like, what would be misleading?”
“Like I said, anything fake. And making up stories. I mean, you Canadians won’t even admit we won the War of 1812.”
“You did?”
“Of course we did. Everybody knows that.” Luther wipes the knife blade on his pants.
“So something Canadian is farb?”
“What’s bugging me is.”
“My grandpa has a genuine caltrop.”
Luther looks up fast. “Really? Those are scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“Is that a dentist joke?”
His eyebrows scrunch. “No, it’s an old saying. I’d love to see it.”
I’m thinking fast now. “Well, he’d probably let you. But he’s Canadian, and we’d want to know what farb Canadian thing is bugging you. Maybe we could do something about it.”
“Well…” says Luther.
“Or you could just tell me.”
Luther frowns and scratches the bare chin between his squirrel tails.
“You never know,” I coax.
Luther thinks it over some more. “Where’s your granddad?”
I point. “He’s over there.” Luther turns, and I add, “With Irene Steele.”
Luther scrambles up and hoists his pack. “Forget it.”
“What?” I say. “Why?”
“Just forget it. I’ll handle it myself.” Then he clamps his mouth shut hard enough to crack his own teeth.
Somehow I’ve blown it. As Luther shoulders his pack, I blather, “Hey, you could have been a dentist back then. Why don’t you, I mean, maybe you could act—I mean, interpret—”
Luther shakes his head, but he stops scowling. He switches into something like Grandpa’s lecture mode. “There weren’t any dentists. Dental hygiene was terrible in those days. No money in it either. Get your teeth pulled by some drunk with a pair of pliers. And pig-bristle toothbrushes! You could get anthrax from the brush, for crying out loud. Or dentures from dead people’s teeth—think about that. Nah, I’m a big fan of paychecks and antibiotics. And some of your advanced tartar removers now do a great job of shining buckles and buttons too. Saves on polishing.” He puts on his tall hat. “Weekend warrior only,” he says from under his chin strap. “When I get home I’ll have hot dogs. Right now I want the real deal. I’m off to picket duty. Enjoy.” He nods and clomps off. I wonder if I remembered to pack my toothbrush.
TWELVE
I’m kind of glad Luther is gone. Tracey was right about him. Jer would call him intense, which Jer is not. Also, I can’t stop thinking about dentures made from dead people’s teeth. Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.
But is he really going to do something? And to whom? For sure he doesn’t like Irene Steele, even though she’s got Laura Secord’s real cowbell, and that’s got to be the least farby thing here—even rarer that a caltrop. Is it because she talks about a battle the Americans lost? That’s not farb though.
Then it hits me that maybe it’s not just Irene Steele. Maybe it’s Tracey too: Luther doesn’t like girl soldiers. Tracey says Luther is all talk, but it sounds like more than that to me. Man, I wish Bun was here to talk this over with. He’s smarter than people think. Sometimes it helps to see things differently.
I dump what’s left of dinner in a trash bin and go looking for Bunny again. The sun is just starting to tuck behind the trees. A mosquito hums by my ear, and then music starts up from the stage, drumming and fiddles and lots of whooping. People start clapping along. Grandpa and Irene aren’t. I think they’re maybe holding hands between the chairs. I don’t go for a closer look.
Tracey and her friends are setting up to do some filming. “We can’t light it,” someone says. “The generator will be louder than the band.”
“Bring the white van up from the parking lot and shine the high beams from Mark’s car on the side. That should reflect enough light.”
“Yeah, if we parked the car in the middle of the crowd. They’d love that.”
“Stage light and firelight. Underexposed is good—moody atmosphere.”
I leave them to argue.
The evening is getting cool as I walk. I know Grandpa brought hoodies for us, but I don’t really want to go back there right now. It’s not just the hand-holding. I don’t want to be the kid who sits with the grown-ups because there’s nothing else to do. I’m supposed to be independent.
I wander down to the parking lot, then back up to where a line of modern tents is pitched. No Bunny. Past those is a neat square of old-fashioned ones—wedge tents, Tracey called them, part of the reenactment. Luther is standing over there, one foot forward, musket cradled in his arms. His pants and crossed white belts seem to glow in the twilight. I guess picket duty is like standing guard. I think he should give it up for the night. Nobody’s paying attention, and the only thing to guard against is probably skunks. He looks more like a kid sulking at a party than a soldier.
Ken the fiddler is having a beer with some people. His fiddle lies on the picnic bench in front of him. Like Luther, he’s still wearing his costume. “Spencer,” he calls. “You look a little lost, man.”
I tell him I’m looking for Bunny. Ken hasn’t seen him. “But I love the BREAD T-shirt,” he rumbles. “I confess I might have had one myself.” He asks how I got to help Tracey, and I explain about Grandpa knowing Irene Steele. “They’re nice folks,” says Ken. “That’s a great routine she’s got about the cowbell, huh?”
He chuckles. “You know, sometimes I wonder if she’s as deaf as she lets on. She can be a pretty fast twitch when she needs to be. More schtick, I guess. Speaking of which”—he drains his beer and heaves himself up from the table—“time for me to go onstage for my special guest appearance.” Before I can ask him more about Irene, he’s headed for the stage.
I follow him through the crowd. It’s almost completely dark now. There are lots of people here, their faces lit by campfires and the stage lights. In a pause between songs I hear someone say, “Speed!” Part of the movie crew must be filming. I wish things would speed up for me somehow. I mean, I’m glad this isn’t your regular fishing-and-poison-ivy camping trip, but I’m not sure what it’s become instead, except that I seem to be alone in it.
Back at Grandpa and Irene’s spot, the chairs are empty. Our hoodies are folded on one of them, with a flashlight and a note on top. It’s definitely a day for notes.
Spence & Bernard
All well. Helping Irene. Back very soon.
Sit tight or remember we meet at camp by 10:00.
Have fun.
Grandpa
Ten? What time is it now? If I had my phone I’d know, wouldn’t I? And where is everybody? I tug on my hoodie, then don’t know what to do except wish Bun was around. It’s not as if we’re Siamese twins or anything, but I’m getting bugged that he’s just taken off without me, even if he thinks he’s after my phone. Although I guess that’s what I did to him this aft, and I wasn’t bugged when I was busy filming. Now, though, I could tell him I found the phone. He could show me how to throw a hatchet. Maybe we could figure out Luther Sideburns.
But I already said I should do this alone, show Grandpa I’m independent, right? Maybe I’m grumpy because I’m still hungry.
I am hungry. I wish I hadn’t ditched the rest of my dinner. I know we’ve got food in the Jeep, but it’s dark now, and a long way back to our campsite, and besides, the Jeep is locked. I checked when I looked at myself in the side mirror. I look in Irene’s food cooler instead. There’s an empty cracker box and a plastic container with two wrinkled olives and some cocktail weenies. Yuck.