Speed

by Ted Staunton

  Up on the stage, Ken the fiddler is playing a tiny old guitar and making faces like all Three Stooges at once. I decide to take one last look for Bun—and for any chow that might still be on the potluck tables.

  I rustle up some damp potato chips, but no Bunny. I’m near the parking lot when something stops me. Over by the ghostly white blobs of the reenactor tents where Luther Sideburns was standing guard, a smaller white blob is gliding away. I think Luther’s on the move.

  THIRTEEN

  I’m running after him before I even know it. I don’t know what I’m going to do, and I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I have a feeling this is it. I cut the distance between us, then slow down—I don’t want him to hear footsteps.

  Away from the fires and stage lights, stars and a chunk of moon shine enough for me to make out the white pants and belts of his uniform. The darker shape of his head seems ten feet tall, so he must be wearing his hat too. I pull my hood up and slow down even more. I bet my bare legs show in the dark. I promise myself I will never ever wear cargo shorts again, no matter what.

  I’m following just close enough to hear the swish of Luther’s heavy boots through the grass as he strides past the reenactor tents. A waxy smell hangs in the air. In one tent, a light glows through the canvas. My guy stays well away from it. I creep past.

  We leave the white tents behind, and I follow him along a line of trees. My foot crunches a stick. I gasp and sink into the shadows. Luther’s head half turns, but he’s in shadow too, and under the hat brim all I see is a pale blur of face. He keeps moving.

  I let him get farther ahead as we cross an open space. It looks as if we’re headed for the modern tents the non-hardcores have set up. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have his musket. That makes me feel better until I remember his knife. I take a second to remind myself that Luther Sideburns is a dentist from Rochester, not a rogue 1812 soldier. Then I remember my last dentist visit. That doesn’t help.

  Now he’s reached the line of tents. He slows down too. These tents are like ours, and most of them are dark. I’m guessing their owners are still over at the stage. I’m also guessing Luther Sideburns is going to sneak into one of those dark ones and—and what? Steal something? Wreck something? And here’s another question. How do I stop him?

  I duck behind a tree near the first tent. He keeps on slowly, almost as if he’s counting the tents. It’s hard to follow him from where I’m hiding. I can barely see the darker shadow of his tall hat above the tent flies. Voices murmur nearby; someone chuckles. Then the darkness of Luther’s hat swoops down and I hear the quick zzzzzzip of a tent flap being opened.

  As fast as I can, I tiptoe out from behind the tree and along the line of tents after him. But now my angle has changed, and the tents all seem the same shape and size. Light glows dimly in a red one and in a blue one next to it, both right about where Luther ducked down. The flaps are closed. Which one is he in? What should I do? All I can think is that I have to stall him before he does something bad—and maybe get a little help at the same time. Since I don’t have a SWAT team or a police helicopter with a spotlight or a phone to call for help with or a nearby brother, I do the only thing I can think of.

  I creep behind the tents. They’re the kind held up by those snap-together bendy poles that curve into an X at the top. Rustling noises come from both tents. Which one is Luther in? Time could be running out. If I’m going to stop him and at least have a witness, I have to do it now. So I do. I take a deep breath and dash past the backs of the tents, yanking out the pegs and poles as I do.

  They collapse like old gum bubbles. Voices shout, using some of the words I’m not supposed to know, and the fallen fabric pops and ripples like boiling oil. Then it erupts, and I’m caught square in the crossed beams of two flashlights, one from each tent. I don’t even try to run. I’ve already frozen at the sound of the voices. One is Irene Steele’s. One is Grandpa’s. I don’t know who owns the third one, but it’s not Luther Sideburns. I’ve been following the wrong man.

  FOURTEEN

  “Care to explain this, Spence?” Grandpa’s voice, coming from behind one of the flashlights, has gone dangerously flat again.

  “You know this kid? What the hell is going on?” comes the reenactor’s voice from behind the other flashlight. Now a third light pops on, thanks to Irene Steele, I guess, and I see that the guy isn’t even an American soldier—his coat is red. Irene bellows, “I’m so sorry. A harmless prank. He was looking for us, I’m sure.”

  “My grandson,” Grandpa says.

  “I thought you were Luther,” I blurt for no good reason.

  “That American hardcore?” the reenactor snorts. “You nuts? He sleeps in a bedroll in the trees somewhere. He wouldn’t use a tent like this.”

  “I thought I was going to catch him being farb.” It’s the best I can do.

  Irene cuts in. “I don’t know about ketchup on a farm, Spencer dear. We’ll sort that later. Right now let’s help set this lovely man’s tent to rights.”

  There’s a pause while we make sense of that, and then we do what Irene suggests and set the tents back up. The reenactor is pretty nice about the whole thing. “Good luck finding that Luther guy farbing,” he says to me. “If you do, be sure to get a picture of it. He’d never live it down.”

  Grandpa doesn’t say much while we fix things up. This is not a good sign. Also, his white hair sticks out at odd angles from under his beret, and his shirttail is hanging out. Grandpa is usually a tidy guy, so these are not good signs either. I figure this is not the time to say what I was really doing. I’ll tell Tracey tomorrow maybe—if I’m not grounded.

  We walk back to the stage to collect Irene’s chairs and stuff. No one says much. The show seems to be ending. We join a stream of people heading for the tents. I straggle along. Everything I’ve done today has been doomed from the start: first the cell phone, then trying to find it, then getting tricked into that raccoon eye from the camera and now this whole stupid Luther thing. Every time I’ve tried something on my own, I’ve blown it.

  And here’s the weird thing. If you’d asked me before we left if I wanted to be grounded in my tent all weekend, I’d have said, “Totally! Just leave me my phone and some comics.” Not anymore. Now I want to help with the movie tomorrow. I want to get Bun to help me mess up Luther. And what makes it worst of all is that I’ve been trying so hard to do the kind of stuff Grandpa wants. It’s not fair.

  Back at her tent, Irene gives Grandpa a hug goodnight, then laughs and tries to smooth some of his wild hair. She looks a little messy herself. I guess I would too if a tent fell on me. “Good night, Spencer.” She shakes my hand. “You know, being around you is a bit like being around your grandfather in the old days. Things tend to happen. But that’s good. I’ve always liked fireworks, haven’t I, Poochy?”

  Grandpa grins and nods. “Without a doubt.”

  “Till tomorrow then.” She slips inside her tent.

  Yeah right, I think. I’m as much like Grandpa as sticking your foot in a toilet is like setting off fireworks. At least I don’t feel my soaker anymore. Now both feet are wet with dew.

  Grandpa and I start for our own campsite. Other people are headed that way too. Flashlights bob and weave in the dark. We haven’t gone far when I feel Grandpa’s hand, heavy on my shoulder. “Spence,” he says sadly, and I figure this is it. “Spence, I owe you an apology. I completely understand why you did that with the tents. I’d have done the same thing myself.”

  “You would?”

  “Damn straight. Independence is good, but I pushed it too hard. You and Bernard must have thought I just wanted you out of my hair—what there is of it—all day. That’s not the case. And I shouldn’t have iced the cake by going off like that with Irene.”

  I’m stunned. I manage to say, “That’s okay, Grandpa.”

  “No, it’s not okay. You were right to bring the house down. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t know how
you tracked us down, but we’re all entitled to a few secrets, aren’t we? Anyway, let’s finish up the day together. You hungry?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Me too. Starved. Let’s head to the Jeep and grab a snack.”

  FIFTEEN

  Back at our campsite, Grandpa unlocks the Jeep and we climb in. He leaves the overhead light on. We open the windows partway to let cooler air in. “Bernard should be along any minute,” Grandpa says. “He might want a bite too.”

  We open the food cooler and rustle up peanut-butter sandwiches, OJ, chips and cold hot dogs with no buns. “This is more like it,” Grandpa says. “I hate those cocktail weenies, and I’ve never much liked caviar. Used to have to eat it doing business with the Russians and such. Irene could always pack it away.” He chuckles. “Her vodka too, if she needed to seal a deal. She was a pro.”

  We sit there munching away in the watery yellow light of the Jeep and waving away the occasional mosquito. Apart from when I was filming, this is the best I’ve felt all day. I like being with Grandpa when we just sit and talk. Not lecture mode, just talking, the two of us or with Bun. That doesn’t happen very often. Our cousins like action stuff with him—boating and tubing, flying in his plane, skiing and sports. And when there are lots of people around, he can be kind of bossy. He has this trick he does at the cottage where he makes water spill into your lap at supper if you’re not paying attention. But sometimes when we were littler he’d sit on the dock with us and tell stories from being in the war and working all around the world. Or at home we’d sit on the couch together and watch Bugs Bunny cartoons. His favorite was the one about the guy who finds the frog that sings and dances, but only for him. Grandpa can do an excellent Donald Duck voice too. We haven’t done those things for a long time.

  Grandpa passes me another hot dog and tops up my juice. “So you liked the movies, Spence?”

  I nod as I chew. “I liked running the camera. Apart from the black eye.”

  Grandpa smiles and sips his juice. “Paying your dues. Don’t want to be an actor?”

  “Nope. I think if you’re running the camera, you’re the boss. I don’t want to be the guy who gets soaked.”

  “Point taken. And it looked as if you knew what you were doing there.”

  That feels good to hear. I nibble some hot dog. They’re good cold—chewier somehow. Grandpa says, “When I was a few years older than you, I had a crush on a girl who went on to be in the movies. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You know a movie star?”

  “No, no.” Grandpa shakes his head. “Only knew her briefly. She left and I discovered airplanes and right off knew I wanted to fly. Funny how you never can tell what’s going to change your life, or where you’ll find it.” Grandpa digs another hot dog out of the pack. “I met a couple of other movie people through work over the years. I’m told it’s a tough business.”

  “I said I’d help again tomorrow morning.”

  “Fair enough,” says Grandpa, waving away a mosquito. “A real campfire breakfast in the morning. Then you do your filming, and we’ll all do some things together. Watch that mock battle.” Grandpa rubs his chin and smiles. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it and now I’m half wondering if Bernard thinks there’s a real war on.”

  He looks at me. I remember Irene Steele said something about that too. Bun can for sure get funny ideas sometimes. Then again, I remember thinking I’d been shot. That embarrasses me though, so I shrug and say, “Why would he think that?”

  If Grandpa says, Maybe he thought the musket fire was real, I’ll laugh and say, Oh, yeah, that happened to me, too. But he’d know it was fake pretty fast, because I did. And he would too. Instead, Grandpa shrugs back. “I don’t know either, Spence. But remind me to—”

  There’s a thud and a scratching noise outside. Instantly, Grandpa has the Jeep’s light off and his flashlight on. Eyes gleam back at us through the windshield. A raccoon is perched on the hood. Grandpa laughs and switches the lights back on. “Make sure we put the windows up when we turn in. Speaking of which, what time do you help in the morning?”

  “Seven thirty.” All at once I’m tired.

  “I’ll wake you if you’re not up.” Grandpa checks his watch. “You get turned in. I’ll wait for Bernard. I’m surprised at him. He knows better than to be this late.” He opens the storage compartment between the seats and hands me a little flashlight. I’m about to remind Grandpa that Bunny doesn’t have a watch when I see something else in there—my cell phone. Speaking of telling time…

  “I’ll make sure the coon is gone,” Grandpa says. He flicks the overhead-light control off and opens his door. “You hit the hay. Give your teeth a dry brush.”

  His door closes. The instant the light blinks off, I grab my phone. “All clear,” Grandpa says. I hop out too and duck into the tent. I can’t help thinking how Grandpa’s voice was getting stern again talking about Bun being late. Maybe it’s time to cover for my brother, especially if he thinks he’s rescuing my cell phone. I may not be good at lying, but maybe I can make this work. I grab some clothes from Bun’s backpack and quickly stuff them and the pack and the pillow into a huddled lump in his sleeping bag, so it looks as if he’s in there. Then I poke my head back out the tent flap and hiss, “Hey, Grandpa? Bun—Bernard’s already here. He’s been asleep all the time.”

  Grandpa walks over with the flashlight, a tall darker shape in all the other shadows. I flick my light on for a second. “See?” Then I flick it off fast.

  “He must have been bushed,” Grandpa says. “Try not to wake him. Get into bed. You’ve got an early morning.”

  I zip the flap shut behind him. A second later I hear his tent being zipped open. In the dark I kick off my shoes and socks and scramble into my sleeping bag. I feel for my backpack and put my glasses on top of it. I check my shorts pocket for my phone. It’s there. Through the tent wall I can see the glow of Grandpa’s flashlight in his tent. Then I hear rustling noises and a big sigh and his flashlight goes out. “All good, Spence?” he calls softly.

  “All good,” I call softly back. “Good night, Grandpa.”

  “Good night, Spence.”

  Then I almost blow it. I forget Bun is supposed to be asleep and say into my pillow, muffling my voice, “Good night, Grandpa.”

  “Bernard?”

  “Sorry, Grandpa, I guess I woke him.”

  “That’s okay, Spence. Good night, Bernard.”

  “Good night, Grandpa.” I do Bun again.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Grandpa.” Now I’m me.

  “Good night, Spence.”

  “Good night.” I shut up and settle in to wait for Bun. I have to tell him I’ve got my phone and get him to help me with Luther Sideburns. I hope he gets back soon, but not before Grandpa starts to snore. The last thing I remember before I fall asleep is that I left my wet shorts to dry on the hood of the Jeep, right about where the raccoon was. I hope it eats them.

  SIXTEEN

  I wake to sunshine glowing through the tent wall and the sound of Grandpa muttering more words I’m not supposed to know. Then a car door slams. My phone shows me it’s 7:05. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, and that’s when I notice Bun’s is wide-open. Everything I stuffed in it is scattered on the tent floor. Bun must have gotten back after I fell asleep and taken off again this morning. Why didn’t he wake me? Now I can’t tell him anything.

  Grandpa turns as I crawl outside. He’s standing beside the Jeep, holding a big cloth. “Morning, Spence.” He scratches his head. He’s got the fishing hat on again. “Got a little hitch in our breakfast plans. Guess what I forgot to do last night?”

  “Brush your teeth?” I suggest, remembering what I forgot to do.

  Grandpa gives me a crooked smile. “I wish. Nope, I forgot to close the Jeep windows. Our raccoon buddy slipped in and helped himself.”

  I walk over and peek into the Jeep. “Wow.” It’s the only word I can
think of. The cooler is tipped over on the backseat, and what’s left of our food is everywhere else. The chip bag dangles from the turn indicator, a piece of bacon from the mirror. Eggshells litter the front seats. A chunk of hot dog balances on the stick shift, and something brown and yucky is spread on everything, including the windows, where it forms little paw prints. I don’t want to ask, but I do anyway. “What’s the, uh…”

  “Peanut butter.” Grandpa sighs. “The ants have already gotten in it.” He waves the cloth at the car. “Tell Bernard it’ll be a bare-bones breakfast. We’ll go somewhere for chow after I clean this mess up.”

  “He’s already gone,” I say. “And I have to go too. The movie.”

  Grandpa nods. “Right. There’s still some milk in a thermos and some cereal. Let’s get you set up.” He tosses the cloth, already smeared with food, on the ground. I look closer. “Hey,” I say. “My shorts!”

  “What? Oh, sorry, Spence. They’re all I’ve got to wipe up with. I’ll get you new ones.”

  “Believe me, Grandpa, it’s okay. Do you want these ones too? I could wear my swimsuit.”

  Too bad he says no. Grandpa rustles me up some cereal. We agree to meet at Irene Steele’s reenactor cabin as soon as I’m done filming, and we’ll all go for brunch. I take off for the Niagara College tent. My phone clunks comfortingly against my knee in a cargo pocket. I figure Grandpa will be too busy cleaning to look in the seat compartment. If he does, I can always say the raccoon must have taken it and I found it on the ground. I know, I know, but I did get away with the fib about Bunny.

  At the tent, most of the movie people are already there. From the way they look I’m guessing they’re not what Jer would call morning people. There are a lot of takeout coffees. A couple of guys are moaning about how much beer they drank last night. Tracey walks over, carrying a camera. “I was hoping you’d come,” she says. “You sure you want to do this?”