by Lisa Wingate
“Kind of,” I admitted. “It’s a long story. I know you need to get back to camp.”
“No, really, I want to hear.” She glanced toward the road, where her mother and her son were disappearing beyond the glow of the streetlight with the other women. “Tell you what. Let’s finish up here, and then we can walk back together. We can sit up for a little while, and then I’ll find you a blanket and a pillow, and whatever else you need for overnight. I had Cody put some extra stuff in our car, just in case anybody wanted it. Some of the family camps over at the Choctaw capitol grounds in Tuskahoma, and everyone’s back and forth. There’s never any telling who might end up spending the night here.”
I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and grab her in a bear hug. A blanket and pillow sounded wonderful right now. “Thanks,” I said. “Are you sure you want to sit up, though? You look really tired.” After all the evening festivities, I was tired myself. I could only imagine how Shasta must be feeling, heavily pregnant, camping out, and caring for a toddler.
“Are you kidding?” Threading her arm through mine, she flashed her buoyant smile and started into the restroom. “You’re the most exciting thing to happen on this whole trip.”
Uncertain how to feel about that, I followed her through the door. We stood side by side at the sinks, washing up and brushing our teeth, then I slipped into a bathroom stall to put on my sweats. Shasta had changed into shorts and an oversized sleep shirt when I came out, and we walked back to the camp together. She seemed to be waiting for me to start up the conversation about my family again, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. My eyes were dry, and it felt like the end of a very long day. The backseat of the car was starting to sound very, very good.
Beside me, Shasta walked slowly, her hand braced on her back. “Ohhhh,” she said and sighed. “My feet are killing me.”
I glanced down at her cheap flip-flops, not exactly sensible pregnancy shoes. Her feet and ankles looked swollen. “You should get some Nikes or something. Good shoes.”
She wagged her chin in my direction, her face backlit by the streetlamp, so that she was a silhouette with a misty halo. “Geez. Now you sound like Lana. She was all over my butt about the flip-flops today—like she really cares whether I trip over something. She’s such a witch.” Huffing an irritated breath, she peered toward camp. “She’s probably down there right now telling everybody what an idiot I am for coming on the campout when I’m pregnant. Like she’d know anything about it. She’s never been pregnant—I mean, my gosh, if she got pregnant she wouldn’t be able to prance around camp in those tacky shorts, trying to get everyone to look at her. She doesn’t even belong at the family reunion. She used to be married to my cousin, that’s all.”
It ran through my mind that I wasn’t family. By that standard, I didn’t belong in the group, either.
The comparison didn’t seem to occur to Shasta. She continued her rant, lowering her voice as we walked past the motor home and came closer to Camp Reid. “She couldn’t care less about seeing any of us. She’s just here trolling for Jace. He thinks she’s being all motherly to Autumn and Willie, trying to get them to sleep in her camper with her and stuff, just to be nice. Pfff. Please. She doesn’t even like kids, but if there’s an available guy around, Lana’s gonna try to get her hooks in, and she’s had it bad for Jace since high school. Shoot, she probably chucked my cousin just so she could go after Jace again. I tried to tell him that, but he doesn’t see it. By the way, did you notice her looking at you tonight?” She curled her fingers and raked a claw in my direction as we passed my car. “You better check your back for scratch marks, girlfriend. She figured out that Jace invited you over, you know?”
Embarrassment crept into my cheeks again. “He was just trying to be nice. I was kind of stranded.”
Shasta shrugged. “My brother’s always nice. I got all the nosy, snotty genes in the family.” In the dim light, she grinned mischievously, turning into Camp Reid. “So, how come you’ve never tried to find your father before? Why now?”
I contemplated potential answers as we entered the circle of tents. If we talked here, anyone in the tents would be able to hear us. “It’s a long sto—”
Benjamin dashed from the camp kitchen, where his grandmother was putting away the last of the food. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” His voice rang through the campground, shattering the silence. “I go bed you!”
“Ssshhhh,” Shasta whispered, laughing as she lifted him onto her hip. “You’ll wake everybody up. Why don’t you go on in with Daddy? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Benjamin threaded his arms around her neck and squeezed. “I go bed you.”
Frowning, Shasta looked toward the tents, then me, then back and forth again. “I guess I’m on night-night duty.” She sounded disappointed. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll see you guys in the morning.” I ruffled Benjamin’s hair and he turned his face away, burrowing bashfully into his mother’s shoulder.
“Benji, you cut that out,” she scolded, turning him to face me. “You’re not shy. Blow Dell a kiss good night. Come on, show her how you can blow the best kisses.”
Popping his head up, Benjamin complied with a loud smack and a big grin. I caught the kiss in midair, brought it to my heart, said good night, and headed off to bed.
CHAPTER 9
Morning light pressed my eyes, and I rolled over, snuggling into the quilt and letting out a long, slow sigh. I wanted to sleep in, but something was pulling me from my dreams, tearing the fabric haphazardly, so that the dreams went one way and I went the other.
There was a tapping sound over my head. Pushing my hair out of my eyes, I blinked upward, slowly becoming aware that my neck was sore because I was crunched in the backseat of my car. I was sleeping in my car…. The air smelled of wood smoke…. Folding back the quilt, I traced a finger along the neatly appliquéd patchwork of maple leaves, trying to remember where it had come from. It wasn’t one of Karen’s quilts.
Outside, the light was the cool pink of early morning, a new sunrise breaking through the lacy poplar trees and towering pines. From where I was lying in the seat, I could see only branches and sky, nothing to tell me where I was.
The tapping came again, on the window over my head this time. I sat up and swiveled around, the blanket clutched to my chest even though I had on sweats. Faces peered back at me from the other side of the glass, and my heart bounded into my throat before I could register the fact that they were only children. They’d squeezed themselves against the window, flattening their noses.
Autumn and Willie. Their names came back in a rush of memories from the night before. I took in Camp Reid, still clothed in the morning hush, only a thin stream of smoke drifting upward, testifying to the fact that no one had risen and started the fire yet.
Pulling away from the window, Autumn pointed toward my picnic table, her eyes wide and white-rimmed. Beside her, Willie raised a double-barreled wooden rubber-band gun and sighted it in. Following his line of vision, I gasped. On the picnic table, a skunk was busy going through my backpack. From the looks of things, he’d already found the bag of airline peanuts and was searching for more.
Willie let go his ammo with surprising accuracy, and the rubber bands hit the metal barbecue grill with a resounding ping ping. The skunk stood at attention, sniffing the air in our direction.
“Willie!” Autumn squealed, and the skunk cocked its tail.
Hitting the lock button, I opened the door. “You two get in here!” I pulled them inside, and we landed in a jumble in the backseat as the door fell closed.
“Willie!” Autumn hollered, stepping on her brother and poking a knobby knee into my ribs as she peered over the driver’s seat headrest. “You stupid. You made it mad.”
“I was chasing it away,” Willie protested. “Why’d you bump my arm? I could of hit it.”
Her chin jutting out, Autumn glared at him. “And then it would of sprayed for sure.” She pointed out the window, where the
skunk stood arched like a cat. “If it sprays now, it’s your fault, and I’m gonna tell Dad and Uncle Rube and Nana Jo.”
Throwing himself into the corner, Willie crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t care. I’ll tell ’em you got up and went outta camp without telling nobody.”
“You woke me up,” Autumn shot back. “You should of left me alone.”
Willie’s bottom lip rolled outward and began to tremble. “It was tryin’ to get in the—”
“Time out,” I said, putting a halt to the melee and untangling myself from the jumble of quilt and little bodies. “What are you two doing over here?”
Both Autumn and Willie turned to me as if they’d completely forgotten they weren’t alone.
“So, your parents don’t know you left camp?” My question invoked instant looks of panic.
Autumn hooded her eyes and offered a quick explanation. “Willie heard something digging outside the tent. He thought maybe it was a bear.”
“A bear?” I repeated.
Autumn nodded vigorously, fanning her long lashes. “There’s bears around here. My uncle killed one once.”
“Uncle who?” Willie interjected.
Autumn flashed a threatening glance in his direction. “Hush up, Willie.” Painting on a bright, cheerful smile, she turned back to me.
Willie’s interest had been piqued by the bear-killing story. “Who kilt a bear? Uncle who?”
“Hush up, I said.” Autumn tucked her hair behind her ears, then straightened her nightgown. “You got us in enough trouble already. If Dad sees us over here, we’re dead. He said not to bother the lady anymore.” By the lady, she obviously meant me.
“She don’t mind,” Willie insisted. Holding his rubber-band shooter against his chest with one hand, he reached for the door handle with the other. “I’m goin’ back to the tent before everyone wakes up.”
As the door clicked open, the skunk, which had finally relaxed and become interested in my Milky Way bar, raised its tail and stood ready again.
“Hold it, hold it.” I grabbed the door and gingerly pulled it shut, wincing as the latch clicked into place again. On the picnic table, the skunk fluffed its tail, then went back to the candy bar. “Nobody’s getting out right now. We’re all just going to sit here until that thing goes away or the park patrol comes by.”
In the corner of the seat, Willie sniffled, then started to cry, more frightened little boy than fearless hunter now. “Dad’s gonna kill us! I wanna go home.”
“Hush up, Willie. You sound like a baby. It’ll leave pretty soon.” Autumn chewed a fingernail. “It can’t stay there all day.” She glanced at me for assurance.
“I think if we just leave it alone, it’ll wander off when it runs out of food.” I spread out the quilt, covering Willie’s bare legs, and slid back in the seat, letting my head sag against the headrest. “It’s getting light outside. Skunks are nocturnal. They don’t stay out in the daytime, unless…” they’re rabid, which skunks often are, especially the ones wandering around in the daylight, showing little fear of humans. Autumn and Willie probably didn’t need to hear that bit of information, nor was now a good time to share the famous Sommerfield graduation party rabid skunk story, but I couldn’t help thinking about it.
Even two years later, that smell was enmeshed somewhere deep in my sinuses. I could still see James on the deck of our weekend cabin in Hindsville, boldly fending off the staggering skunk with a high-powered garden hose, which seemed to work until the hose kinked up and the sprayer went dry. Dazed and confused, the skunk regained its footing. James, rendered defenseless, ran backward, tripped over the hose and landed in the bushes. The skunk stumbled a few steps in his direction, Karen ran out the door with a broom, intent on rescuing James, and the skunk, still disoriented, staggered to the edge of the pool, fell in, and promptly sank to the bottom. Before Karen could get James out of the bushes, an oil slick of massive proportions rose to the surface of the water. The smell permeated everything, including friends and family, and my graduation party was over before it began. The event was still a running joke around Hindsville. It was weeks before we could use the cabin again.
Autumn eyed me, as if she knew I had more skunk experience than I was letting on.
Willie burrowed under my arm. “What’s oc-turn-ul?” He rearranged the blanket so that it covered both his legs and my sweats, and we were snuggled in together. A shiver ran through his body, and I slipped my arm around him.
“Nocturnal. That means to come out at night. Nocturnal animals sleep during the day, and at night they go out looking for food.”
“Like peanuts?” Willie observed, peering at the packages on the table.
I gave him a squeeze. “Yes, like peanuts. Skunks are scavengers, mostly.” Willie reminded me of Aunt Kate’s son, Joshua. Josh was too grown up for cuddling now, but even at ten years old he was still full of boy questions. I wondered, if Angelo were still around, if he’d be like that—curious about everything from grasshoppers to jet propulsion. Sometimes, when Josh and I spent time together over the years, I imagined that I was with my own baby brother. It was hard to picture Angelo growing up, a teenager now. In my mind, he was a little boy, no older than Willie, and we still had time to snuggle together under a quilt and talk about all the mysteries of the world. It was painful to consider the fact that those years had already passed us by, and, if I ever found Angelo, he would be almost a man by then, someone I didn’t even know. We would never have the memories of a shared childhood.
“What’s a scav-a-ger?” Willie’s large dark eyes blinked upward with interest and admiration. He was impressed with my sophisticated command of skunkology.
Autumn wiggled in on the other side of me, covering herself with the quilt. “Don’t pester with so many questions, Willie.” Huffing air through her nose, she frowned apologetically, and added, “He just wears me out sometimes.”
I fought the urge to chuckle at Autumn. Between her and Aunt Lana, Willie was getting about as much mothering as one little boy could stand. I wondered where Autumn and Willie’s real mother was—if she didn’t come to the campout because she and Jace were divorced, or if she was out of the picture completely.
“It’s okay,” I said, laying a hand over Willie’s thick, burr-cut hair. “A scavenger is an animal that doesn’t usually hunt for its food. Mostly it eats whatever it can find that’s already dead.”
“Like peanuts,” Willie observed.
Autumn yawned. “Peanuts were never alive, Willie.”
“Technically peanuts were alive at one time,” I corrected, and Willie stuck his tongue out at his sister. “Now none of that.” Slipping a finger under his chin, I frowned into his face. “If you hang that thing out there, someone might grab it and hold on.” My second-grade teacher used to say that to Preston, the snotty little redheaded boy whose dad ran the bank in Hindsville. Mostly he stuck his tongue out at me, because he thought he was so much better than I was. “And then where would you be?”
“Quiet,” Autumn quipped.
The joke went over Willie’s head. Tapping his fingers together in his lap, he thought for a moment, then proceeded with his next question. “Where do peanuts come from?”
Groaning, Autumn flounced back against the seat.
“Peanuts come from peanut plants,” I answered, keeping everyone pleasantly distracted from the fact that the skunk had finished its snack and was looking for a way off the picnic table. It had apparently climbed up the broken picnic bench to reach the tabletop. Unable to navigate its way back down, it was now marooned. Around us, morning cut through the trees, bringing the campground to life, increasing the skunk’s desperation.
Desperate skunks are not a good thing. It scampered back and forth across the cement tabletop, peering over the edges, assessing the drop-off and looking agitated. Eventually, this was going to end badly. Lanterns were coming on in some of the Reid tents, and the thin trickle of smoke from the campfire had thickened, indicating someone was sto
king up the morning fire. Turning its tail toward the smoke and the sounds of human activity, the skunk rushed to the opposite side of the picnic table, considered bailing off, then spread its feet and arched its tail instead.
Sooner or later, Camp Reid would go into panic mode because Autumn and Willie were missing, someone would rush around the corner, and the skunk would let loose. Poof. Everything within a half mile would smell like skunk, and the campout would be over.
I continued talking to Willie about peanuts because I didn’t know what else to do. “Peanuts are a seed. The plant makes them so it can grow more peanut plants.” Think. Think of something. Do something before this turns into a disaster.
“Like pecans?” Willie asked. On my right side, Autumn had gone quiet. Burrowing into my shoulder, she yawned again.
“Well, more like a seed pod. Like a pea pod, or a bean pod, I think. I’m not exactly sure.” The skunk had frozen in place, and even with the windows closed I could hear voices from Camp Reid. What was I going to do?
My cell phone. I could call the park ranger. Except that I didn’t have the park’s phone number. Information. I could call information and try to get the number for the campground, or maybe the Department of Parks and Wildlife . It seemed ridiculous, considering that I could see the ranger station from here, but I didn’t have a better idea.
“Okay, guys—” I pushed the quilt aside and slipped out from between the kids. “I want you two to sit very still. Don’t be worried, and no one try to open the door, all right? I’m just going to climb over to the front seat and see if I can use my cell phone to call the park rangers. Maybe they can think of a way to make the skunk go home.”
“I can shoot it,” Willie offered, fishing his rubber-band gun from the seat.
Autumn yanked it from his hands. “Your gun is what got us in this mess. Sit still, for heaven’s sake.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s the truth.” Autumn’s arms were crossed sternly over her chest, and her voice was the voice of experience. “But you better learn. Next year, when you start kindergarten, them teachers aren’t gonna let you just hop around all the time. Then in first grade you don’t get to act like a baby anymore at all. You have to sit in your chair and do what you’re supposed to do. And then in second grade, if you get Mrs. Bender like I got, she doesn’t let anybody talk at all. Then in third grade, Ryan Mitchell told me you don’t even get two recesses anymore. Just one recess. That’s all you get.” The words rose in pitch, implying, Can you believe that?