Fellowship Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  “There’s not likely to be a next time too soon,” Travis warned, stuffing the money into his own front pocket. “We gotta get a ride.”

  “Well, I’m sure your Uncle Fred will drive you again if you ask him to.”

  Travis snorted and George gave him a quizzical look.

  “Are you having trouble with your Uncle Fred?” he asked.

  Reaching down to scratch Lucky behind the ears, Travis just shrugged, but encouraged by George’s interest, Cody poured out the entire story of the beer can with much waving of hands and gnashing of teeth.

  “He thought it was real funny too,” Travis added angrily when his brother had finally run out of breath.

  George leaned back with a thoughtfully expression and Travis eyed him as suspiciously as Lucky had eyed the grasshopper, expecting a lecture on underage drinking, but the older man just pursed his lips again.

  “You know I’m compiling stories about the four families for a private book I’m working on?” he asked instead.

  Travis nodded, but Cody began to bounce up and down, causing Lucky to begin barking once again. “Mom says you promised Uncle Brandon you were never gonna show it to anyone else,” he answered excitedly, “cause if you did they’d lock us all up in labs an’ do experiments on us an’ cut our guts open and spill ’em out all over the floor to see why we can do all the things we can do.”

  He mimed getting his guts cut open with as gruesome an expression as he could manage, falling to the ground with a loud gurgle. Lucky immediately began licking freezie off his face, and with a laugh, he sat up again, tumbling the diminutive animal into his lap.

  “Colorful, but essentially true,” George agreed. “And no, I’m not going to show it to anyone else—it’s just for the families—but the point I was making is that I was talking to your Grampa Art the other day . . .”

  “I helped him fix his one-ton,” Cody stated proudly, and Travis gave him a dark look.

  “Don’t interrupt,” he snapped.

  Cody subsided.

  “Anyway, your Grampa told me a story about your Uncle Fred when he was young that you might find interesting,” George continued.

  “As young as me?” Cody asked, then gave Travis an innocent look. “What,” he demanded. “I wasn’t interrupting; I was just asking.”

  “Asking is interrupting, stupid.”

  “Oh.”

  “Possibly he was somewhere in between your two ages,” George answered firmly. “Now, it seems,” he began, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way, “that one warm summer day your Uncle Fred had tried to . . . help himself . . . to some of his Uncle Lloyd’s beer in much the same way as you tried to help yourselves to some of his beer yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” Travis asked despite himself, ignoring Cody’s indignant expression.

  “Yes. And he got caught, also in much the same way as you did.”

  Cody wrapped Lucky in his arms, his eyes as wide as saucers. “What happened to him?” he breathed.

  “Well, as to that I couldn’t say, but your Grampa Art says that Fred swore revenge on his Uncle Lloyd and that the opportunity came much sooner that he expected.”

  He took a long drink of cola, evidently enjoying the boys’ now riveted attention. “Now apparently his Uncle Lloyd, that is to say, your Great-uncle Lloyd, always brought a very special case of imported dark ale whenever the four families went camping together. This case was so very special that it only came in cases of twelve, not in twenty-four like most beer, and he couldn’t get it at the beer store; he could only get it at the liquor store.”

  Both boys gave a long whistle of appreciation at this piece of exotic information and George smiled.

  “Now Fred determined that he was going to steal this case of beer right out from under his Uncle Lloyd’s nose,” he continued. “It took a long time and a lot of careful planning because your Uncle Lloyd was, and still is, a wily old Geoffries and time and time again, Fred failed, but finally, on the very last attempt, he managed it.” George snapped his fingers and both boys jumped.

  “How?” Travis demanded, to cover up how startled he’d been.

  Lifting Lucky from Cody’s lap, George set him back down on the ground before giving an eloquent shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It seems that it’s as closely guarded a secret as the abilities of the four families themselves. But I do know that it took both him and Brandon working together to accomplish it. And I also know that, to this very day, your Uncle Fred buys that very same case of twelve very special dark ale from the very same liquor store whenever the families go camping together to commemorate the day he put one over on his Uncle Lloyd.”

  He sat back with a satisfied smile and Cody cocked his head to one side with a frown. “What does Uncle Lloyd think about that?” he asked.

  George blinked. “Hmm? You know, I don’t know that either. I’ll have to ask him.”

  “The families are going campin’ this weekend,” Cody continued.

  “Yes. Brandon invited me last week, but I’m going to have to call him back; I’m little confused. I thought it was held on the Island but apparently not.” He glanced at Lucky in some concern. Blind Duck Island—the ancestral home of the four families—was notorious for garter snakes, especially in late summer, and George was notorious for worrying about Lucky getting eaten whenever they went there.

  “Naw,” Cody answered. “It’s on the beach.”

  “The beach at the Provincial Park? Doesn’t that get a bit expensive? How many campsites have they rented?”

  Cody snickered. “No campsites, Uncle George,” he said with the kind of condescension that only an eight-year-old could manage. “We’re on the beach.”

  “But it’s a public beach, isn’t it? Surely no one’s allowed to . . .” he paused as his lawn mower began to sputter in response to the darkening of Cody’s eyes. “Oh, I see. A lot of Geoffries going camping this year, are they?” he asked weakly.

  Cody nodded. “Lots,” he declared with a huge smile.

  Beside them, Travis had remained quiet ever since his first reaction to George’s story. Now he stood abruptly, his eyes dangerously bright. “We should be gettin’ home,” he said firmly. “Mom’ll be waiting on dinner.” He handed the ten dollar bill back to George, ignoring Cody’s shout of protest. “Just come in and talk her into not being mad about the school bus thing an’ lettin’ us go campin’ this weekend and we’ll call it even,” he said.

  George smiled. “Done. Wait a quick moment while I get my jacket and his nibs’ leash.”

  Catching up Lucky, he made for the house and Travis waved a dismissive hand at his brother’s incredulous expression.

  “Later,” he said.

  The next Saturday dawned hot and humid—more like an August day than a September one. Pulling into the westernmost end of the beach parking lot, George shook his head in disbelief as he drove past a dozen cars and pickup trucks; each had a very official-looking provincial park pass shimmering on the dashboard, gifts from the illusion-creating Geoffries members of the family. As he parked beside Art Akorman’s huge old red one-ton truck, a small white piece of paper appeared on his own dashboard and he frowned at it as he very primly set a real one on top of it. Last night Brandon had called and told him not to spend the money on a weekend pass, but George had ignored him. The money went to help maintain the park and pay for the students who worked there in the summer. It was a good cause and he had no intention of aiding and abetting the families’ cavalier attitude toward paying for things. Or more accurately, not paying for things.

  Now, slinging his laptop case over his shoulder and tucking Lucky under one arm, he climbed out of his SUV, locked it carefully, and then made his struggling way up and over the nearest sand dune, wishing the families had chosen the westernmost beach, which was much easier to reach, as a campsite. Pausing at the top for a moment to catch his breath, he then made his down the other side with almost as much difficulty, glancing about once he reached the beach proper
.

  Before him, Lake Ontario sparkled brilliantly in the morning sun. To the west, a few die-hard tourists sat reading or sunbathing, completely unaware of the carnival-like atmosphere going on to the east where several dozen tents, picnic tables, and beach umbrellas had been set up against the dunes. Brandon and Fred’s father, Kevin Geoffries, and their uncles, Lloyd and Albert, stood before an immense propane barbecue, handing out hamburgers and hot dogs to a constant stream of people while their mother, Bev, and her cousins Judy and Donna Mynaker piled their plates high with salads, rolls, and desserts. An army of children splashed and screamed in the water, watched carefully by pockets of adults sitting comfortably in beach chairs of every possible size and description while groups of teenagers lounged about on blankets listening to a dozen portable radios.

  As George and Lucky made their way through a crowd of children and dogs pounding along the water’s edge, a chorus of welcomes sounded all around them and Lucky began to squirm. Snapping off his leash, George set him very carefully down in the pebble-and-zebra-mussel-shell-littered sand. The tiny dog made like a rocket for nine-year-old Caitlin Frawst, who caught him up in her arms at once. Her fourteen-year-old brother, Jesse, deftly flipped George’s keys out of his pocket from a good hundred yards away, and with several of the other older children in tow, went off to fetch his camping gear for him. As George took a seat at a picnic table where he could keep an eye on Lucky, he accepted a beer from Art Akorman and settled back with a contented sigh, taking note of the mountain of coolers, pop bottles, and beer cases stacked beside the barbeque, in particular two cases of special dark ale—as yet still unopened—which had been set prominently at the very top.

  Crouched behind a huge driftwood tree trunk halfway up the nearest sand dune, Travis Frawst had also taken note of the cases and of their position.

  Most of the families, including his own, had arrived the afternoon before. Brandon and Fred had shown up together with their own families in tow around five o’clock, and had spent much of that first evening helping their dad set up barbecue and the huge fire pit they would light each night after the sun set.

  Fred’s case of beer had been set down—tantalizingly unattended—beside a pile of fishing gear and Travis had moved in immediately, but every time he’d come within twenty feet of it, something would happen: his mother would call him, or one of the many family dogs would begin to bark, or more usually, Cody would show up. By the time Travis had finally extricated himself from the last of these distractions, the case was gone.

  He’d been in a panic, afraid that Fred had taken it away to be opened but finally he’d discovered it—still miraculously intact—beside his great Aunt Gracie’s huge Adirondack chair. Once again he’d moved in, but once again, he’d gotten distracted, this time by his father who’d insisted he help set up their own three tents. By the time he got back, the case had been moved again, this time placed under Great Aunt Gracie’s feet like an ottoman.

  The rest of the night had gone much the same way. Now, he glanced out at the lake where Randy Akorman was standing up to his chin in the water talking to Fred and holding a plastic cup of beer above the waves with one hand and a cigarette with the other. Travis moved forward at once, but froze, cursing under his breath, as Brandon ambled over to the stack of coolers and cases, and helped himself to a bottle of hard cider. As he made to move away, Justin Mynaker joined him and the two men stood, chatting amiably with the case peeking out from behind them. Travis ducked back into the shadows of his driftwood tree trunk once again, his expression wrathful.

  Out in the water, Fred was still talking to Randy Akorman and Travis’ eyes went dark as he glared at them. The waves began to churn, splashing higher and higher towards Randy’s cup. One more push ought to do it and then . . .

  “Whatcha doin’ Trav?”

  He jumped as Cody appeared beside him.

  “Nothin’,” he snapped, his surprise causing his voice to come out much harsher than he’d planned. “Just go play with the little kids, will ya?”

  Cody’s face fell, then smoothed over as he watched Brandon head for the barbecue, leaving the case unattended once again. “You gonna try an’ steal Uncle Fred’s beer?” he asked innocently.

  Travis bit back an angry retort. It wouldn’t do to have Cody running to their mom with a tale that might get Travis sent home. “Maybe,” he allowed casually.

  “ ’Cause I got a good idea how to get it.” Throwing himself down beside his brother, Cody fished a cold corn dog from his pocket. “Wanna hear it?”

  Fred was moving toward shore now and Travis ground his teeth in frustration. Another opportunity missed.

  “Trav?”

  “What?”

  “Do ya wanna hear it?”

  Fred’s wife, Lisa, joined him at the water’s edge. She said something to him and he wrapped his arm around her ample waist with a laugh. As they headed for their tent, Travis nodded absently.

  “Yeah sure, whatever.”

  “Cool.” Cody stuffed half the corn dog into his mouth at once. “E mag is ar prall inna waer, fee, and ven e goos arr id, e grib is freer.”

  “What?”

  Cody swallowed. “We make his car fall in the water, see, and when he goes after it, we grab his beer.”

  Travis shot him an unimpressed look. “How’er we sposed to get the car over the sand dunes?” he demanded.

  “I dunno; fly it?”

  “Don’t be stupid! I can’t fly something that big yet and you can’t fly it at all!”

  Cody’s face fell again. He turned away, but at that moment, Randy Akorman walked by, whistling a Kenny Rogers song, and Travis hand shot out to catch his little brother by the back of his T-shirt.

  “Wait!” he ordered. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  The Milky Way was a brilliant slash of stars arching across the sky, and the light from the fire pit a flickering orange glow over the beach as the two boys crouched behind the tree trunk halfway up the dune, equally triumphant expressions on their faces and Fred’s case of special dark ale nestled between them.

  Travis chuckled evilly.

  Once put into effect, the plan had gone off without a hitch. Just before sunset, Cody had gone running to their dad, tears spilling out from his huge, green eyes, wailing at the top of his lungs that he’d forgotten his favorite toy. He’d pleaded with their dad to take him home to get it but, already three sheets to the wind, Jerry Frawst couldn’t have found their car, never mind his car keys—which Travis had lifted from his pocket as easily as his cousin Jesse had lifted George’s earlier that day just in case. Cody had then gone to Fred with the same loud, pathetic story and, unable to quiet him, Fred had finally taken him off to fetch it. By the time they’d returned with Cody clutching the first toy he’d seen in the bedroom he shared with Travis—a broken ninja turtle catapult—the deed was done.

  Grinning at his little brother, Travis eyes went dark and the flaps on the case of special dark ale cracked opened as if by magic. He pulled out a bottle, handed it to Cody, then caught up one for himself. The lids popped off, the bottles clinked together, and then each boy took a deep swallow of Coke.

  Below on the beach, George sat in another Adirondack chair, a sleeping bag thrown over his legs and Lucky lying snoring in his lap, his little belly distended from the amount of hot dogs, potato salad, and burned marshmallows he’d managed to con out of a dozen family members. Seated around them, Brandon, Fred, Art, and Lloyd each touched their bottles of special dark ale to George’s in a silent salute.

  “So, it worked just like you said it would,” he said to Brandon. “How did you know? You’re not a Mynaker, in disguise are you?” he teased.

  The younger man shrugged. “It was easy enough,” he said around the butt of his cigarette. “Travis just needed to be reminded that a fella’s best friend is always his brother.”

  “Reminded? But I thought he didn’t actually like Cody.”

  Lloyd gave an explosive snort. “Don’ be fooled
by that crap,” he said caustically. “Travis loves his little brother. Always has.”

  “He does that,” Art agreed. “He practically dragged Cody around like an action figure when he was a baby.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  Pulling out his pipe, Art shrugged. “Tom, Dale, and Travis Frawst can all do what Frawsts do,” he explained, leaning over to catch up a burning twig from the fire pit. “An’ each one taught the next one how. Then Cody comes along. It’s Travis’ turn to teach him, but Cody can’t make a toy airplane really fly or make someone’s books fall outta their hands at school; he turns on the TV, or his dad’s electric razor, or his mum’s blender.” He stuffed the twig into the bowl of his pipe and drew in a long puff of smoke. “Ya see?”

  George nodded. “So the beer case story . . . ?”

  “Made Travis remember that brothers always have more in common on the inside then they think,” Brandon answered. “Whatever they might be able to do on the outside.”

  “An’ two heads are always better’n one,” Lloyd added with a grin. “For both makin’ mischief and for thwartin’ it.” He clinked Art’s bottle with his own and Fred gave him a sour look.

  “And the Coke?” George pressed.

  “Well, I wasn’t gonna let them have my beers any more’n Uncle Lloyd was gonna let me have his, now was I?” Fred answered indignantly. “But just because we saw it comin’ a mile away doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good plan.” He took a long, satisfied swallow from his own bottle. “That’s good stuff and they earned it,” he added.

  George chuckled. “You do know that they’ll try again,” he warned him, “Or try something else as equally devious.”