Bad Call

by Stephen Wallenfels

  Grahame asks, “How much sleep did you get?”

  “A couple hours, maybe three. You?”

  “More than that, but not much.” He nods at the other tent, the one with a rain fly stretched tight as a drum. “So what do you think? Did he score or not?”

  “I’m not going there,” I say.

  “Good thing we had that crazy wind.”

  “Why?”

  “It drowned out all the other noises.” He nudges me with an elbow.

  I have zero interest in pursuing the meaning of other. The way he’s looking at their tent, his eyes in a hooded squint, tells me where his mind is at, and I don’t want to go there with him. Especially after what I learned last night.

  “I need to dig a hole,” I say.

  “I need to make a fire.”

  He walks toward that giant branch, ax in hand.

  I grab the TP and shovel and walk up the hill.

  “Good morning,” he whispers, propped up on an elbow and smiling down at her. His tanned shoulders are bare. When did that happen?

  “Back at you,” she says.

  “Sorry about my elbow last night.”

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t planning on using my spleen.”

  “Your hair looks amazing,” he says.

  “So does yours,” Ellie says, pretty sure that Ceo is kidding about her hair, and she’s dead serious about his. A stylist might spend an hour messing with his hair to get the same tousled by a sleeping bag look he’s working to perfection right now.

  Ellie pulls on her hat. Problem solved.

  “What’s that sound?” she asks.

  “Grahame chopping wood.”

  “That man really likes to chop things.”

  “He seems to have a grudge against wood. I think his mother had sex with a beaver.”

  Ellie thinks about the force of Grahame’s blow last night. How the ground shook, how the branch fell like a severed limb, and wonders how tennis balls survive the impact. “While we’re on the subject of Grahame,” she says, “how did you pass him on the trail?”

  “I’d rather talk about beavers.”

  “You opened that door, not me. It’s time to fess up.”

  He sighs in resignation. “My father is a bloodsucking corporate vampire. My mother is a ninja-warrior judge.”

  “So?”

  “Do you know what that makes me?”

  “A conflict of interest?”

  “No,” he says, frowning. “That sounds like something Q would say. I’m a vampire ninja. And nothing beats a vampire ninja.”

  “I see. While that’s impressive, and probably true, I’ll be more specific with my question. Grahame says you cheated. Did you?”

  Ceo’s eyes cloud for a moment. When they clear, the green is as hard as a gemstone. She considers withdrawing the question, but he says, “Vampire ninjas don’t cheat. In fact we hate it more than anything. Our mission on this planet is to destroy cheaters and their cheating ways.”

  “Then how did you do it?”

  “Vampire ninjas do not reveal their secrets. But for you I will make this one exception. Everything Grahame does is according to a plan. He’s not capable of a random act. It works for him in tennis because he’s so damn good he doesn’t have to change his plan. But it kills him in poker because every hand is different. And he can’t smell a bluff even if it’s sitting on his face. That’s how I passed his ass on the trail. Plus,” he says with a shrug, “I talked him into putting a twenty-pound rock in his pack. I knew it would eventually take him down, and it did.”

  “Take him down? What does that mean?”

  “I knew he wouldn’t unpack all his shit to store the rock in the bottom of his pack. He put it on top. That made his center of gravity too high. He tripped and couldn’t recover.”

  “So that’s your story? He tripped?”

  “Because of my genius plan. You sound disappointed.”

  “Would Grahame agree with your version?”

  “Aw, I’m sure he thinks I tripped him. Truth is, I was hanging ten feet back, making sure he knew I was there. Just waiting for the inevitable. The only thing that tripped him was his ego.”

  Ellie thinks that when it comes to who has a bigger ego, Grahame or Ceo, it’s basically a coin flip. Then considers a follow-up question, Why didn’t Colin go to San Clemente? Or just as vexing, Why didn’t you see me when you were there? She’s trying to work out that segue when Ceo shines his eyes down on her and says, “So, Miss Ellie in the fetching ski hat. Let’s move on to happier thoughts.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “Are you ready for a day of wilderness adventure?”

  “Why, of course.”

  He leans a little closer. Like he’s thinking about doing something that doesn’t involve talking. Lingers there for a moment, then reaches out with a finger, gently pushes her hat up an inch, and brushes her forehead with a soft, slow kiss. He pulls back a little, hovers, and for a startling moment she thinks he’s going to work his way down. In that same moment she sees the weary eyes of the old cashier, and the box she chose not to buy. Was that a mistake? She licks her lips, suddenly aware that her sleeping bag feels warmer than it did a few seconds ago. But he pulls back all the way, slides her hat down as if covering the burning traces of what he did.

  Ceo smiles at his work and waits.

  “What?” she asks, trembling. His eyes don’t leave hers.

  “I need to get up.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “You’re wearing my shirt.”

  Ellie groans, remembers when she woke up last night shivering. Ceo handed her something warm that smelled like sweat and woodsmoke. She put it on over her fleece sweater and fell asleep. So that’s how his shoulders got naked. Ellie pulls off the shirt, hands it to him.

  He sits up and puts on the shirt, showing a flash of the same rippled abs she has on her phone. And she remembers I need to check my phone.

  He smiles at her. Again.

  “Now what?” she asks.

  “I, uh, need my pants.”

  This time she laughs.

  “Is this what you models did in Montana?” she asks, feeling the warm rush of blood to her face.

  “No. A hot tub was involved. Clothes were not.”

  Ellie wiggles inside her sleeping bag, gives Ceo his pants. “Please tell me that’s everything.”

  “Let me check.” He peers inside his bag. “Yup. That’s all you got. You can turn or watch, I’m good either way.”

  Ellie faces the tent wall and thinks about the pounding in her chest, about what just happened and what didn’t. Then she remembers last night. Where her thoughts were when she shivered in the dark and Ceo slept with his back to her. All she could see in that small space surrounded by wind was the look in Colin’s eyes when he said, Ceo’s father owns Dancing Hippo Studios, and again just before she followed Ceo to their tent. She saw wells of disappointment in those eyes, and wondered how deep they went. She wanted to tell him it isn’t what he thinks. Yes, Ceo was the reason she came on the trip, but he isn’t the reason she stayed. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the time or opportunity for that talk, and even if she had, she doubted Colin would believe her.

  Ellie notices the sound of chopping wood has stopped just before Ceo says, “It’s safe to open your eyes.”

  She rolls onto her back, afraid to look up but unable to stop.

  “Well, not completely safe,” Ceo whispers while toying with the zipper on her sleeping bag. He leans down and down. She closes her eyes. His lips touch hers. His hand slides into her bag, touches her shoulder. Cold. She shivers.

  Heavy footsteps approach their tent. They pause outside the door.

  Grahame says, “Hey, chief, it’s time to exit the love shack. We had a visitor last night.”

  Ceo says, “What kind of visitor?”

  “The kind that shits in the woods.”

  “To be continued,” Ceo whispers in her ear, and exits the tent.

&nbs
p; It takes a full thirty seconds before Ellie can draw an easy breath.

  She mouths, Thank you.

  To Grahame.

  “Well? Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” Ceo says to Grahame, who is poking one of four meatball-size mystery turds with a stick. They’re deposited as if making a statement, directly under the branch where they hung the food last night. The droppings are still a little moist, even in the near-freezing air. We didn’t find any paw prints, but that could be because the ground is too hard. I look down at Ceo’s tent. No sign of Ellie.

  “Maybe?” Grahame says. “What else could it be?”

  “A deer. A badger. Lots of forest animals could do this.”

  “We’re not being stalked by a fucking badger.”

  Sensing the tension in Grahame’s voice and hoping to keep things light, I say, “It could be Sasquatch’s cousin, Assquatch. He’s known for this kind of shenanigans.”

  Ceo smiles. Grahame spears a turd.

  “Q could be right,” Ceo says, stroking his chin. “Or we could have a more serious problem.”

  “Like what?” Grahame says.

  “There’s a sleep shitter among us.”

  This earns a questioning look from me and Grahame.

  “Some people walk in their sleep,” Ceo explains. “Sleep shitters have the same problem except with a twist. They take dumps in very strange places. Usually the family pet gets blamed. Or”—he gives Grahame a sideways glance—“in this case, badgers.”

  “Do sleep shitters do this?” Grahame asks, and points to the fresh marks on the tree where bark had been scraped off. They go up about fifteen feet, stopping just below the branch that had supported the stuff sack.

  “If they’re crazy enough,” Ceo says. “Maybe you should check your nails for bark chips.”

  Grahame is six feet from Ceo. Steam billows from his nose like an angry bull into a sky that matches his mood—considerably darker than it was ten minutes ago. After a beat he says, “Maybe if you weren’t so busy doing your thing last night, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “And what thing is that?” Ceo says, his voice flat.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, chief,” Grahame says, smiling at Ceo. “Seeing as you only have one move.” He uses the stick to flick a turd at Ceo. It misses, but not by much.

  Ceo takes a step toward Grahame. I slide between the two of them, arms out, saying, “I think we’ve all talked enough shit for today.”

  For a long moment I feel like I’m on a track between two runaway trains. Then Grahame nods slowly, turns, and heads for camp. That’s when I notice Ellie is up. She’s facing us while stuffing her sleeping bag into a sack. We watch in silence as Grahame walks right up to her, wraps his arms around her, and gives her a big hug. Ellie’s feet kick helplessly at the ground. It goes on for several seconds before he finally lets go. It looks like Ellie may have pushed him, but it’s hard to tell from here.

  “You and me,” Ceo says. “We need to talk.”

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Grahame says, heading straight for her like a bullet.

  Something in his voice doesn’t sound right. There’s a darker intent behind his smile, and she sees it sparking in his eyes. Colin and Ceo are still by that tree. She wishes they weren’t.

  “Good morning,” Ellie says. “What were you guys—”

  Grahame slams into her, wraps his arms around, and pulls tight. She feels the crushing knot of his biceps under his jacket as her feet leave the ground, is thankful for the sleeping bag acting as a buffer between her and the pressing parts of him. She works a hand free, uses it to push back against his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of stone.

  “Let…me…go,” she gasps.

  He puts her down, relaxes his arms. Then steps back and says, “Thanks, Ellie. I feel better now.” That thing she saw sparking in his eyes is gone. They are as cold and gray as the unflinching sky. Of all the voices calling for attention in her head, there is only one that demands immediate action. It has been there since the beginning of it all, and she’s been ignoring it for far too long.

  It’s time for this camping trip to end.

  Ceo agrees with Ellie’s logic. It’s hard not to. Since we can’t get a forecast and the clouds have dropped so low that they’re covering some of the higher peaks, we decide it’s time to bail and head for home. But Mount Watkins is still clear, and Ceo suggests that since we’re this close, this close, we may as well bag at least one summit.

  “How long will that take?” Grahame asks.

  “It’s only a couple miles.” Ceo checks his watch. “It’s eight forty now. We’ll be on top before eleven, have a quick lunch, then work our way down to the trail. I bet we’ll be in the valley before dark and in LA by midnight.”

  Ellie says, “My flight leaves at six.”

  “We’ll have you in Fresno by four.”

  “What if it rains?”

  “Anything more than a drizzle and we turn around.”

  “Could it snow?” I ask.

  “Doubt it. The temperature is going up. We’ll be down before it gets cold enough.” Then he says into our collective silence, “Hey, if the weather turns, we bail.”

  Mount Watkins sounds reasonable, his precautions make sense. I’m not so sure about his call on the snow. I’ve been skiing enough to know that it can be raining at the base and whiteout conditions at the top. And we’re talking about heading up before we head down. On the other hand, we’re dealing with the Ceo Effect, and that can’t be ignored.

  We all nod in agreement.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go see Mr. Watkins.”

  Ceo skips practice to give Colin a ride to the airport, but not without a beach stop first. Says there’s no way I’m letting you fly to cow country without a serious dose of wave therapy. Colin agrees as long as they leave by eight. That gives him a two-hour buffer for the drive to LAX, to pass through security, then catch the 10:50 red-eye to Burlington for an 8:35 a.m. arrival. He’s not sure who will pick him up because his mother wasn’t thinking or talking clearly. The $1,200 airfare drained the emergency Visa, so renting a car is not an option.

  Ceo doesn’t ask what happened to his dad. Colin doesn’t offer. Instead he tells Colin that his Q-tip video on YouTube has already passed the blind kid throwing knives at his drunk uncle and the dog that runs in circles every time it sees a squirrel, and it almost has as many views as the penguin that deals blackjack with its beak. He says, Dude, that’s freaking awesome for only half a day. Ceo drops the subject because Colin just stares at his phone, and his silence is thicker than the five o’clock traffic on the PCH.

  They start out tossing the Frisbee, then switch to football. Doing hero catches into the waves up and down the beach. The water is shockingly cold, but the air is warm enough. Colin feels himself breathing again after too many hours of not being sure it was worth the effort. Facing a classic SoCal sunset that Ceo rates a solid 7.2, they sit down without towels on the sand and let nature do the drying. After a couple of minutes of watching the waves fill in footprints and crumble sand castles and make things smooth for the next day, Ceo asks Colin what happened.

  He died, Colin says.

  How?

  Mom didn’t say.

  What did she say?

  That he’s dead and can I come home.

  Just that?

  No. She cried these deep gasping sobs that tore me up inside. It’s like I didn’t know who was on the other end. I listened to that until she finally said, Colin I can’t do this, just come home. And ended the call. I tried reaching her after class, but the line was busy.

  Did you text her?

  She doesn’t text.

  Dude, I can’t believe you went to class. With a Q-tip in your ear hole.

  I had a final, Ceo. I didn’t know what else to do.

  Well, first thing is you pull out the Q-tip.

  So simple, yet so wise. Then what?

  You don’t take the final.
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  And risk losing what’s left of my financial aid?

  They would’ve made an exception. Your freaking father died.

  Colin watches the waves roll in.

  Ceo punches him in the shoulder. I had to hear the news from Coach.

  I know. I’m sorry.

  My travel agent would have found you a better flight than that shitty red-eye. You’d be home by now.

  I couldn’t afford a better flight.

  We could’ve worked something out.

  Colin doesn’t say he thought about calling him and knew he would step up. He’s that kind of friend and would never ask for it back. But by then he was numb and the tailspin was in motion and somehow he turned left and right and walked down some stairs and wound up in class.

  Ceo says, It’s okay, Q-tip. But next time your dad dies, call me first.

  I’ll do that, Colin says, and feels the beginning of a smile. He wonders if that name will stick, hopes this is the end of it. After a minute he says I’m going to need a rental car when I get there.

  Ceo laughs, says, I can make that call. Then checks his watch.

  Dude, it’s seven fifty-five. We should head.

  Colin stands barefoot behind the Mercedes, waiting for the trunk to pop so he can get to his phone and see if his mom called. Maybe change out of these clothes so he doesn’t have to fly across the country with sand in his crotch. But the trunk isn’t opening and isn’t opening and then Ceo looks at him with oh-shit in his eyes.

  Says, I forgot there’s a hole in the pocket of these damn shorts.