Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  I smiled at the old phrase from camp. "Okay, I won't send out the invitations, yet. Although it is a very good idea—"

  "You're right, but I'd prefer to see if they like what I made_ Do you want a preview?" she asked.

  "Absolutely."

  She breathed heavily. "Okay, come on."

  She led me through her carefully decorated living room and on toward her dining room with its big double doors.

  They were closed, as always. In a house that was ruled by her husband and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Shannan, the dining room was the one place where Beth could spread her wings, and beads, and create havoc.

  Beth designs like an impressionist paints—fast, messy, and beautifully, sometimes working on several designs at once, stringing one while moving around selecting beads for the next. I would love to have her kind of talent, but I don't. I'm a novice, with very little patience for the intricate work. I can and do, however, copy from the very best, which is why they put instructions in beading magazines.

  She opened the doors; the sunlight sparkled off the dining room table and its contents. In the center were four design boards, gray fuzzy boards with numerous channels and pockets for beads. Every one was filled. I could see the start of several pieces, one in turquoise strung with black beads carved like cinnabar. Another had freshwater pearls and deep indigo crystal cubes.

  Every spare inch of tabletop held boxes and bowls, all with beads or findings, the metal pieces that hold a necklace or bracelet together. There were crystals in at least a dozen colors all shining like diamonds. There were lamp-work beads, Bali silver, fire-polished bi-cones, as well as nuggets of rose quartz, citrine, a pale aquamarine, and dozens more. Strands of freshwater pearls spilled out of a plastic case, and clear tubes of tiny Delicas in a dozen colors filled another.

  I tried not to gasp, but the room always took me like this—all the sparkling treasures of Aladdin's cave heaped in one place.

  I was still entranced when I heard a sound behind me. I turned and there was Sinatra; he is not allowed in the dining room for good reason and some inner sense had alerted him to the opportunity. He was racing through the doors.

  He leaped upward. "No!" I said, grabbing for him.

  I missed.

  He sailed above the littered landing field, all four legs stretched out straight. He hit with a whoomp. Then he slid.

  As if in slow motion a good fourth of the boxes, beads, and bowls skimmed to the end of the table, and showered over the edge like a waterfall.

  Then, silently, the beads all but disappeared in the thick shag carpet.

  Two

  Istared at Beth. She looked at the floor, then at Sinatra, who was sitting proudly in the middle of the table, purring loudly.

  I couldn't even talk. It was Beth, her face pale, who finally broke the silence.

  "You know my black coat?" she asked. "I think it's going to have a fur collar this winter." She reached for Sinatra, but I grabbed him first.

  "I'll take him," I said, holding the kitten. "Right after camp, I'll take him home with me." The Camden Manse has survived lots of pets, from firebellied frogs to dogs and ferrets, so surely it could handle one small cat.

  Sinatra snuggled against me as if he knew he'd just been adopted, and that his new "parent" was going to be a cinch to train.

  I held him away from my body. "Don't you start with me:' More gently than he deserved, I placed him in the other room and closed the doors quickly. When I turned back around and took in the chaos again, the enormity of what had happened sunk in. "Oh, my God:'

  "Prayer helps, but I think this mess needs human inter-vention!"

  "I'll help." I lowered myself to the floor, remembering why I rarely wear jeans anymore. But I made it and began raking my fingers through the carpet. I came up with a handful of beads and bits of fuzz. They went into a bowl, and then I plunged my hands into the carpet for more. As I separated the long strands of rug I saw that below the first layer of visible beads were many more—tiny seed beads and minute crimp beads in silver and gold. Again I looked at Beth; I'm rarely out of words, but this had done it.

  "We'll get a vacuum cleaner," she said. "It takes awhile, but it works."

  I assumed she knew what she was talking about but the task seemed monumental. There had to be several thousand dollars worth of beads buried in the carpet. And what about the new designs? Were they complete, or had they still been on the boards, waiting the final stringing and tying off?

  "Your pieces for the Tivolini buyer? . . . They aren't? .

  ." I gestured around us. It was unthinkable, and I couldn't bring myself to say it.

  "No, I was finished with those."

  The tightness in my chest eased. It wasn't an irreparable disaster.

  As I pawed the carpet for more beads, I heard Beth's daughter, Shannan, come in the back door. Beth has two children, Brian, who is in college and Shannan, age seventeen, who is my goddaughter.

  Shannan was little and cuddly when my two kids were busy gaining independence and making the simple title mom a four letter word. When she was three I took her to see the musical Annie and from then on, she was my partner for the theatre. She loved plays, and she could belt out

  "Tomorrow" with the best of them. By second grade she quoted Shakespeare like other kids said their ABCs.

  She called me her "other mother." That was also the role Beth played for my children, nurturing them when I was too busy, listening when I was too emotionally involved to be silent. I've always said that loving each other's kids is the best thing friends can do for each other, Beth and I have done that. It has given the term extended family a new twist. It has also added new dimensions to the lives of our children.

  Beth grew up in what she described as a normal subur-ban home, but she is imaginative and artistic, both traits she's shared with my children. Meanwhile, I took Shannan and Brian to some of the events I'm expected to attend.

  Shannan has conversed with George and Laura Bush, and sat in on a legislative hearing when she needed information for a school paper.

  She calls me Tante Kitzi. The tante is an honorary title, and Kitzi is what almost everyone calls me. It comes from the days when I was little. My cousin claims he couldn't say Missy Katherine, which was my grandfather's pet name for me. My mother says she made up the name. Katherine Zoe Camden. Kit Z. I believe my mom.

  "There is a vehicle blocking the driveway," Shaman announced as she swept into the room and surveyed us. "I couldn't get into my place."

  At the pronouncement, Beth's expression of annoyance mirrored my own. It wasn't Shannan's independence—we knew that was coming. But in the last few months the distance between us had become charged with something akin to hostility. I know teenagers go through this phase, and I'm sure my own did, although I can no longer remember specifics—which just shows that a failing memory can be a good thing.

  Still, Shannan's general level of annoyed anxiety tends toward the extreme. At first I'd thought it was her boyfriend, but a month ago she dumped him saying that his "humor was lame, and his taste in movies puerile."

  There was something wrong in Shannan's life, and all my best efforts at talking and listening had produced no results in finding out what it was.

  Shannan's gaze took in the table, then came back to me; I was still down on all fours. "I parked on the street so you can get out," she said.

  "You had to park on the street?" I asked, straightening my back. "Now there's a hardship!'

  She looked puzzled, not sure if I was teasing.

  "Actually," I went on. "That isn't a bit important. We are running late, you included, and Sinatra just cleaned the table. There are beads all over the floor." Some were hidden and the carpet glittered between the design boards and bowls.

  Shannan looked at the rug. "That's Sinatra, for you!'

  She turned to go, and for the second time that day I was out of words.

  Luckily Beth wasn't. "Not so fast," Beth said. "I need your help. Put a new
bag in the vacuum cleaner and then start—"

  "Mo-ther," Shannan said. "I have other things to do. I promised Christie that I would meet her at the mall. She needs help picking an outfit for the French Banquet. I need something new, too. And that's before I drive to that camp."

  That camp. Not even the name, although she knew it perfectly well. Shannan had begged to go with us when she was little, but children aren't allowed during the Craft Retreats. At seventeen she is old enough and had conde-scended to attend. I was still wondering why. For Beth, it was plain to see she was trying to reconnect with her daughter.

  Beth said, "I'll make a deal with you, Shannan. You vacuum, and I'll pay for the dress."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No."

  "Daddy says that as long as I live at home, I never have to buy my own clothes."

  Beth carefully knelt down on the floor and began picking up bowls and bead boards. "You aren't paying—I am.

  You are merely earning the pay. Now get the vacuum cleaner and don't forget to put in a fresh bag. Otherwise, you'll be picking beads out of the dust until well past the time when you should have gone to the banquet. Then you won't need a new outfit."

  "But, you always say that a commitment—"

  "Except that you shouldn't have made the commitment because you already had plans to go to camp. I know your life is busy, and I'm sorry about that, but the banquet is two weeks away; you can shop next weekend and ride to camp with me." Beth sat a little straighter. "I assume you want new jewelry to go with the outfit?"

  Shannan thought about it during what seemed to me like an ominously long time. "Look," she finally said. "This just isn't going to work. I'm not going to camp--"

  "Not" Beth's response was primal; I'd heard it from other friends when they'd been told things like, "I'm going to live with Dad." Or "You can't see your grandchildren."

  That no fought off a threat to motherhood and anyone in their right mind heeded it.

  "It's not a choice, Mother," Shannan was saying. "I have too much—"

  "No," Beth said again, now struggling to her feet. "I've already paid for the weekend and arranged for you to take off school tomorrow."

  "But I don't want to go--"

  "You cannot stay at home alone."

  "I'm not. Dad is going to be here—"

  "No." No arguments allowed. "You will help me vacuum, and then we'll ride to camp together." She turned to me. "Kitzi, leave this mess. Shannan and I can do it."

  "I don't mind—"

  "I know, but it's better if we divide and conquer. We'll get the beads, and you can go stake out our bunks."

  Shannan shot me one pleading glance, as if I should recognize the undercurrents and take her side. I didn't, and I couldn't. When she realized that, she turned with disgust and left the room. Something was going on here that I didn't understand.

  "Is she going to be okay?" I asked Beth.

  Beth let out a long breath. "I think getting away for a few days is the best thing for her. Really," she said, surely seeing my doubtful expression. "We'll only be an hour behind you; I'm not going to separate everything today." She started fanning her rapidly flushing skin.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Fine."

  "A hot flash?"

  "I prefer to think of them as personal summers," she said.

  "You've stalled long enough—let us do this and you go."

  "Okay, if you're sure." Despite my guilt at leaving her, she was right; I needed to reserve our bunks, and she needed to talk with Shannan. "Do you want me to take your new pieces with me?" I asked.

  "No. I don't think I'll even show them to you now.

  Maybe later at camp."

  I nodded. "Okay, I'm off." I turned and headed for the door picking up Beth's and Shannan's bedrolls on the way.

  "I'm going to take these."

  I could only hope that whatever was going on would smooth out during our time at camp—like Green Clover could work some magic. It had in the past.

  Three

  "We welcome you to Camp Green Clover Mighty glad you're here

  We welcome you to Camp Green Clover

  Give a mighty cheer:

  We'll sing you in

  We'll sing you out

  To you we'l give a mighty shout—

  Hail, Hail the gang's all here,

  Now that you're at Camp Green Clover."

  Camp song

  —origin unknown

  My first good breath of camp air was a combination of cedar, dust, and some scent that took me back to tetherbal on a hot summer afternoon.

  Amazing how little the place had changed, and how many years I'd been coming here. Beth, too. We started as campers back when we were wearing bell-bottoms the first time.

  As the years progressed, so had we, first becoming junior counselors and then real counselors. Eventually, of course, we had grown up and moved on from such frivolity, replacing it with the very serious business of marriage and raising . children. There had been no camp during those times, but Beth and I were both living in Austin by then, so at least we saw each other.

  It was about twenty years ago that another camp friend of ours, Cordelia Wright, bought Green Clover and decided that it should make money throughout the year, rather than just during the summer.

  First she tried corporate retreats, but executives expected cordon bleu food and amenities. Green Clover is rustic, even a little cutesy with a saloon and a general store that look like they came from an old movie set. The cabins are simple, and many kids have slept in the bunks, some without complete nighttime bladder control.

  Not considered an amenity.

  When the corporate events failed, Cordy began a series of holistic health retreats. Unfortunately, during the very first one a skunk got trapped in a cabin, spraying several participants; then mounds of fire ants invaded the campfire area where morning meditations were being held. Those creatures of nature weren't considered amenities, either, and the holistic folks were no more forgiving than the executives.

  Things shifted when Beth and I, visiting parents at the time, started reminiscing about all the fun we'd had at Green Clover. Our reveries had turned into complaints that we couldn't come back, which is when Cordy's eyes lit up and the idea of the Craft Retreat was born.

  Now the twice-yearly events start on Thursday at din-nertime and continue through Sunday at five. We'd like them to be longer, say four weeks instead of four days, but most women are married and can't leave home for that long. I no longer have a husband and my children are grown, so I'd come, but I suspect I'd be pretty much alone.

  During the Craft Retreats we are still given full run of the camp, meaning that we can take the canoes out on the river, sit around the campfire munching s'mores, and go horseback riding, although crafting is the big draw. Particularly beading and rubber stamping. It's like dude ranching with a productive outcome.

  "Kitzi! Kitzi!"

  "Hey, Miss Kitzi!"

  I slowed my Land Rover and looked to my left. Two women were waving from the steps of a trailer parked among the scrub pines and old live oaks. Jane and Angie, the Eastern Contingent, as we called them.

  I waved, feeling a bubble of excitement rising in my stomach. "Hi! How are y' all doing?"

  "Great!" They were vendors as well as crafters, and they brought some of the wonderful things we spent our money on. Jane sold bead supplies, while Angie carried rubber stamps, embossing powders, stamp pads, and special papers. The trailer was both for sleeping and schlepping, as Angie liked to say.

  Behind it I recognized the smal trailer of May Feather.

  It was hard to miss, since it had an Indian feather design and her name in brilliant turquoise.

  Parked ten feet away was a Fifth Wheel, also well identified with the words TonyCraft. Tony was the only man who stayed on the grounds during the Craft Retreats.

  The narrow, dusty road took a turn, and I caught my first sight of the cabins. I drove on past and arrived at the
main area of the camp with the dining hall below me on the right, and the "town" of Green Clover on my left. I drew in a breath and grinned. I was like a kid at Disneyland.

  What came first? Cabin? Town?

  Through the open doors of the Old Tyme General Store I could see frenzied activity as more vendors unloaded boxes in readiness for our arrival. Attached to the store was the Saloon. Big and high ceilinged, it had a fireplace, smal library section, and a bar where we piled the snacks we'd brought for late-night sessions of creating and talking. It

  was also in the Saloon that we set up the demonstrations and classes. Beside it was the small Assayer's Office, where I needed to check in.

  I parked, looking in every direction at once, not wanting to miss a thing. A tall, rangy woman with short, silver-streaked dark hair was loping out of the office.

  "Cordy!" I called. "Cordelia."

  She swung around, and took two long steps to reach me.

  "Kitzi Camden. How are you?" She slapped me on the back, a Cordy version of a hug.

  "I'm great," I said. In her jeans and checked shirt she looked every bit the camp owner. The look and the lingo weren't bad for a girl who'd graduated cum laude from Rice University. "How are you?" I asked.

  "Going crazy. Plumbing problems at the Bar B, and a new cook who just doesn't get it. She seems to think that I should know exactly how many people will be here, and what time they'll be arriving. I keep telling her—we've got seventy registered, and despite my best efforts to get accurate schedules, they show up when they do. I know that about twenty will be here tonight, but most can't get here

  'til tomorrow." She shook her head in disgust. "Did you drive in alone?"

  "Beth and I were coming together, but she had a disaster involving her cat and several hundred beads."

  "That sounds ugly. Unless she glued them on the cat for artistic effect."

  "It wasn't quite that way." I looked around. Others were going in and out of the buildings, but no one seemed to be paying attention to us. "So what's the story with the Tivolini buyer? How did you find out? And what kind of contract are they talking about?"