Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Chace is what gifted people like me refer to as an under-achiever. He used to have better focus, but he lost it when Daddy left, and now he makes no effort at all to maintain perfect grades. He and Daddy were practically inseparable before our parents’ divorce, but now my brother just mopes around, showing little interest in much of anything. Chace actually received a ‘needs improvement’ mark on his last report card.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” I said in the boy’s defense.

  “I speak several languages fluently,” Brandi continued as if I hadn’t even spoke. “I am currently learning Italian, but Chace has yet to even master Spanish, and he’s almost nine. I spoke fluent Spanish and Mandarin Chinese before I was seven. But Chace seems to have no ambition whatsoever.”

  “Slacker!” I meant this as a joke, but Brandi nodded her head in an exasperated manner. With a serious expression on her face, she replied, “Exactly! There’s no excuse for it. It’s just pure laziness on his part. He occasionally comes up with a spark of a good idea, but they’re few and far between.”

  “Perfect grades may not be as important to him as they are to you. He’s obviously no dummy, but perhaps he’s content with not being perfect—scholastically at least. He may excel more in social interaction, athletics, or the arts, for example. We can’t all be members of Mensa, you know, or the distinction would have no significance. Perhaps he doesn’t need perfect grades, or to have the ability to speak multiple languages, to be happy in his own skin.”

  Brandi, with her mouth agape, stared at me as if I’d just told her that perhaps her younger brother didn’t need oxygen to be content with his life. She shook her head in disbelief, so I’m sure she thought she was wasting her breath talking to someone who didn’t have the sense God gave a grape, not to mention a sub-standard AA degree from a lame, almost comical excuse of a college.

  “Let’s just go. Get up on Titan, lady, right behind me, and hold on. I’d already removed the saddle so you’ll have plenty of room,” Brandi instructed me.

  I stood up on the boulder, and tried to raise my leg up over Titan’s back, to no avail. With my leg lifted as high as I could possibly lift it, it was still a foot shy of reaching the top of Titan’s back. Little Miss Einstein shook her head again and asked with great impatience in her voice, “Don’t you own a pair of jeans that would’ve been more appropriate for horseback riding? Those look like they’ve been applied to your legs with a paintbrush.”

  “Your smart-aleck remarks are not necessary or appreciated,” I said. “You told me the ranch is just over the hill, so why don’t you go on now and I’ll walk back by myself.”

  “I’ll walk with you, or my mommy will be upset with me for leaving you behind.” She sounded as excited about walking back with me as I felt about walking back with her. “I don’t like it when Mommy is unhappy.”

  “Swell.”

  She nonchalantly hopped off Titan and we began walking south toward the barn. Although the saddle had been removed, there was still a bit in Titan’s mouth, so Brandi held the reins in her hand and the solid black horse followed us. Like Riptide, Titan was a spirited and muscular stallion, and Brandi, with her amazing equestrian skills, had no difficulty in commanding his compliance and obedience. There was a mutual respect between the two that was impressive to me, considering my lack of experience with horses.

  Brandi and I walked side-by-side in total silence for several minutes. When we came across a fresh pile of excrement that had been deposited in the middle of the dirt trail, Brandi said, “There’s a mountain lion in the area.”

  “Mountain lion?” I asked, swallowing hard. Had I been aware of that fact earlier, I’d have been a nervous wreck. Peeing my pants would have been inevitable, brought about by unimaginable fear, but it would have been the very least of my concerns. The potential of becoming a mountain lion turd myself would have been moved right to the top of my priority list.

  “Should we be concerned?” I asked, shaking my head to clear my mind of the disturbing vision. For the first time, I welcomed any knowledge she might have to share with me about our chances of being eaten alive by a nearby flesh-eating creature.

  “No, it won’t bother us,” she assured me. “Besides, we’re not far from our destination. Did you know that you can identify nearly any animal by its scat? Scat is another term for poop, by the way.”

  “Yes, I know. Seriously, young lady, I am not down to my very last brain cell.” I was pretty sure I really was down to my very last nerve, however, and she was trampling all over it.

  Brandi continued expounding on animal scat, as if she felt it was necessary to flaunt her intelligence. “Most can be identified by observation alone, such as the size, shape, color, and consistency of the scat. For example, this scat is about five inches long, with a blunt end, and has hair and bone fragments in it. The fact that there are scratch marks around it, which is evidence the animal tried to cover its excrement, is also indicative of a mountain lion. Did you know the science of scat is called scatology?”

  “No, I didn’t, because, I’m happy to say, I’ve never been obsessed with poop, as you appear to be. You read a lot, don’t you, child?” I asked in amazement.

  “Yes, almost constantly,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everyone says that I have an insatiable curiosity, and an incredible thirst for knowledge.”

  “Do you have plans of becoming a scatologist when you grow up?” I was teasing when I asked the child this but, apparently her brain was so crammed with facts, figures, and intricate details about an untold number of subjects, that there was no room left in it for a sense of humor.

  “Of course not,” she replied, with a huff. “I’m going to be a scientist in the medical field. I intend to find a cure for cancer one day.”

  “Personally, I’d like to find a way to create world peace. But I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in accomplishing your goal before I do,” I replied. My comment about creating world peace was in jest, because we all know war and terrorism wasn’t going away anytime soon. I knew the teasing aspect of it would never register with this serious, no-nonsense child. Besides, even though her desire to cure cancer was a lofty goal, I couldn’t deny it was possible. With Brandi’s intelligence and fierce determination, if a cure was ever found, it would most likely be an individual like her who’d be responsible for discovering it.

  “And then again, I might be a world champion barrel-racer instead.”

  I had to laugh. It was the first evidence I’d seen that even though Brandi was intelligent way beyond her years, she was still a child. “I’ve no doubt you could be both if you set your mind to it.”

  “That’s true,” she replied. An overabundance of modesty was not an issue for the child, either, I noticed.

  As we walked, I occasionally reached down to massage the inside of my thighs, which felt as if they’d been rubbed raw. I was massaging, trying to alleviate the soreness, when, without even turning to look at me, Brandi said, “That wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t too fat for those jeans you have on.”

  “Excuse me?” I responded, appalled at her rudeness. Obviously, this young brainiac was missing a sensitivity chip.

  “I noticed you had a large piece of strawberry pie at lunch, with whipped cream on top of it, no less. That dessert probably elevated your caloric intake to more than you should be consuming in an entire day, particularly considering you really need to lose a few pounds. You won’t find a grain of sugar in our home. Eating healthy is a priority in our household, and not just because my mom is a model and staying slim is critical to her career.”

  Good for Miss Twiggy, I said to myself. Yes, it was true that Cassie had a face that would stop traffic. However, healthy diet or not, I didn’t find anything attractive about bony shoulders, arms and legs that looked like broomsticks with blue veins protruding from them, or a ribcage that could be used as a washboard if the Maytag shot craps. Veronica was the only person I knew who made Cassie look bloated in compariso
n. At least Cassie wasn’t scary-thin like Veronica, but she didn’t need to lose any weight, or be overly obsessive about digesting a grain of sugar on occasion either.

  And, yes, I knew I could stand to lose a few pounds. As I’ve said numerous times before, I had every intention of working toward that goal after we returned home from our vacation. I didn’t need some pint-sized freak of nature bringing it to my attention, or lecturing me on what I should or shouldn’t be eating, or wearing, for that matter. To be honest, I felt perfectly comfortable in my own skin, with or without those ten extra pounds.

  I was too flustered to respond, but Brandi only seemed to be warming up. She continued, in her droning, monotonic manner. “Sugar is also detrimental to your teeth. Sugar can cause decay, and decay can cause infection, which, in turn, can adversely affect your entire system. Do you still have your own teeth?”

  I nodded woodenly, my mouth hanging open in astonishment. If I’d had dentures, they’d have probably fallen out already.

  “Well, then, don’t get too attached to them, because you probably won’t have them much longer if you keep eating things like that strawberry pie they served at lunch.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you can draw more flies with honey?” I asked, finding it hard to believe I was having such a mature—and, I might add, depressing—conversation with someone not yet eleven years old, gifted though she might be. I would have been happier discussing Lalaloopsy dolls and how annoying boys could be with the youngster.

  “Huh? Why would I want to draw flies?” Brandi replied, without a clue what I was talking about. “Now that’s just gross!”

  “Never mind. I’m too tired to explain the meaning behind that old adage.” I could feel my temper starting to rise, and I didn’t want to unleash it on a young girl who probably had no idea her remarks had been offensive and inappropriate.

  It suddenly occurred to me that the tragic loss of her stepmother might have emotionally affected her demeanor. After all, I had no way of knowing how close the two had been. Before Brandi could think of more clever ways to demean and insult me, I decided to change the subject and offer her my condolences. My bruised and battered ego couldn’t take much more abuse from the little snot.

  “By the way, I’m sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”

  “My loss?” She asked, confused. “What loss are you talking about?”

  “You know—the death of your stepmother.”

  “Her death is no big loss as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Well, dear, it’s got to be a little hard to accept the fact she’s been so brutally and abruptly removed from your life. She did play a part in your life, didn’t she?” I asked.

  “Not really. The only part she played in my life was to break up my family. Now I hardly ever see my daddy anymore. But it’s my mom, more than me, who’s been a complete wreck since Daddy left us. She’s just not the same anymore. She cries all the time and refuses to let me spend much time with Daddy. She told me she doesn’t want me to be influenced by his new wife—or didn’t, I should say. But I really don’t want to talk about Fanny,” Brandi said. I could tell I’d put a damper on her mood, which hadn’t been exactly cheerful to begin with. I felt bad about bringing up a sore subject. But feeling bad, or not, it didn’t deter me from probing deeper.

  “Okay, I understand. I just want you to know that I feel bad for you, and I’m sorry about the whole situation with your parents.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you know if your mother has any idea who might have electrocuted Fanny, or any suspicions about the killer?”

  “I’m pretty sure she knows very little about the murder. Why do you ask?”

  “My daughter and I are kind of looking into possible suspects’ motives and alibis, in hopes of being able to assist the detectives in tracking down the perpetrator. I’ve helped our local police back home solve a number of murder cases. I’m quite good at it, actually. In fact, not long ago I was awarded a Certificate of Appreciation from the police department for my help in solving the murder of our local librarian,” I boasted.7

  “Really! No kidding, lady?” Brandi asked. The girl might not have much of a sense of humor, but I’m sure I detected a healthy dose of sarcasm in her four-word response. Granted, a letter of appreciation from a small town’s police department was hardly a Pulitzer Prize for single-handedly discovering a cancer-cell-killing medication, or a Medal of Honor for saving an entire platoon of soldiers from being ambushed by the enemy—or even a Doctorate Degree from Harvard, which I had no doubt she’d be awarded before she could legally purchase a beer. Still, I felt my achievement demanded a little more respect than Brandi had extended to me.

  A sense of melancholy had settled over both of us, as if a thick cloud had dipped down into the valley we were meandering through. We walked the rest of the way to the barn in silence. I was relieved to see a smile return to the young girl’s face when her mother met us at the entrance to the barn. I could hear Wendy and Veronica talking and laughing animatedly inside the barn. I patted Brandi on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue, sweetheart. I wish you only the best in the future, one I know will be bright, like yourself. I’m certain you’ll be successful in whatever path you choose to follow.”

  Brandi thanked me politely, as did Cassie, who asked me if I’d had fun on the trail ride.

  “Yes, very much, Cassie. I appreciate you telling me about it. I know Wendy and Veronica had a wonderful time, as well. Enjoy the rest of your stay here in Cheyenne.”

  “Thanks. You too. We head home Friday afternoon. I have a photo shoot for a magazine cover on Monday, and want to be well rested so I don’t have bags under my eyes. Not to mention, these photo shoots can be long and tedious—much more than people who aren’t in the fashion industry could possibly imagine. And a model my age needs a long time in the makeup chair before the shoot can even commence.”

  “Don’t cut yourself short, honey. I’m certain that even at your age, which I still consider to be ‘spring chicken-ish,’ and with your looks and physique, you are still in high demand. Best of luck with your upcoming photo shoot. In the meantime, I hope we run into you and your kids around the campground before we leave. We’re heading home Saturday morning, since we don’t have tickets to the rodeo finals on Sunday and we want to beat the mass exodus out of town.”

  “Spring chicken-ish? Ha-ha. I wish! But thank you for the kind words. Sad to say, but that’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve received in a while,” Cassie replied. Then Cassie told her daughter to go on into the barn and get herself and her brother a sugar-free soda. Afterwards, she’d meet them at their car to head back to the campground.

  I bade Cassie goodbye and walked into the barn, mentally going over how I’d explain to Wendy why I ended up needing to be rescued by a ten-year old. An extremely intelligent and mature ten-year-old, I might add, but a ten-year-old, nonetheless.

  * * *

  As I walked toward the corner of the barn where Wendy and Veronica were chatting with one of the other female riders on our excursion that day, I thought I detected paleness in Veronica’s expressionless face. Studying her intently as I approached the three women, I saw her knees begin to buckle and I moved faster than I’d have ever guessed my fifty-one-year old, worn-out body, with every muscle screaming in agony, could move. I reached out my arms and cushioned Veronica’s fall just as she toppled over face-first in a dead faint.

  A loud gasp echoed around the room as people realized what had just happened. Shortly after their initial reaction, they all rushed to offer assistance. The olive-skinned woman with whom Wendy and Veronica had just been conversing shouted out to her husband, who, as luck would have it, was a trauma nurse at their local hospital in Idaho.

  Veronica regained consciousness fairly quickly, but we were all concerned about what had prompted the fainting incident. Wendy explained to the male nurse about how little her friend had eaten at the cowpoke lunch earlier in the
day, and he agreed the lack of nourishment had most likely been what had caused her to pass out. The nurse pulled a candy bar out of a pocket of his windbreaker and handed it to Veronica. When she shook her head to refuse it I felt I had to speak up.

  “Take the bar and eat it! And I mean right now, Veronica! You need the energy and sustenance it will provide, and I am not going to let you die of malnutrition on my watch!”

  The still shaken woman looked up at me in bewilderment, as if trying to recall who I was. Then she snarfed the candy bar down like she’d been stranded on a desert island without food for a month. The poor confused girl was literally in danger of starving herself to death, I realized.

  After Veronica had regained enough strength to get up and walk under her own power, we thanked the nurse for coming to her aid, and prepared to leave the ranch. Not surprisingly, with Veronica’s fainting spell at the forefront of our minds, nothing was said about my little “incident” on the trail ride as we drove back to the campground. I gave a great deal of thought on how to approach the nutrition issue with Veronica without making it obvious I’d spoken to Wyatt about her.

  “How are you feeling, honey?” I asked as I studied her face in the rear view mirror. Wendy was sitting in the back seat with her so she could keep an eye on her and respond to an emergency if one arose.

  After she weakly replied she was fine, I said, “Veronica, I’ve been noticing your weight dwindling over the last year or so, and I’m concerned about your welfare. You just don’t look well to me.”

  Even though I’d kept Wyatt’s concerns to myself, Wendy jumped right in with concurrence, and said earnestly, “I agree with Mom. You know, Veronica, a year ago I thought you were the prettiest woman on the planet, as I’m sure Wyatt, and everyone who’s ever laid eyes on you, did too. But now as the pounds are melting off your body, so are the gorgeous features that impressed me so much. They are being replaced by sunken cheeks, dark shadows under your eyes and skeletal limbs. Even your once lustrous hair is being adversely affected. You are much too thin—unhealthily so, as today’s fainting episode proves. If you have body image issues, please, for your and Wyatt’s sake, get some help before it’s too late. You have beautiful features, Veronica, and they’d only be enhanced by a healthy-looking physique. “